Ferdowsi, the Mongols and the History of Iran: Art, Literature and Culture from Early Islam to Qajar Persia 9780755607457, 9781780760155

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List of contributors Firuza Abdullaeva, University of Cambridge Thomas T. Allsen, College of New Jersey Reuven Amitai, Hebrew University of Jerusalem Ali M. Ansari, University of St Andrews Sussan Babaie, Courtauld Institute of Art Gabrielle van den Berg, Leiden University Michele Bernardini, University of Naples Edmund Bosworth, University of Exeter Barbara Brend, independent scholar Sheila Canby, Metropolitan Museum of Art Farhad Daftary, Institute of Ismaili Studies Touraj Daryaee, University of California at Irvine Olga Davidson, Boston University Layla S. Diba, independent scholar David Durand-Guédy, French Institute of Iranian Studies (IFRI) Beatrice Forbes Manz, Tufts University Christiane Gruber, University of Michigan Carole Hillenbrand, University of Edinburgh Robert Hillenbrand, University of Edinburgh Peter Jackson, Keele University Jan Just Witkam, Leiden University — ix —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Homa Katouzian, University of Oxford Akram Khabibullaev, Indiana University Linda Komaroff, Los Angeles County Museum of Art Miguel Kuczynski, University of Cambridge Theo van Lint, University of Oxford

Rudi Matthee, University of Delaware Lynette Mitchell, University of Exeter David Morgan, University of Wisconsin Bruno De Nicola, University of St Andrews Bernard O’Kane, American University in Cairo A.C.S. Peacock, University of St Andrews Judith Pfeiffer, University of Oxford Sholeh A. Quinn, University of California at Merced Francis Richard, University Library of Languages and Civilisations (BULAC), Paris Marianna Shreve Simpson, independent scholar Maria Subtelny, University of Toronto Olga Vasilyeva, National Library of Russia Josef Wiesehöfer, University of Kiel Olga Yastrebova, National Library of Russia Sara Nur Yıldız, University of St Andrews

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List of illustrations Figures

3.1 Takht-i Sulayman (bird’s eye view). Photograph: Ruediger Bartelmus. 9.1 Partial genealogical tree of the Great Seljuqs, the Seljuqs of Iraq, the Seljuqs of Kirman and

the Ildegüzids.

17.1 Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s endowments in thirteenth-century Anatolia. 23.1 Head of a young man with a round felt hat, head of an old, bearded man, seated figure of a

young man with a cup in his hand, E.G. Browne, Diary, p.204, three drawings, pencil, paper © Library of Pembroke College, Cambridge. Photograph: Firuza Abdullaeva. 23.2 Head of a young man and standing boy in a round felt hat and slippers, E.G. Browne, Diary, p. 205, two drawings, pencil, paper © Library of Pembroke College, Cambridge. Photograph: Firuza Abdullaeva. 23.3 Heads of nine young boys, head of a young man, head of an old, bearded man, head of a Sufi with an axe and a standing nurse, E.G. Browne, Diary, p.206, 12 drawings, pencil, paper © Library of Pembroke College, Cambridge. Photograph: Firuza Abdullaeva. 24.1 Joseph fleeing from Potiphar’s wife, J.-M. Nattier, 1711, oil on canvas, 73.5×92cm. Inv. no GE–1268 © The State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg. 30.1 A footprint on black stone, interior courtyard of the Takiyya of Mu‘awin al-Mulk, c.1915, Kirmanshah, Iran. Photograph: Christiane Gruber. 32.1 Minbar of the Jami‘ Nuri at Hama (559/1163–4). Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. 32.2 Prisse d’Avennes, minbar of the Jami‘ al-‘Amri at Qus (550/1155–6). 32.3 Detail of spandrels of entrance of Qus minbar. Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. 32.4 Comparison of detail of Fig.32.2 with actual side of Qus minbar. Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. 32.5 Details of sides and back of Qus minbar showing 5-, 7-, 8-, 9-, 11- and 14-pointed stars. Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. 32.6 Detail of hexagon on side of Qus minbar. Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. 32.7 Minbar made for the shrine at Asqalon (484/1091–2), now in the Maqam Ibrahim, Hebron. Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. 32.8 Detail of top of the minbar of the Jami‘ Nuri at Hama (559/1163–4). Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. 32.9 Detail of panel with cornucopia on side of Qus minbar. Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. 32.10 Detail of inscription on backrest of Hama minbar. Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. 37.1 Binding (outer side of the back cover). Iran, Isfahan, c.12[00]/1785–6. NLR, PNS 383. 39.1 Bottle (back and front), glazed ceramic, H. c.19cm, W. 20cm, Museum of Cairo University (no accession number), Cairo. Photographs courtesy of the Museum of Cairo University. 40.1 Amir Sam, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on photo paper. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.1) © Siamak Filizadeh.

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16 76 149 220 221 221 237 302 317 318 319 319 320 321 321 322 322 324 364 376 383

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Tables

9.1 Comparative chronology of the events in Kirman and Jibal in 1185–7. 17.1 Income-producing and income-receiving properties and endowments of Nur al-Din.

72 158

Plates

1 Takht-i Sulayman (lake). Photograph: Ruediger Bartelmus. 2 Hushang and Gayumarth battling against the demons, as Hushang, depicted as a child, kills a lion. Bal‘ami,



3



4



5



6



7



8

9–10 11

12



13



14



15



16 17

18 19 20 21 22–23



24a

Tarikhnama. Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC, Purchase, F1957.16.18. Early fourteenth century. Reproduced with permission. Portrait of E.G. Browne by W.C.H., Cambridge, 1908, watercolour, flyleaf of Francis Joseph Steingass, A Comprehensive Persian–English Dictionary, Including the Arabic Words and Phrases to be met with in Persian Literature. London: Routledge & K. Paul, 1892; other bookplates in the book: Eliae Johannus Wilkinson Gibb (MCMI/1901) and Christopher Gandy (2005), autograph of C. Gandy, who received the book from the Duke of Marlborough (October 1964) © Library of Pembroke College, Cambridge. Siyavush fleeing from Sudaba. Ferdowsi, Shahnameh, 1648, Mashhad. The Royal Collection, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Ms Holmes 151 (A/6), f.136r © The Royal Collection, 2011, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. Yusuf fleeing from Zulaykha. Jami, Haft Awrang, Iran, 1529. Trinity College, Cambridge, Ms. R. 13.8, f.146r. By permission of the Master and Fellows of Trinity College Cambridge © Wren Library. Sudaba entertains Siyavush in her quarters, Shahnameh: The Epic of the Persian Kings, New York, 2012 © Hamid Rahmanian, 2012. Faramarz burns the body of Shaghad, attributed to Muhammad Yusuf. Ferdowsi, Shahnameh, 1648, Mashhad, Ms Holmes 151 (A/6), f.473v © The Royal Collection of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. Yusuf fleeing from Zulaykha. Sa‘di, Bustan, Bihzad, Herat, 1488. Cairo, Dar al-Kutub, 22, Adab farsi 908 © Dar al-Kutub. Ferdowsi and the Poets of Ghazna, Shahnameh, Herat, 1430. Tehran, Gulistan Museum, MS 716. The Prophet Muhammad’s footprint in the shrine of Abu Ayyub al-Ansari, Istanbul, date unknown. Photograph: Christiane Gruber. Footprint of the Prophet Muhammad on porphyry and encased in gold, 1877, Topkapı Saray Museum, Istanbul, Turkey, acc. no21/195. Silver footprint of the Prophet Muhammad, 1644, Topkapı Saray Museum, Istanbul, Turkey, acc. no 21/467. Ottoman tile with the Prophet Muhammad’s footprints, Istanbul, 1706–7, Benaki Museum, Athens, inv. no 125. Abraham destroys the idols of the Sabians (Biruni, al-Athar al-Baqiya), Edinburgh University Library, MS Arab 161, f.88b. The death of Eli (Biruni, al-Athar al-Baqiya), Edinburgh University Library, MS Arab 161, f.133b. Bukhtnassar destroys the Temple of Jerusalem (Biruni, al-Athar al-Baqiya), Edinburgh University Library, MS Arab 161, f.134b. The Annunciation (Biruni, al-Athar al-Baqiya), Edinburgh University Library, MS Arab 161, f.141b. The ‘baptismal’ scene (Biruni, al-Athar al-Baqiya), Edinburgh University Library, MS Arab 161, f.140b. Minbar of the Jami‘ al-‘Amri at Qus (550/1155–6). Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. Detail of painting on dome of Hama minbar. Photograph: Bernard O’Kane. Double-page illuminated frontispiece (sarlawh.), fols. 2v and 3r, Shahnameh of Shah Tahmasp, Tabriz, 1524–35, gold, ink and opaque watercolour on paper, 47×31.8cm (each folio), Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. Shamsa, fol.16r, Shahnameh of Shah Tahmasp, Tabriz, 1524–35, gold, ink and opaque watercolour on paper, 47 ×31.8cm, Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art.

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li s t o f ill u s t r a t i o n s

24b ‘Unwān, fol. 16v, Shahnameh of Shah Tahmasp, Tabriz, 1524–35, gold, ink and opaque watercolour on paper, 47 × 31.8cm, Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. 25 Illuminated triangles (chalipa) and rubric on a text page, Shahnameh of Shah Tahmasp, Tabriz, 1524–35, gold, ink and opaque watercolour on paper, 47×31.8cm, Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. 26 Binding of the manuscript of a Diwan of Hafiz. c.1527, attributed here to Sultan Muhammad.  Ink, opaque watercolour and gold on paper; binding: lacquer on paper with leather, 1964.149, (111/2 × 7 3/16 × 13/8 in.) © Harvard Art Museums/Arthur M. Sackler Museum, Gift of Mr and Mrs Stuart C. Welch, Jr © Photograph: Katya Kallsen © President and Fellows of Harvard College. 27 Lovers Picnicking, painting (recto), text (verso), folio from a manuscript of the Diwan of Hafiz, c.1526–7 attributed to Sultan Muhammad. Ink, opaque watercolour, and gold on paper, 19×12.4cm (7 1/2 ×4 7/8 in.), 2007.183 © Harvard Art Museums/Arthur M. Sackler Museum, Gift of Stuart Cary Welch in honour of Edith Iselin Gilbert Welch © Photograph: Katya Kallsen © President and Fellows of Harvard College. 28 Lacquer playing card, Tabriz, Iran, c.1520–30, attributed here to Sultan Muhammad or Muhammad Beg. Österreichische Nationalbibliothek ONB/Vienna, Cod. mixt.313, fol.46v. 29 Upper cover of a lacquer book binding of the Diwan of Nava’i, Tabriz or Qazvin, Iran, 1530–45, Sayyidi ‘Ali © The British Library Board. 30 Elephant composed of humans and animals, Sana’i, Hadiqat al-Haqiqa, Iran, 1573, ink, gold, colour on paper, 27.2 × 17.5cm, Denman Waldo Ross Collection, 09.324 © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. 31 Horse composed of human beings, Muraqqa‘ Farisi Tarikh 42, c.1580, Bukhara © Dar al-Kutub, Cairo. 32 Maiden in a robe composed of humans and animals, I. Ms. 4023 © Sarikhani Museum. 33 Beaker, early thirteenth century, Iran, stone-paste overglaze painted in polychrome colours; Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC, Purchase, F.1928.2. 34 Calligraphy by Mir ‘Imad al-Hasani, Iran, late sixteenth–early seventeenth century, NLR, PNS 383, f. 41. 35 Two upper miniatures, ‘Girl with a ewer’ and ‘Seated youth’, first half of the seventeenth century in the style of Riza-yi ‘Abbasi. The lower miniature, ‘Youth giving a cup of wine to a dervish’ is from the second half of the seventeenth century, Iran. NLR, PNS 383, f.39. 36 ‘Portrait of Muhammad Nasir Bayazid-i Bistami and his household’. Iran, Isfahan, c.12[00]/1785–6, NLR, PNS 383, f. 42. 37 Signature of Muhammad Sadiq, 1160/1747, NLR, Dorn 489, f.86r. 38 ‘The prince and his friends carry off the lady’, from a Hasht Bihisht of Amir Khusrau Dihlavi of 902/1496. Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC, Purchase, F.1937.27. 39 Detail of Plate 38, the attendant in blue. 40 Detail of Plates 38/39: marks on the sleeve of the attendant in blue. 41 Bottle (back and front), seventeenth century, Safavid Persia, glazed ceramic, H c.19cm, W 20cm, Museum of Cairo University (no accession number), Cairo. Photographs courtesy of the Museum of Cairo University. 42 Rostam shoots Isfandiyar with a double-pointed arrow. Page from a dispersed manuscript of the Shahnameh. Iran, Shiraz, c.1575–90. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by Camilla Chandler Frost and Karl H. Loring, with additional funds provided by the Art Museum Council through the 2009 Collectors Committee (M.2009.44.4) © Photograph: Museum Associates/LACMA. 43 Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on canvas. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.2) © Siamak Filizadeh. 44 Return of Rostam 2 to Iran to fight the demons of modern day, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on canvas. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.4) © Siamak Filizadeh. 45 Rostam 2 meets Tahmina and straightaway marries her, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on canvas. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.5) © Siamak Filizadeh. 46 Meanwhile Rostam 2 is fighting the drug dealers in the megacity of Tehran, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on canvas. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased

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47



48



49



50



51



52

with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.7) © Siamak Filizadeh. Tahmina is pursuing Rostam 2 after he disappears following the wedding night, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on photo paper. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.6) © Siamak Filizadeh. Zal picks up arms to help Rostam 2, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on canvas. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.9) © Siamak Filizadeh. Rostam 2 and Zal Join Forces, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on canvas. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.10) © Siamak Filizadeh. The soldiers of evil are killed by Rostam 2, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on canvas. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.11) © Siamak Filizadeh. Finally Rostam 2 kills his son (Suhrab) not knowing that he is the father, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on canvas. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.14) © Siamak Filizadeh. Spiderman is pursuing Rostam 2 and demands revenge for the death of Suhrab, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b.1974), 2009. Digital print on canvas. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the Karl Loring Trust and Art of the Middle East: Contemporary (M.2011.45.16) © Siamak Filizadeh.

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Acknowledgements We are very grateful to Iradj Bagherzade for his interest in and support for this project, and to the Iran Heritage Foundation for their financial support. We are also indebted to our editor at I.B.Tauris, Maria Marsh, for seeing the book through the press and to Robert Hastings for his work on designing and producing it. We would also like to thank all those institutions who have given permission for images from their collections to be reproduced.

Note on transliteration and abbreviations

The normal conventions for transliterating classical Persian and Arabic have usually been applied, with the exception of the better-known forms Shahnameh and Ferdowsi, which have been preferred. Given the variety of papers, complete consistency has been elusive, for which we ask the reader’s indulgence. References to the second edition of the Encyclopaedia of Islam (Leiden, 1960–2005) are given as EI 2 while the Encyclopaedia Iranica (London, Costa Mesa etc., 1982–, and www. iranicaonline.org) is referred to as EIr. As the online editions of both works are widely consulted today, reference is given simply to the article heading. Robert Hillenbrand, A.C.S. Peacock and Firuza Abdullaeva

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Bibliography of Professor Charles Melville Compiled by Akram Khabibullaev

1977 ‘The seismicity of Kuhistan, Iran’, Geographical Journal 143/ii (1977), pp.179–99 (co-author N.N. Ambraseys). 1980 ‘Earthquakes in the history of Nishapur’, Iran: Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies 18 (1980), pp.103–20. 1981 ‘Historical monuments and earthquakes in Tabriz’, Iran: Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies 19 (1981), pp.159–77. ‘The historical seismicity of England: the earthquake of 6th April 1580’, Disasters 5/4 (1981), pp.369–76. Review of Earthquake History of Ethiopia and the Horn of Africa, by Pierre Gouin, Disasters 5/1 (1981), pp.74–5. 1982 A History of Persian Earthquakes (Cambridge & New York: Cambridge University Press, 1982) (coauthor N.N. Ambraseys). ‘The seismicity of England: the earthquake of May 21, 1382’, Bollettino di Geofisica Teorica ed Applicata 24 (1982), pp.129–33. Review of Thera and the Aegean World, ed. C. Doumas, Disasters 6/3 (1982), pp. 231–3. 1983 ‘Seismicity of Yemen’, Nature: International Weekly Journal of Science 303 (26 May 1983), pp. 321–3 (coauthor N.N. Ambraseys). ‘The 1934 floods in Tabriz, N.W. Iran’, Disasters 7/2 (1983), pp. 107–17. ‘The seismicity of England: four early earthquakes in western Britain’, Bollettino di Geofisica Teorica ed Applicata 25 (1983), pp. 61–79. ‘Who killed the British earthquake?’, New Scientist 100 (1983), pp.170–3 (co-author R. Muir Wood). ‘Notes on historical seismicity’, Bulletin of Seismological Society of America 73/vi (December 1983), pp.1917–20 (co-authors N.N. Ambraseys et al.). ‘British Association for the Advancement of Science, Brighton 22nd–26th August 1983’, Disasters 7/4 (1983), p.243. Review of Interpretations of Calamity, ed. K. Hewitt, Disasters 7/4 (1983), pp. 306–7.

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1984 ‘Meteorological hazards and disasters in Iran: a preliminary survey to 1950’, Iran: Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies 22 (1984), pp. 113–50. ‘The 1934 floods in Tabriz, N.W. Iran’, Ekistics 308 (1984), pp. 406–13. ‘Sismicité historique de la Mer Rouge septentrionale’, in Tremblements de terre: histoire et archéologie: IVèmes Rencontres internationales d’archéologie et d’histoire d’Antibes, 2, 3, 4 November 1983 (Valbonne: Association pour la promotion et la diffusion des connaissances archéologiques, 1984), pp.95–107. ‘The use of historical records for seismic assessment’, Bollettino di Geofisica Teorica ed Applicata 26 (1984), pp.109–19. ‘Reflections on the late earthquake in North Wales on 19th July 1984’, Disasters 8/3 (1984), pp. 165–8. Review of Krakatau 1883: The Volcanic Eruption and its Effects, by T. Simkin and R.S. Fiske, Disasters 8/3 (1984), pp. 239–40. 1985 ‘The Manchester earthquake of 14th September 1777: a re‑appraisal of contemporary reports’, Disasters 9/3 (1985), pp. 197–205. ‘After the quake in Wales’, The Geographical Magazine 58 (1985), pp.366–8 (co-authors J. Whittow et al.). ‘The geography and intensity of earthquakes in Britain – the eighteenth century’, in Earthquake Engineering in Britain: Proceedings of a Conference … Held at the University of East Anglia, 18–19 April 1985, pp. 7–23 (London: T. Telford, 1985). ‘On the seismicity of the southwest of the British Isles’, in Earthquake Engineering in Britain: Proceedings of a Conference … Held at the University of East Anglia, 18–19 April 1985 (London: T. Telford, 1985), pp.161–8 (co-authors J. Menu et al.). ‘Terremoti britannici anteriori al 1800: alcuni problemi di localizzazione irrisolti’, Quaderni Storici XX, no 60 (1985), pp. 717–41. 1986 ‘Historical earthquakes in northwest England’, Transactions of the Cumberland and Westmorland Antiquarian and Archeological Society 86 (1986), pp. 193–219. Review of Volcanic Hazards: A Sourcebook, by R.J. Bong, Disasters 10/3 (1986), pp. 238–40. 1987 Review of Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. I: Āb–Anāhīd, ed. Ehsan Yarshater, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 2 (1987), pp. 342–4. ‘Robert Mallet, first modern seismologist’, in E. Guidoboni and G. Ferrari (eds), Mallet’s Macroseismic Survey on the Neapolitan Earthquake of 16th December 1857 (Bologna: SGA, 1987), pp. 17–48 (coauthor R. Muir Wood). 1988 Christians and Moors in Spain, vol. 3: Arabic Sources (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1988) (co-author Ahmad Ubaydli). ‘The Persian famine of 1870–1872: prices and politics’, Disasters 12/4 (1988), pp. 309–25. ‘An analysis of the eastern Mediterranean earthquake of 20 May 1202’, in W.H.K. Lee, H. Meyers and K. Shimazaki (eds), Historical Seismograms and Earthquakes of the World (San Diego: Academic Press, 1988), pp.181–201 (co-author N.N. Ambraseys). ‘Notes on the historical seismicity of Europe and adjacent regions’, European Earthquake Engineering 2.88 (1988), pp. 45–6. Review of The Poet Sa‘di: A Persian Humanist, by John D. Yohannan, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 51/iii (1988), pp. 568–9. — xviii —

bibli o g r a ph y o f p r o fe s s o r ch a r le s mel v ille

Review of Qajar Persia: Eleven studies, by A.K.S. Lambton, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 2 (1988), p. 416. Review of Il terremoto di Rimini e della costa romagnola, ed. E. Guidoboni and G. Ferrari, Disasters 12/2 (1988), pp.183–5. 1989 ‘Evidence for intraplate earthquakes in northwestern Arabia’, Bulletin of the Seismological Society of America 79/iv (1989), pp. 1279–81 (co-author N.N. Ambraseys). Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Bologan Katun’, IV/4 (London: Routledge, 1989), pp. 338–9. Review of Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. II: Anāmaka–Ātār al-Wozarā, ed. Ehsan Yarshater, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 1 (1989), pp. 148–9. Review of An Introduction to Islam, by Gerhard Endress, trans. Carole Hillenbrand, Journal of Semitic Studies XXXIV/1 (1989), pp. 222–3. Review of The Combined New Persian–English and English–Persian Dictionary, by Abbas and Manoochehr Aryanpur-Kashani, Bulletin: British Society for Middle Eastern Studies 16/i (1989), pp. 104–5. Review of Earthquake Hazard Atlas, 1. Israel, by Martin Degg and J.C. Doornkamp, Disasters 13/4 (1989), pp.371–4. 1990 Persian and Islamic Studies in Honour of P.W. Avery, ed. C.P. Melville, Pembroke Papers 1 (Cambridge: University of Cambridge Centre of Middle Eastern Studies, 1990), Foreword, i–iii. ‘Padshah‑i Islam: the conversion of Sultan Mahmud Ghazan Khan’, in C.P. Melville (ed.), Persian and Islamic Studies in Honour of P.W. Avery (Cambridge: University of Cambridge Centre of Middle Eastern Studies, 1990), pp. 159–77. ‘The itineraries of Sultan Öljeitü, 1304‑1316’, Iran: Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies 28 (1990), pp.55–70. ‘Edward Fitzgerald and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam’, in A Concert of European and Arabic Music, programme (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1990). Review of The Tragedy of Sohrab and Rostam: From the Persian National Epic the Shahname of Abol-Qasem Ferdowsi, translated by Jerome W. Clinton. Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 53/iii (1990), pp.524–5. Review of The Great Islamic Encyclopaedia/Da’irat al-ma‘arif-i buzurg-i Islami, vol. I: Ab–Al-i Davud, ed. K.M. Bojnurdi. Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland (1990) 2, pp. 383–4. 1991 Tarikh-i Zaminlarzaha-yi Iran, trans. Abu al-Hasan Radah (Tehran: Agah, 1991) (co-author N.N. Ambraseys). From Nadir Shah to the Islamic Republic: The Cambridge History of Iran: vol. 7, eds Peter Avery, Gavin Hambly and Charles Melville (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), Preface, xxi–xxiii. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Chobanids’, V/5 (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1991), pp. 496–502 (co-author A. Zaryab). Review of A History of the Seljuks: Ibrahim Kafesoğlu’s Interpretation and the Resulting Controversy, ed. and trans. Gary Leiser, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 18/i (1991), pp. 107–9. Review of The Rise and Rule of Tamerlane, by Beatrice Forbes Manz, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 54/iii (1991), pp. 604–5. Review of A Persian Requiem, by Simin Daneshvar, trans. Roxane Zand, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 18/ii (1991), pp. 268–9.

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1992 ‘The Year of the Elephant: Mamluk–Mongol rivalry in the Hejaz in the reign of Abu Sa‘id (1317– 1335)’, Studia Iranica 21/ii (1992), pp. 197–214. ‘Saladin’s Hattin letter’, in B.Z. Kedar (ed.), The Horns of Hattin (London: Variorum, 1992), pp. 208–12 (co-author M.C. Lyons). Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Čobān’, V/8 (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1992), pp. 875–8. Review of The Sea of Precious Virtues: A Medieval Islamic Mirror for Princes, ed. and trans. Julie Scott Meisami, Times Literary Supplement 4634 (24 January 1992), p. 12. Review of Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol.III: Ātaš–Bayhaqī, Zahīr al-Dīn. vol.IV: Bāyjū–Carpets, ed. Ehsan Yarshater, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland NS 2/i (1992), pp. 83–4. Review of Iranian Jewry during the Afghan Invasion: The Kitāb-i Sar Guzasht-i Kāshān of Bābāī b. Farhād, ed. and commentary by Vera Basch Moreen, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland NS 2/ii (1992), pp. 286–8. 1993 ‘From Qars to Qandahar: the itineraries of Shah ‘Abbas I 995–1038/1587–1629)’, in J. Calmard (ed.), Etudes Safavides (Paris: Institut français de recherche en Iran, 1993, published in 1995), pp. 195–224. ‘The Persian famine of 1870–72: prices and politics’, in C. Geissler and D.J. Oddy (eds), Food, Diet and Economic Change Past and Present (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1993), pp. 133–50. Review of Epic and Sedition: The Case of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, by Dick Davis, Times Literary Supplement 4685 (15 January 1993), p. 12. Review of Islam and the West, by Norman Daniel, Times Literary Supplement 4710 (9 July 1993), p. 32. Review of The Civilizations of Asia and the Middle East before the European Challenge, by Jaroslav Krejci, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 20/i (1993), pp. 98–100. Review of Persian Literature, vol. V part I: Poetry to ca.A.D. 1100, by C. Storey and F. de Blois, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 56/iii (1993), pp. 600–1. Review of Historic Storms in the North Sea, British Isles and Northwest Europe, by Hubert Lamb, Disasters 17/2 (1993), pp. 183–5. Review of Natural Hazards, by E.A. Bryant, Disasters 17/3 (1993), pp. 271–3. 1994 The Seismicity of Egypt, Arabia, and the Red Sea: A Historical Review (Cambridge & New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994) (co-authors N.N. Ambraseys and R.D. Adams). Rituals in Babism and Baha’ism, by Denis MacEoin, ed. C. Melville, Pembroke Persian Papers 2 (London & New York: I.B.Tauris, 1994), Foreword, pp. xiii–xiv. ‘The Chinese–Uighur animal calendar in Persian historiography of the Mongol period’, Iran: Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies 32 (1994), pp. 83–98. Review of The Great Islamic Encyclopaedia/Da’irat al-ma‘arif-i buzurg-i Islam, vols 2, 3 and 4, ed. Kazem Musavi Bojnurdi, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland NS 4/ii (1994), pp.264–6. 1995 ‘The Barbarians civilized? A look at the acculturation of the Mongols in Iran’, Isfahan University Research Bulletin 6/i–ii (1995), pp. 28–39. ‘Historical evidence of faulting in Eastern Anatolia and Northern Syria’, Annali di Geofisica 38/iii–iv (Sept.–Oct. 1995), pp. 337–43 (co-author N.N. Ambraseys). Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Delšād K - ātun’, VII/3 (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1995), p. 255. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Demašq K - vāja’, VII/3 (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1995), pp. 256–7. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edition, s.v. ‘Sarbadarids’, IX/1 (Leiden: Brill, 1995), pp. 47–9. — xx —

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Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Doquz K - ātun’, VII/5 (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1995), pp. 475–6. Review of The Caliphate in the West: An Islamic Political Institution in Iberian Peninsula, by David Wasserstein, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 5/i (1995), pp. 106–7. Review of Khomeinism: Essays on the Islamic Republic, by Ervand Abrahamian and Islam and the Post‑Revolutionary State in Iran, by Homa Omid, Journal of Islamic Studies 6/ii (1995), pp. 306–9. 1996 Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society, ed. C. Melville. Pembroke Papers 4 (London & New York: Hill and Wang; I.B.Tauris, 1996), Foreword, pp. vii–xi. ‘Shah ‘Abbas and the pilgrimage to Mashhad’, in C. Melville (ed.), Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society, Pembroke Papers 4 (London: I.B.Tauris, 1996), pp. 191–229. ‘Sometimes by the sword, sometimes by the dagger: the role of the Isma‘ilis in Mamluk–Mongol relations in the 8th/14th century’, in F. Daftary (ed.), Medieval Isma‘ili History and Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 247–63. ‘Wolf or shepherd? Amir Chupan’s attitude to government’, in J. Raby and T. Fitzherbert (eds), The Court of the Il‑khans, 1290–1340, Oxford Studies in Islamic Art XII (1996), pp. 79–93. ‘The contribution of Arabic sources to the history of mediaeval Iran’, in Anastassiadou Meropi (ed.), Sociétés et cultures musulmanes d’hier et aujord’hui, Les chantiers de la recherche, Strasbourg, 30 juin–3 juillet 1994 (Paris: AFEMAM, 1996), pp. 313–17. ‘Historical seismicity of the Strait of Dover‑Pas de Calais’, Terra Nova 8 (1996), pp. 626–47 (co-authors A. Levret et al.). Review of Mongols and Mamluks, by Reuven Amitai-Preiss, Times Literary Supplement 4844 (2 February 1996), p.12. Review of Twilight of Majesty, by Carl Petry, Times Literary Supplement 4869 (26 July 1996), p. 28. Review of Baku Documents: Union Catalogue of Persian, Azerbaijani, Ottoman Turkish and Arabic Serials and Newspapers in the Libraries of the Republic of Azerbaijan, by Touraj Atabaki, Turkish Area Studies Group News 43 (1996), pp. 4–6. Review of Early Mamluk Diplomacy (1260–1290): Treaties by Baybars and Qalāwūn with Christian Rulers, by P.M. Holt, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 6/iii (1996), pp. 425–6. 1997 ‘Abu Sa‘id and the revolt of the amirs in 1319’, in D. Aigle (ed.), L’Iran face à la domination mongole (Tehran: Institut français de recherche en Iran, 1997), pp. 89–120. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Ebn Esfandiār, Bahā-al-Din Moh.ammad’, VIII/1 (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1997), pp.20–3. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Ebn al‑Fowati, Kamāl-al-Din ‘Abd-al-Razzāq’, VIII/1 (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1997), pp. 25–6. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Ebn al‑T.eqt.aqa, Safi al-Din Mohammad’, VIII/1 (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1997), pp.58–9. ‘Obituaries: John Cooper (1947–1998)’, Iranian Studies: Bulletin of the Society for Iranian Cultural and Social Studies 30/iii–iv (1997, published in 1998), pp. 413–15. Review of Mongols and Mamluks: The Mamluk–Īlkhānid War 1260–1281, by Reuven Amitai-Preiss, English Historical Review 112/446 (1997), pp. 444–5. Review of Islamization and Native Religion in the Golden Horde: Baba Tükles and Conversion to Islam in Historical and Epic Tradition, by Devin DeWeese, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 7/i (1997), pp. 177–80. Review of A Journey to Persia: Jean Chardin’s Portrait of a Seventeenth-Century Empire, by R.W. Ferrier, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 60/ii (1997), pp. 376–8. — xxi —

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Review of The History of the Saffarids of Sistan and the Maliks of Nimruz (247/861 to 949/1542–3), by C.E. Bosworth, Iranian Studies: Bulletin of the Society for Iranian Cultural and Social Studies 30/i–ii (1997), pp.163–7. 1998 History and Literature in Iran: Persian and Islamic Studies in Honour of P.W. Avery, ed. C.P. Melville (London & New York: British Academic Press, I.B.Tauris, 1998) (reprint). ‘Hamd Allah Mustawfi’s Zafarnamah and the historiography of the late Ilkhanid period’, in Kambiz Eslami (ed.), Iran and Iranian Studies: Essays in Honor of Iraj Afshar (Princeton, NJ: Zagros, 1998), pp.1–12. ‘A lost source for the reign of Shah ‘Abbas: the Afzal al-tawarikh of Fazli Khuzani Isfahani’, Iranian Studies: Bulletin of the Society for Iranian Cultural and Social Studies 31/ii (1998, published in 1999), pp.263–5. ‘History: from the Saljuqs to the Aq Qoyunlu (ca. 1000–1500 C.E.)’, Iranian Studies: Bulletin of the Society for Iranian Cultural and Social Studies 31/iii–iv (1998, published in 1999), pp. 473–82. A Global Encyclopedia of Historical Writing, s.v. ‘Abu’l‑Fadl ‘Allami’, 1 (New York: Garland, 1998), p. 3. A Global Encyclopedia of Historical Writing, s.v. ‘Bayhaki’, 1 (New York: Garland, 1998), p. 78. A Global Encyclopedia of Historical Writing, s.v. ‘al‑Biruni’, 1 (New York: Garland, 1998), p. 92. Review of Émirs mongols et vizirs persans dans les remous de l’acculturation, by Jean Aubin, Bulletin Critique des Annales Islamologiques 14 (1998), pp. 110–13. Review of Ba-yasa rasidagan dar ‘asr-i Ilkhani, by Ma‘suma Ma‘dankan, Abstracta Iranica 20–21 (1997– 1998, published in 2000), p. 96. Review of Mujmal-i Rashvand, eds Manuchihr Sutuda and ‘Inayatallah Majidi, Abstracta Iranica 20–21 (1997–98, published in 2000), pp. 121–2. 1999 The Fall of Amir Chupan and the Decline of the Ilkhanate, 1327–1337: A Decade of Discord in Mongol Iran (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies, 1999). Proceedings of the Third European Conference of Iranian Studies: Mediaeval and Modern Persian Studies, ed. C. Melville (Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 1999), Preface, v–vi. ‘The Ilkhan Öljeitü’s conquest of Gilan (1307): rumour and reality’, in R. Amitai and D.O. Morgan (eds), The Mongol Empire and its Legacy (Leiden: Brill, 1999), pp. 73–125. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Floods: historical survey’, X/1 (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 1999), pp.42–3. Review of Genghis Khan: The History of the World Conqueror, Iranian Studies, by Ata-Malik Juvayni, trans. and ed. J.A. Boyle. Iranian Studies 32/iii (1999, published in 2000), pp. 435–7. Review of Jughrafiya-yi Hafiz Abru, vols. II and III, ed. Sadiq Sajjadi. Abstracta Iranica 22 (1999, published in 2001), p. 95. 2000 ‘Persian local histories’, Special issue, Iranian Studies 33/i–ii (2000, published in 2001) (co-editor Jürgen Paul). ‘Persian local histories: views from the wings’, Iranian Studies 33/i–ii (2000), pp. 7–14. ‘The Caspian provinces: a world apart. Three local histories of Mazandaran’, Iranian Studies 33/i–ii (2000), pp.45–91. . Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Gazān-nāma’, X/4 (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 2000), p.383. Review of Supplementary Handlist of Persian Manuscripts, 1966–1998, by Muhammad Isa Waley, Iranian Studies 33/i–ii (2000, published 2001), pp. 236–8. Review of The Cambridge History of Egypt, vol. II, ed. M.W. Daly, Times Literary Supplement 5061 (2000), pp.4–6. — xxii —

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Review of Persian Historiography to the End of the Twelfth Century, by Julie Meisami, Times Literary Supplement 5072 (2000), pp. 32–3. Review of Persian Historiography to the End of the Twelfth Century, by Julie Meisami, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 10/iii (2000), pp. 397–9. Review of Qaidu and the Rise of the Independent Mongol State in Central Asia, by Michal Biran, Bulletin critique des Annales Islamologiques 16 (2000), pp. 94–5. 2001 ‘From Adam to Abaqa: Qadi Baidawi’s rearrangement of history (part I)’, Studia Iranica 30/i (2001), pp.67–86. . Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Giāt-‑al‑Din Moh.ammad’, X/6 (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 2001), pp.598–9 (co-author P. Jackson). ‘A unique Persian manuscript’, Christ’s College Magazine 226 (2001), pp. 48–9. ‘Laurence Lockhart: Persian scholar and photographer’, Pembroke College Gazette 75 (2001), pp. 25–31. 2002 Images of Persia: Photographs by Laurence Lockhart 1920s–1950s, eds J. Bamberg and Ch. Melville (Cambridge: Centre of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies, University of Cambridge, 2002). ‘Laurence Lockhart and Persia’, in J. Bamberg and Ch. Melville (eds), Images of Persia: Photographs by Laurence Lockhart 1920s–1950s (Cambridge: Centre of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies, University of Cambridge, 2002), pp. 5–10 (co-author J. Bamberg). ‘The Mongols in Iran’, in Linda Komaraoff and Stefano Carboni (eds), The Legacy of Genghis Khan: Courtly Art and Culture in Western Asia, 1256–1353 (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2002), pp.37–61. ‘Historical seismicity and tectonics: the case of the Eastern Mediterranean and the Middle East’, in William H.K. Lee (ed.), International Handbook of Earthquake & Engineering Seismology (Amsterdam: Academic Press, 2002), pp. 747–63 (co-authors N.N. Ambraseys and J.A. Jackson). Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edition., s.v. ‘Zalzala’, XI (Leiden: Brill, 2002), pp. 428–32. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Great Britain x. Iranian Studies in Britain, the Islamic period’, XI/3 (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 2002), pp. 260–67. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Hafez-e Abru’, XI/5 (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 2002), pp. 507–9 (coauthor Maria Eva Subtelny). Review of Historical Writing During the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas: Ideology, Imitation and Legitimacy in Safavid Chronicles, by Sholeh A. Quinn, Iranian Studies 35/i–iii (2002), pp. 225–30. 2003 ‘New light on the reign of Shah ‘Abbas: volume III of the Afdal al-tavarikh’, in A. Newman (ed.), Society and Culture in the Early Modern Middle East: Studies in Iran in the Safavid Period (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp.63–96. ‘History and myth: the Persianisation of Ghazan Khan’, in Éva Jeremías (ed.), Irano-Turkic Cultural Contacts in the 11th–17th Centuries (Piliscsaba: The Avicenna Institute of Middle Eastern Studies, 2003), pp.133–60. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Hamd-Allah Mostawfi’, XI/6 (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 2003), pp.631–4. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Historiography iv. Mongol period’, XII/4 (New York: Encyclopaedia Iranica Foundation, 2003), pp. 348–56. ‘Empires, Mongol and Il-Khanid’, in Richard C. Martin (ed.), Encyclopedia of Islam and the Muslim World (New York: Macmillan Reference USA, 2003). — xxiii —

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Review of The Prophet Muhammad, by Barnaby Rogerson, Times Literary Supplement 5228 (2003), p.28. Review of Safavid Government Institutions, by Willem Floor, International Journal of Middle East Studies 35 (2003), pp. 498–500. 2004 Review of Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs, by Kathryn Babayan, Times Literary Supplement 5284 (2004), p.23. Review of Culture and Conquest in Mongol Eurasia, by Thomas T. Allsen, Journal of Islamic Studies 15/i (2004), pp.91–5. Review of Early Mongol Rule in Thirteenth-Century Iran: A Persian Renaissance, by George Lane, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 67/ii (2004), pp. 238–40. Review of Rawabit-i siyasi-yi Salajiqa-yi Rum ba Ilkhanan, by Yusufi Halva‘i Ruqiyya, Abstracta Iranica 27 (2004), pp. 80–1. 2005 A History of Persian Earthquakes (Cambridge & New York: Cambridge University Press, 1982) (with N.N. Ambraseys) (paperback reprint). The Seismicity of Egypt, Arabia, and the Red Sea: A Historical Review (Cambridge & New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005) (co-authors N.N. Ambraseys and R.D. Adams) (paperback reprint). Shahnama Project: A Comprehensive Collection of Manuscripts of The Shahnama, the Persian Epic ‘Book of Kings’ (Cambridge: Arts and Humanities Research Council, 2005) Available at shahnama.caret.cam. ac.uk (accessed 8 April 2013). Review of Visions of Persia: Mapping the Travels of Adam Olearius, by Elio Christoph Brancaforte, Middle East and South Asia Folklore Bulletin 21/ii (2005), p. 11. 2006 Shahnama Studies I, ed. C. Melville, Pembroke Papers 5 (Cambridge: Centre of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies, University of Cambridge, 2006), Introduction, xix–xxvi. ‘Text and image in the story of Bizhan and Manizha: I’, with the contribution of Firuza Abdullaeva. In Shahnama Studies I, ed. C. Melville, Pembroke Papers 5 (Cambridge: Centre of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies, University of Cambridge, 2006), pp. 71–96. ‘The early Persian historiography of Anatolia’, in Judith Pfeiffer and Sholeh A. Quinn (eds), History and Historiography of Post-Mongol Central Asia and the Middle East: Studies in Honor of John E. Woods (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2006), pp. 135–66. ‘The Keshig in Iran: the survival of the royal Mongol Household’, in Linda Komaroff (ed.), Beyond the Legacy of Genghis Khan (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 135–64. ‘Ibn Husam’s Hāvarān-nāma and the Šāh-nāma of Firdausī’, in Liber Amicorum. Eurasian Studies 5/i–ii (2006, published in 2007), pp. 219–34. Imperial Statecraft: Political Forms and Techniques of Governance in Inner Asia, Sixth–Twentieth Centuries, ed. D. Sneath (Bellingham, WA: Center for East Asian Studies, 2006), Preface, vii–x. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Afzal al-tawarik-’ Available at www.iranicaonline.org/articles/afzal-al-tawarik (accessed 8 April 2013). Review of The Mongols and the West 1221–1410, by Peter Jackson, Inner Asia 8 (2006), pp.139–42. Review of Shiraz in the Age of Hafez: The Glory of a Medieval Persian City, by John Limbert, Iranian Studies 39/iv (2006), pp. 621–4. Review of The Persians, by Gene R. Garthwaite, The Historian 68/iv (2006), pp. 817–18. — xxiv —

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2007 ‘From Adam to Abaqa: Qadi Baidawi’s rearrangement of history (part II)’, Studia Iranica 36/i (2007), pp.7–64. ‘Qadi Baidawi’s Nizam al-tawarikh in the Safina-yi Tabriz: an early witness of the text’, in A.A. SeyedGohrab and S. McGlinn (eds), A Treasury from Tabriz: The Great Ilkhanid Compendium (Amsterdam: Rozenberg, 2007), pp. 92–102. ‘Between Firdausi and Rashid al-Din. Persian verse chronicles of the Mongol period’, Studia Islamica 104–5 (2007, published in 2008), pp. 45–65. Review of Iran: Questions et connaissances, Actes du IVème Congrès européen des études iraniennes, organizé par la Iranalogica Europae, Paris 6–9 septembre 1999. vol. II: Périodes médiévale et moderne, textes réunis par Maria Szuppe, Studia Iranica 36/ii (2007), pp. 307–11. 2008 The Persian Book of Kings: Ibrahim Sultan’s Shahnama (Oxford: Bodleian Library, 2008) (co-author F. Abdullaeva). ‘From Tabriz to Herat: Persian historiography in the 15th century’, in M. Ritter, R. Kauz and B. Hoffmann (eds), Iran und iranisch geprägte Kulturen: Studien zum 65. Geburtstag von Bert G. Fragner (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2008), pp. 28–33. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Jahāngošā-ye Jovayni’, XIV/4 (New York: Encyclopaedia Iranica Foundation, 2008), pp.378–82. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Jahān Temür’, XIV/4 (New York: Encyclopaedia Iranica Foundation, 2008), pp.385–6. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Jāme‘ al-tawārik-’ XIV/5 (New York: Encyclopaedia Iranica Foundation, 2008), pp.462–8. Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. ‘Jarči’, XIV/6 (New York: Encyclopaedia Iranica Foundation, 2008), pp.580–1. Review of Nadir Shah’s Quest for Legitimacy in Post-Safavid Iran, by Ernest S. Tucker, The Historian 70/i (2008), pp.97–8. Review of Mongols, Turks, and Others: Eurasian Nomads and the Sedentary World, eds Reuven Amitai and Michal Biran, International Journal of Turkish Studies XIV/1–2 (2008), pp. 170–4. Review of The Mongols, by David Morgan, International History Review XXX/3 (2008), pp. 597–9. 2009 ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, in K. Fleet (ed.), Cambridge History of Turkey, vol. I (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 51–101. ‘Obituary of Peter Avery’, Iran: Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies 47 (2009), v–vi. Review of Shah Abbas: The Ruthless King who Became an Iranian Legend, by David Blow, Journal of the Iran Society 2/8 (2009), pp. 68–70. Review of The Arabian Nights: Tales of 1001 Nights, trans. Malcolm and Ursula Lyons, Pembroke College Cambridge Society Annual Gazette 83 (2009), pp. 76–8. 2010 Epic of the Persian Kings: The Art of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, eds Barbara Brend and Charles Melville (London: I.B.Tauris, 2010), Preface, ix–xi. ‘The “Shahnameh” in historical context’, in Barbara Brend and Charles Melville (eds), Epic of the Persian Kings: The Art of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh (London: I.B.Tauris, 2010), pp. 3–15. ‘Serial killers: the mise-en-page of Firdausi’s “Davazdah rukh”’, Persica 23 (2009–10), pp. 73–107. ‘Millennium of the Shahnama’, Special Issue, Iranian Studies 43/i (2010) (co-editor F. Abdullaeva). ‘Shahnama: The Millennium of an Epic Masterpiece’, Iranian Studies 43/i (2010), pp. 1–11 (co-author F. Abdullaeva). — xxv —

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‘Genealogy and exemplary rulership in the Tarikh-i Chingiz Khan’, in Y. Suleiman (ed.), Living Islamic History: Studies in Honour of Professor Carole Hillenbrand (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010), pp.129–50. Painting the Persian Book of Kings Today: Ancient Text and Modern Images, ed. Manfred Milz (Cambridge: Talking Tree Books, 2010), Foreword, pp. 11–20. Review of Les Iraniens: Histoire d’un people, by Yves Porter, Studia Iranica 39/i (2010), pp.149–52. Review of Power, Politics and Religion in Timurid Iran, by Beatrice Forbes Manz, Speculum: A Journal of Medieval Studies 85/ii (2010), pp. 429–30. 2011 ‘The illustration of history in Safavid manuscript painting’, in Colin P. Mitchell (ed.), New Perspectives on Safavid Iran: Empire and Society (New York: Routledge, 2011), pp. 163–97. Review of Muhammad Juki’s Shahnamah of Firdausi, by Barbara Brend, Times Literary Supplement 5654 (12 August 2011), p. 25. 2012 Persian Historiography: A History of Persian Literature X, ed. C. Melville (London: I.B.Tauris, 2012), Introduction, xxv–lvi; ‘The historian at work’, pp. 56–100; ‘The Mongol and Timurid periods’, pp.155–208; ‘Safavid historiography’, pp. 209–57 (co-author Sholeh Quinn). Shahnama Studies II: The Reception of the Shahnama, ed. C. Melville and G. van den Berg (Leiden: Brill, 2012), Introduction, pp. 1–8. ‘The landscape of Persian art’, in The Sarikhani Collection: An Introduction (London, 2012), pp. 120–6. ‘The Russian perception of Khayyam: from text to image’, in A.A. Seyed-Asghar (ed.), The Great Omar Khayyam: A Global Reception of the Rubáiyát (Leiden: Leiden University Press, 2012), pp. 161–88 (co-authors F.I. Abdullaeva and N. Chalisova). ‘Ilkhanids (1256–1336)’, in Gerhard Bowering, P. Crone et al. (eds), Princeton Encyclopedia of Islamic Political Thought (Princeton: University Press, 2012), pp. 246–7. Every Inch a King: Comparative Studies on Kings and Kingship in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds, eds Lynette Mitchell and Charles Melville (Leiden: Brill, 2012). ‘Every inch a king: kings and kingship in the ancient and medieval worlds’, in Lynette Mitchell and Charles Melville (eds), Every Inch a King: Comparative Studies on Kings and Kingship in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 1–21 (co-author L. Mitchell). ‘The Royal image in Mongol Iran’, in Lynette Mitchell and Charles Melville (eds), Every Inch a King: Comparative Studies on Kings and Kingship in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp.343–69. Forthcoming ‘The horrors of war and the arts of peace: images of battle in Persian manuscripts’, in Kurt Franz et al. (eds), Nomadic Military Power, Iran and Adjacent Areas in the Islamic Period (Wiesbaden, 2013). ‘The itineraries of Shahrukh b. Timur (1405–47)’, in D. Durand-Guédy (ed.), Turko-Mongol Rulers, Cities and City Life (Leiden: Brill, 2013). ‘‘Ali Yazdi and the Shahnama’, in Forogh Hashabeiky (ed.), Shahname: The Second Millennium (Uppsala, 2013). ‘The story of Forud in the Shâhnâmeh and elsewhere and the apportionment of blame’, in Olga M. Davidson and Marianna Shreve Simpson (eds), Ferdowsi’s Shahnama: Millennial Perspectives (ILEX Foundation, Boston, MA & Center for Hellenic Studies, Washington, DC, Fall 2013). ‘Rubrics and chapter headings in texts of the Shahnameh’, Baharistan 19. The Mongols and the Transformation of the Middle East, ed. Charles Melville and Bruno De Nicola. — xxvi —

1 Charles Melville and Persian Pembroke Michael Kuczynski

F

rom the postern gate of Wellington College an avenue of Sequoiadendra gigantea once stretched to the edge of the park at Stratfield Saye, the Duke’s house five miles away, in whose memory the school had been founded after his death in 1852. By the late 1960s, however, the A 33 and the fungal spread of military establishments around Sandhurst had left little more than a hundred yards of the magnificent Wellingtonias beyond which modern urban sprawl beckoned, luckily all but concealing the rich chalk-stream fishing of the Loddon, that occasionally lovely tributary of the Thames which runs from Basingstoke to the rowing at Wargrave. Such is the place that Charles Melville left in the agitated summer of 1968, to set out on an antipodean gap year and then to arrive, at the start of October 1969, as an undergraduate equipped with a striking dark mane, makeshift easel and oils, and the settled purpose of reading Arabic and Persian, at Pembroke College, Cambridge. This note intends three aperçus: first, what Melville did and suffered as an undergraduate; then something of the subject that he came to read at Cambridge, in particular, at Pembroke; and, last, something on him as a colleague and commensalis. I

The Aristotelian part is properly brief. Arthur Arberry, who had been at Pembroke off and on since 1923, latterly as Sir Thomas Adams’s Professor of Arabic, died at the start of October 1969, on the day Melville came up. Arberry, of whom a little more anon, had just published his last translation, ——

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of the Apologia of ‘Ayn al-Qudat, the twelfth-century polymath from Hamadan martyred at age 33. Pembroke was tentatively emerging from one of the chrysalis stages of its various lifecycles, and had just elected its first two ‘external’ research fellows. Oddly enough the college, and in particular Melville’s tutor M.C. Lyons – later himself Sir Thomas Adams’s Professor of Arabic – had envisaged him as a lawyer. Being spirited and having single-minded determination, as well as knowing a blind alley on sight, turned him instead promptly into an orientalist, and he sat at the feet of Peter Avery for the next three years. Avery was at the time starting to dip his toes in the 4,500 couplets of the Mantiq al-Tayr of Farid al-Din. In his first two years messing about in boats, both of the sailing and the rowing sort, absorbed some time: Melville pulled his oar at no 2, and the following year at bow, in a strong college (‘May’) eight that successfully fought its way up the bumping ladder. Then in his third year the examiners placed him in the first class in Part II of the Oriental Studies Tripos, ‘acquitting himself with distinction in both classical Arabic and Islamic Persian’ as befits R.A. Nicholson’s prizewinner of 1972. In the same May week, with a civil triumph remarkable in an undergraduate, he put on – in a cavernous lecture room known as the ‘Old Reader’ – a retrospective exhibition of his undergraduate canvasses. This was quite a revelation, for not only were they oils and acrylics rather than sub-lengths of boats, but they were done in greys and mauves of a moody gloom, peopled with wide-eyed weather-beaten beings wrapped into dank draperies. It was altogether the antithesis of the genial and confidently everstriding undergraduate, well known to all except in this. The plastic arts being commonly alien to English undergraduates, no one else would have exhibited commitment to them. II

Modern Persian Studies at Pembroke rest on the twin pillars of E.G. Browne (1862–1926) and E.H. Minns (1874–1953), Browne representing the more spiritual and political, and less Parthian, and Minns the more secular, philological, and more Scythian orientation. To the first belongs a flock of political and intelligence officers, administrators, academics and gentlemen-scholars far too numerous to mention at all comprehensively. Like Melville, they typically combine no-nonsense scholarship with a pilgrim soul and sense of adventure, and they stretch from key figures in the engine room of Near and Middle East events since the First World War to such notable modern scholars as Roy Mottahedeh, Soheil Afnan (learned on Ibn Sina), M.B. Loraine (on Muhammad Taqi Bahar) and John R. Perry (on Karim Khan Zand). Among those in the engine room who have put pen to paper are Cecil J. Edmonds (1889– 1979), political officer in Mesopotamia and then in Persia on either side of the Great War, a member of the League of Nations’ demarcation commissions for Iraq and Syria who was among Gertrude Bell’s minders and has left, alongside much other scholarship, Kurds, Turks, and Arabs (1957); Laurence Grafftey-Smith (1892–1989), author of Bright Levant, ambassador to Tirana in 1939 and plenipotentiary at Jeddah in 1945; and, perhaps most interesting in a productive set, Laurence Lockhart (1890–1975), who in his professional activity shuttled between the Anglo-Persian (later Anglo-Iranian) Oil Co. and the research department of the Foreign Office. In Isfahan in 1942 this author of Nadir Shah (1938), and author-to-be of The Fall of the Safavi Dynasty (1958), masterminded for Fitzroy Maclean the abduction and transit to Palestine of Gen. Fazlollah Zahedi, whom the Allied powers suspected of Axis sympathies. ——

ch a r le s mel v ille a n d pe r s i a n pemb r o k e

Lockhart left striking photographs of the Iran of the late 1920s and early 1950s, which Melville, together with James Bamberg, collated into a beautiful display in the summer of 1999, if memory serves, in the very same Old Reader where over 25 years previously Melville had shown his own canvasses. Lockhart’s photographs of the caravan route from Tehran to Amul and of the Alamut valley, of the Karun river in the high Zagros, of the perfect Khaju bridge across the Zayandeh in Isfahan, and of the almost Venetian waterfront at Bushir are eloquent accounts of the boldness, scale and spaciousness of Iran’s massive and lofty mountain systems, and evocative of its (then) healthy climate, of the clean air of its uplands, and of the abundance of waters that constitute, together with the wonderful hospitality of its people, the ‘common refreshment of humanity’ so attractive to Melville’s mentors, his students and himself. Du côté de chez Minns this account will not stray far, as that side is too serindian or slavista. There belong Aurel Stein (1862–1943), G.St G.M. Gompertz (1904–92) and various more modern experts, one on Caucasian and Uzbek ikats, in particular. But the two sides did happen to meet in characteristic fashion at Avroman on the Diala river (or Sirwan), west of Senna in Kurdistan. There, in about the year 1909 in a cave a peasant found a hermetically sealed stone jar containing decaying millet seeds and several documents. After these had passed from hand to hand all but three were lost. A local doctor, Mirza Sa‘id Khan, managed to preserve these final three and, on a visit to London, conveyed them to E.G. Browne, who in turn passed the tightly rolled and sealed parchments to Ellis Minns for inspection. One was in Aramaic script, the other two in Greek, and it is these two, exceptional as specimens of non-Ptolemaic Greek script, that attracted Minns’ paleographic interest. Both turned out to be deeds of sale of vineyards, neither conveyances in fee simple, the earlier for a property encumbered at Dadbakanras and sold for 30 or 40 drachmae – the price appeared to have been revised – the later for an unencumbered vineyard nearby at Dadbakabag, sold for 55 drachmae. Ingenious interpretation allowed Minns to date the first quite accurately to November 88 bc, that is, in the 225th year of the Seleucid era, and the other to 22/21bc, or A.Sel. 291. This work Minns did in his rooms in the first court at Pembroke, a set he had occupied already as an undergraduate and in whose occupancy Arthur Arberry would succeed him in 1953. It is in those rooms, now on B staircase, that Arberry completed the two volumes (1955) of his respected translation of the Qur’an, as well as his edition and translation of Muhammad Iqbal’s chef-d’œuvre, the Javid-nama (1932, trans. 1966), so named after the poet’s son. It is curious that of this son, Javid Iqbal, who was subsequently Chief Justice of Pakistan and who happened to be completing his doctoral work at Pembroke in 1954–5, Arberry – ever a withdrawn man – provides not a hint in his introduction to the poem. III

Melville returned to Cambridge in 1984 to become the moving spirit in Persian Studies, and the next year he was elected to a fellowship at Pembroke. His collegiate curriculum has been quite full: as ‘moral’ tutor for going on three decades (assigned mostly to undergraduates reading Natural Sciences, perhaps because of his knowledge of seismology, or to civilise such pupils); as overseer of the college boat club for half as long, till someone thicker-skinned could be found to replace him in the difficult task of presiding over lively club dinners and commiserating with disappointed crews (if truth be told, Melville’s heart is more a sailor’s than an oarsman’s); and, ——

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latterly, as custodian of college pictures and other curiosities. In each of these roles Melville has been a breath of fresh air, best exemplified perhaps in the matter of the curtains of the college hall, or refectory. Some years ago an eminent mathematician visiting Cambridge was brought into dinner, and in conversation in the combination room afterwards it transpired that he had not appreciated that G.G. Stokes (an occasional seismologist, by the way) had been at Pembroke as man and boy. So to show the visitor the portrait, the door into the hall was straightway unlocked and the lights switched on, only to reveal the world congress of what on the East Coast of the United States are called water bugs. The bursar was roused; a habitat of special scientific interest was found in the pelmets, and the plush red curtains redolent of 50 years of hot meals in common were all promptly eliminated. There followed more than a decade of cacophony, while replacements were inconclusively debated by timorous committees and those dining increasingly raised their voices to hear themselves over their own rising din. At length, however, Melville took an interest, and quite soon finely decorative curtains reminiscent of the greenery in rich oriental tapestry, and not at all of the draperies in his canvasses, appeared. At the same time the college portraits – some more notable for their heavy frames than for the quality of their likenesses – were with pleasant arbitrariness reshuffled by our pinacophylax. It is indeed fitting that a dining room should have provided a stage for some of Melville’s best collegiate activity since, for his bright and engaging manner, his ready hospitality, his désinvolture and sense of fun, his upright outspoken confidence and dismissal of cant, he is quite the most popular dining companion of his generation. On 15 May 2007, for Peter Avery’s 84th birthday, Melville was the factotum who persuaded the Iranian ambassador (Rasoul Movahedian) to provide the cooks for a memorable Persian dinner at Pembroke, and to honour the much-moved Avery with the Farabi prize on an occasion which coincided with the publication of his masterly translation of the lyrics of Hafiz. An evening marked by toasts, drunk in fruit juice, to President Ahmadinejad and the Queen was rounded off, ahead of further refreshments in camera, by Melville’s characteristically witty and elegantly affectionate, seemingly rambling yet sharply focussed remarks: a speech calling to mind his tall frame like a sail to the wind, breezily rounding the corner of Pembroke Street into college on an ancient bicycle, books in one arm, eccentric handlebar to the other. Perhaps to this case Sa‘di’s admonition may not apply:

‫ینطاب ردت مل و اذه یتینالع ینساحم دعت نم ای یذا تیفک‬ In E.G. Browne’s version of 1924: Thou who recountest my virtues, thou dost me harm in sooth: Such is my outward seeming, but thou hast not known the truth.

——

2 On the epithets of two Sasanian kings in the Mujmal al-tawarikh wa-l-qisas Touraj Daryaee

T

he Mujmal al-tawarikh wa-l-qisas is an interesting and, in some ways, a unique text in Persian dated to 520/1126.1 The discussion in relation to the text and its importance has been given masterfully by ‘Allama Qazvini in the preface to the sole typeset edition, published by Malik al-Shu‘ara Bahar in the first half of the twentieth century.2 This version was based on a single manuscript from the Bibliothèque national in Paris, dated to ad1410. In 2001 an older manuscript, from the fourteenth century, held in the State Library in Berlin, was published in facsimile by M. Omidsalar and I. Afshar.3 This new facsimile, being earlier, helps us to understand better some of the difficulties posed by the text. The author of the Mujmal al-tawarikh wa-l-qisas is unknown,4 but he seems to have been a historian of good quality, consulting all the previous works available to him and passing judgement on those that seemed fantastic or untrustworthy. In his preface our anonymous author lists all the books that he consulted and there are a few that are lost to us. These texts appear to provide the Mujmal with unique information that cannot be gained from other medieval Arabic and Persian sources. As a small token of appreciation for my colleague Charles Melville, I would like to discuss two of the epithets of the Sasanian kings mentioned in Mujmal al-tawarikh wa-l-qisas, to reconstruct their Pahlavi forms and decipher their meanings. This task has been made possible by the availability of the printed edition of Bahar and the new facsimile edition by Omidsalar and Afshar. The list of Sasanian kings in the Mujmal al-tawarikh wa-l-qisas provides a number of epithets, principal associations and personal names for kings and queens. Some of them include: — 11 —

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‫زمره رسپروپاش‬: ‫ فاتکالاوذ‬

Shapur Hurmuz: Dhū’l-Aktāf

‫یسرن نب زمره رسپ ریشدرا‬: ‫ راک وکن‬/ ‫ مرن‬

Ardashir pisar-i Hurmuz b. Narsi: nikūkār/narm

‫مارهب رسپ درجدزی‬: ‫ رگ هزب‬/ ‫ رفذ‬

Yazdijird pisar-i Bahram: ZFR

‫روگ مارهب رسپ درجدزی‬: ‫ مرن‬

Yazdijird pisar-i Bahram Gur: narm

‫زوریف رسپ دابق‬: ‫ شیر نیازیرب‬

Qubad pisar-i Firuz: BRYZ ’YN RYŠ

Other Sasanian kings have the name of the principality where they ruled before becoming ‘king of kings’, or their birthplace is mentioned: ‫زمره مارهب نب مارهب رسپ ثلاثلا مارهب‬: ‫ هاش ناکس‬Bahram al-Thalith pisar-i Bahram b. Bahram Hurmuz: Sakan Shah ‫روپاش نب مارهب‬: ‫ هاش نامرک‬

Bahram b. Shapur: Kirman Shah

‫ناورشون یرسک‬: ‫ هاشرَگراوخشدََف‬

Kisra Nushirvan: Fa?dushkwārgar Shah

Finally, there are two interesting personal names for the late Sasanian queens, which are mentioned alongside their throne names: ‫تخد ناروب‬: ‫ ریجه‬

Burandukht: Hajir

‫تخدیمرزآ‬: ‫ دیشروخ‬Azarmidukht: Khurshid

While most of these epithets for these Sasanian rulers are known, two stand out as they appear to be Pahlavi titles written in Arabic script. The first is easier to interpret and concerns Yazdgird I (399–420), who has two epithets. In his first epithet, here is certainly Middle Persian dabr, which is the epithet that is also given to him in the Pahlavi texts (Shahrestānīhā ī Ērānshahr 26):5 shahrestān ī hamadān *yazdgird ī shābuhrān kard kē-shān *yazdgird ī dabr xwānēnd. The city of Hamadān was built by Yazdgird, the son of Shābuhr whom they call Yazdgird the rough.

J. Markwart translated Yazdgird’s epithet as ‘the sinner’,6 which is associated with him as in Tabari.7 But Nöldeke had already interpreted the term correctly as dabz,8 ‘rough, harsh’. 9 Tabari, in discussing Bahram V’s reign calls his father (Arabic). Persian , ‘rough’, is 10 found in many Perso-Arabic texts, as the epithet of Yazdgird I, including here in the Mujmal al-tawarikh wa-l-qisas. gives us Middle Persian dabr (dpl ), which MacKenzie translated 11 as ‘sinner’, but should mean ‘rough’, as in Persian is from OIr *dabra-.12 However, it is interesting to note that while certainly conveys ‘rough’, the compound , or also attested , means ‘clever’. The reason that this is important is because Tabari reports that one of the great sins of Yazdgird I was: his keenness of intellect, his good education, and the wide-ranging varieties of knowledge he had thoroughly mastered in their proper place, and also his extensive delving into harmful things and his use of all the power he possessed for deceiving people, using his sharpness, wiles, and trickery – all this together with his keen mind, which had a propensity toward evil-doing, and his intense enjoyment in employing these faculties of his.13

Thus we are faced with at least two, possibly three, different epithets for Yazdgird I that have been confused. While Yazdgird was called a ‘sinner’ for decimating the nobility and the Zoroastrian — 12 —

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priests (according to Socrates Scholasticus 8.7.9), and allowing Christianity to thrive by establishing the Persian Christian Church, he received the epithet of the ‘sinner’ , or Persian in Sasanian-based sources.14 But then there is the Middle Persian dabr (dbl ), Persian , which means ‘rough’, and which itself provides the meaning that the ruler was rough; certainly Yazdgird I was rough with the upper class who opposed him. But more interesting is that he was also a sharp and intelligent man, who, according to Tabari and other Sasanian-based sources, used his cleverness ( ) in evil ways to rule over the Sasanian Empire. The second epithet derives from Pahlavi into Persian and belongs to Kawad I (r. 488– 96/499–531). His epithet in Bahar’s edition of the Mujmal al-tawarikh wa-l-qisas reads as , which is unintelligible. However, the new facsimile edition by Omidsalar and Afshar shows the first part of the epithet as or and the last word in the compound as . Bahar, using Hamza al-Isfahani, translated it as Kawad ‘who before had an evil religion’. I would like to suggest that the epithet should be read as Middle Persian pahrēz ī ēwēn-dush, or dush-ēwēn-pahrēz, meaning the ‘protector of evil custom’. The ‘evil custom’ that is referred to is doubtless the Mazdakite doctrine, which seems to have won support from Kawad I.15 In the Bundahishn (33.18), Kawad’s action is described as follows: andar xwadāyīh kawād mazdag ī bāmdādān ō paydāgīh mad ud dād ī mazdagīh nihād ud kawād frēft ud wiyābān kard zan ud frazand ud xwāstag pad hamīh ud hambāyīh abāyēd dāshtan framūd. During the rulership of Kawad, Mazdak, son of Bamdad became visible and established the law of Mazdak and deceived (and) deluded Kawad, and ordered to hold women and offspring and property in association and co-possession.

Here it is clearly stated that Kawad supported the ‘doctrine’ or ‘law’ established by Mazdak, son of Bamdad. Of course the semantic range of ēwēn brings it close to dād; in the Psalter ’dwyny is used to translate Syriac nāmōsā, that is, the Mosaic Law.16 Ēwēn has also entered Armenian as a loanword (awrenk‘) as ‘law’, but also ‘customary way of life’,17 matching the Middle Persian and Persian meaning. This very much suits our reading of the epithet given to Kawad of adopting the ‘evil’ law or custom of Mazdak and becoming infamous for it. On the basis of the new manuscript, can easily be read as Middle Persian dush, ‘evil’, which also appears as a compound with dēn as dush-dēn, ‘evil religion’. In addition, the new manuscript provides for the first word of the compound, which makes it possible to see a Middle Persian pahrēz, as opposed to what Bahar had in his manuscript. There is much more that can be said on the importance of Persian sources such as the Mujmal al-tawarikh wa-l-qisas for elucidating details on the history and tradition of the Persianate world. This study of two epithets is an example of what can be excavated from such medieval texts, and these sources are certainly worth devoting time to, as some of them used older books that are now lost to us and can therefore help make clear the history of the past.

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Notes

1 For a discussion of this text, see J.S. Meisami, Persian Historiography to the End of the Twelfth Century (Edinburgh, 1999), pp.188–209. 2 Mujmal al-tawarikh wa-l-qisas, ed. M.T. Bahar (Tehran, 1334). 3 Mujmal al-tawarikh wa-l-qisas, eds O. Omidsalar and I. Afshar. Persian Manuscripts in Facsimile no 1 (Tehran, 2001). 4 The author mentions that the ancestor of the author was named Muhallab b. Muhammad b. Shadi. 5 T. Daryaee, Šahrestānīhā ī Ēranšahr: A Middle Persian Text on Late Antique Geography, Epic and History (Costa Mesa, CA, 2002). 6 J. Markwart, A Catalogue of the Provincial Capitals of Ērānshahr, Pahlavi Text, Version and Commentary, ed. G. Messina (Rome, 1931), p.14, n. 26. 7 History of al-T.abarī: The Sāsānids, the Byzantines, the Lakmids, and Yemen, trans. C.E. Bosworth (Albany, NY, 1999), p. 70. 8 Th. Nöldeke, Geschichte der Perser und Araber zur Zeit der Sasaniden (Leiden, 1879), p. 72. 9 History of al-T.abarī, trans. Bosworth, p. 82. 10 A. Tafazzolī, ‘Notes Pehlevies’, Journal Asiatique, Fasc. 3 & 4 (1972), pp. 270–3. 11 D.N. MacKenzie, A Concise Pahlavi Dictionary (Oxford, 1986), p. 23. 12 H.S. Nyberg, A Manual of Pahlavi. Part II: Glossary (Wiesbaden, 1974), p. 61. 13 History of al-T.abarī, trans. Bosworth, p. 70. 14 T. Daryaee, ‘History, epic, and numismatics: on the title of Yazdgerd I (Rāmšahr)’, The American Journal of Numismatics 14 (2002), p.91. 15 For the latest study on Kawad, Mazdak and the pro-Roman and Pro-Easter/Hephtalite faction, see J. Wiesehöfer, ‘Kawad, Khusro I and the Mazdakites: a new proposal’, in Ph. Gignoux et al. (eds), Trésors d’Orient, Melanges offerts à Rika Gyselen, Cahiers de Studia Iranica 42 (Paris, 2009), pp. 391–409. 16 Nyberg, Manual, Part II, p. 12. 17 Elishe, History of Vardan and the Armenian War, trans. R. Thomson (Cambridge, MA, 1982), p. 12.

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3 The changing face of an Iranian sacred place: the Takht-i Sulayman Josef Wiesehöfer

This [Shiz] is a town situated between Maragha, Zanjan, Suhravard and Daynavar, among mountains in which are found mines of gold, quicksilver, lead, silver, yellow arsenic and the stones known as jamast (amethyst). […] The walls of this town encircle the lake which is bottomless. […] When its waters have moistened the earth the latter immediately solidifies to stone. Seven canals come out of the lake and each of them feeds a mill and comes out under the walls. [In Shiz] there is a greatly respected fire-temple from which the fires of the Magians are kindled both in the East and in the West. […] And another wonder of this temple is that the hearth has been burning for 700 years and no ashes are found in it, whereas the fire has not ceased to burn even for an hour. This town was built by Hurmuz b. Khusraw-Shir b. Bahram of stones and lime. By this temple there are tall porticos and awe-inspiring buildings.1

W

hen the Muslim author Abu Dulaf b. Muhalhil wrote this report on Shiz at the beginning of the tenth century ad, the heyday of the sanctuary known to us as Takht-i Sulayman in the volcanic highland of Azerbaijan had been over for more than 400 years.2 The combination of breathtaking scenery alongside the sanctuary’s circular layout with the lake in the middle and the ensemble of buildings between lake and walls, as described by Abu Dulaf, makes this an impressive site even today (see Plate 1 and Fig. 3.1). It was also, first and foremost, a sacred place, as our Muslim guide assured us more than 1,000 years ago. In my contribution to this Festschrift for a dear colleague who has greatly inspired my thoughts on post-Sasanian Iran, I hope to be able to touch upon the historical importance of the — 15 —

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Takht, and its restorative and invigorating qualities that enchanted our ancestors: the builders of the sanctuary and its visitors in the time of the Sasanian kings of the fifth to seventh centuries ad, the Zoroastrian and Muslim inhabitants of Iran in the centuries after the conquest of the land by the armies of the caliphs, and European travellers since the middle of the nineteenth century. In the following pages, I will introduce the Takht-i Sulayman to the reader in connection with its three historical functions, each of which was linked to a successive historical epoch: as the place of the ‘royal fire’ in Zoroastrian-Sasanian Iran, that is, as a place of contact between worldly and divine power; as ‘Sulayman’s Throne’ in the Iranian Middle Ages and early modern and contemporary Iran, that is, as the site of a wise, divinely inspired mythical king; and, last but not least, as a secular World Heritage Site. It is a site that English travellers rediscovered for European intellectuals of their time, to which German and Iranian excavators have assigned new historical meaning for Iranians and Europeans alike, and that every year attracts thousands of visitors from Iran and all over the world. Adur Gushnasp, the ‘royal fire’

When and how did the Takht become a ritual site and a meeting place of divine and earthly powers? Shortly after the middle of the third century ad, the ‘King of Kings of Iran and nonIran’, Shabuhr I of the Sasanian dynasty, celebrated his great victory over the Roman emperors in a detailed inscription at Naqsh-i Rustam near Persepolis. In this, he proclaimed his efforts on behalf of the Zoroastrian cult, his support of the Magians and his foundation and financial endowment of fires for the benefit of his own majesty and soul as well as of his closest family



FIG.

3.1 Takht-i Sulayman (bird’s eye view).

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T H E C H a n g i n g f a ce o f a n i r a n i a n S a c r e d pl a ce

members (ŠKZ mpI §§ 32–39).3 The famous inscription ends with a request to his successors to maintain the ritual institutions and the ritual actions in the same manner as he himself had. Thus Shabuhr establishes a direct link between his military achievements and his religious efforts which had brought him divine support. We do not know when permanent structures for holy fires replaced open-air places of worship in Iran. However, there can be no doubt that in pre-Islamic Iran a close connection existed between the fire cult, worship and royal ideology. For example, the reliefs of the Achaemenid tomb facades with king, fire altar and man in the winged disc are reminiscent of the embodiment of the Young Avestan triad of fire, king and Kavian xvarǝnah, that is, the charisma of the mythical and historical kings of Iran which legitimises and protects their rule. The author Isidor of Charax, who lived in southern Mesopotamia around the time of Christ’s birth, mentions an eternally burning fire in the Parthian town of Asaak (in today’s Turkmenistan), where Arsaces, the founder of the Arsacid, that is, Parthian dynasty, was said to have been crowned (Isid. Charak. 11). Iranians of antiquity were very often erroneously called ‘Fire-Worshippers’ by their non-Iranian neighbours, although Zoroastrians actually focused all their prayers and acts of devotion on Ohrmazd (Ahura Mazda), the Creator God, and the other divinities like Mihr (Mithra) and Anahid (Anahita). The late Sasanian law book Book of a Thousand Judgments (Middle Persian: Mādayān ī hazār dādestān) gives information concerning the ‘Charitable Foundations’ (Middle Persian: ruwānagān; literally ‘relating to the soul’) endowed by Shabuhr and his successors. These consisted of the socalled ‘Property of the Soul’ (Middle Persian xwāstag ī rūwān), which were private endowments of a public character (like modern-day fire-temples), intended to benefit the community, and family endowments, which were intended mainly to ensure income for the descendants of the founder. Both types normally consisted of a principal, such as landed property, as well as of the income or profit derived from it. If fires were endowed that did not actually pay for themselves per se, they were considered revenue-raising property, called ‘Property’ or ‘Possession of the Fire’, which allowed the perpetuation of the rituals for the salvation of the soul of the donor or that of another person. In addition, only the profits were liable for tax, not the base. This made the fires – apart from their religious and social function as venues for rest and pious purposes and as prestigious places – economically potent institutions and their priestly ‘supervisors’ politically and socially powerful. Many features of the Sasanian ‘Charitable Foundations’ were taken over in the course of the development of the legal basis of the Islamic waqf system.4 In Iranian myths and legends about the institution of kingship, three fires above all are prominent, apart from the personal fire of the ruling king: Adur-Burzen-Mihr (probably situated in Parthia), Adur Farnbag (in Fars) and Adur Gushnasp (in Adurbadagan5).6 In time, their prestige in the popular imagination seems to have grown to such an extent that, in the end, they were regarded as creations of Ohrmazd (‘for the protection of the world’7) and their names even entered the Avestan Hymn of the Fire (Ataš Niyāyišn, chapter 20).8 In later Zoroastrian-Sasanian tradition, these three fires were considered to be representatives of the three ideal strata of Sasanian society: the farmers, priests and warriors. Although Middle Persian literature provides us with some further information about the location of the three fires and their political and economic status, its presentation of their history and properties — 17 —

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nevertheless bears predominantly mythical traits. However, there can be no doubt that the late Sasanian kings must have presented themselves as donors and benefactors to these fire temples, both for the welfare of their own souls and that of the land of Iran, just as Shabuhr I and others had done with their endowments. Of the three great fires, the fire Adur Gushnasp is today by far the best known: it has not only been identified and excavated, but we even know its local name thanks to antique literary reports and Sasanian seals that shed light on the fire’s administrative status as well as on the titles of the officials responsible for it. The place must have been of at least regional importance even in pre-Sasanian times, as the excavations have shown. Starting as a small and poor settlement in the Achaemenid period and abandoned after a few generations, the site was first fortified in Parthian and early Sasanian times. Later on, probably in the fifth century ad, it became the sanctuary of Adur Gushnasp, the fire of the warriors and kings and one of the three most revered fires of Sasanian Iran. There are two reasons why Adur Gushnasp may have been transferred to this place in Azerbaijan: firstly, there was an older tradition of the site as a sacred place, and secondly, on account of its impressive natural location at an altitude of about 2,200 m on an outcrop of limestone that had been built up by the sediments of the overflowing calcinating water of a thermal spring-cum-lake, lying about 60 m above the valley. However, the real development of the site began in the late fifth century ad. It seems that Adur Gushnasp was transferred to this impressive place only shortly beforehand. In time, the connection between the idea of kingship and Adur Gushnasp became so close that each Sasanian king had to come here after his coronation to pay his respects to Ohrmazd and the other gods.9 From the late Sasanian period onwards, numerous new myths and legends described the place as the site of the meeting of rulers and gods, and the place where the kings asked the gods for advice and help before important political and military decisions.10 Kings showed their gratitude by lavishing rich gifts on the sanctuary. In other words, as a popular site of Zoroastrian devotion where people thought they could see a point of contact between heaven and earth, a place where the power of the gods made itself known in a special way, Adur Gushnasp steadily grew in importance over time, thanks to the elaboration of pious legends by the local religious officials and by the kings themselves. The latter, not least for domestic reasons, tried to present themselves as keen sponsors of the Zoroastrian cult, both here and at other ritual sites. At the same time, the close connection between kingship, the fire cult and worship must have been thought particularly evident and effective at this place. In the end, both ideas merged and were probably responsible for changing a voluntary pilgrimage by the ruler into an obligatory one. Royal investiture, the king’s divine endowment with the royal charisma, was now only deemed complete, divinely sanctioned and blessed after the royal visit to the fire temple. ‘Through the contiguous link this sacred itinerary established, the Sasanian kings anchored the traditions and rituals of the coronation to the primordial weight of Adur Gušnasp. This long-distance link, in turn, associated the Sasanian king’s temporal coronations with the royal sacral significances of the site.’11 Indeed, Adur Gushnasp was regarded as the royal sacred place par excellence up to the end of the dynasty. It was a place where subjects could experience, both symbolically and sensuously, the divinely bestowed right to rule and the godlike qualities of their masters in their rulers’ prayers, festivities and banquets as well as in their later military and political achievements. However, on the same occasions, the kings’ subjects were constantly reminded of — 18 —

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their subservience and their specific political duties, duties that were communicated to them as a special form of religious service. Muslim rule over Iran interrupted the connections between the divine and the royal spheres at this place and returned it to its original status. But Adur Gushnasp is still described by Abu Dulaf as the most prominent Zoroastrian fire in Iran. In Zoroastrian tradition, it even kept its prestige as the fire of the once mighty Kings of Kings of Iran well beyond the year ad651.12 In the tenth or eleventh century, the great Iranian epic poet Ferdowsi acknowledged and re-established the prominent role of Adur Gushnasp and its royal visitors, on the basis of the semi-official Sasanian representation of Iranian history in the late Sasanian Book of Lords (Xwadāynāmag), which, at his time, existed in numerous translations and adaptations. At the same time, however, he showed himself fully aware of the literary taste and the political needs of his royal clients. In a famous episode, he has the exemplary ruler Kay Khusraw and his grandfather and counsellor Kay Ka’us, both from the mythical dynasty of the Kayanids, visit Adur Gushnasp before their decisive fight against the Turanian arch-enemy Afrasiyab and to pray for victory. In the translation of A.G. and E. Warner this episode runs as follows: Khusrau addressed Kaus the Shah, and said: – ‘Of whom shall we seek guidance save of God? We crossed the desert, spent a year at sea, And journeyed seared of heart o’er mountain-ranges, But nowhere on the mountain, sea, or desert Saw any traces of Afrasiyab. If he shall suddenly arrive at Gang, And gather troops, toils will confront us still, Although the righteous Judge be on our side.’ The grandsire, giving an old man’s advice, Replied: ‘We two will mount our steeds and seek In haste the temple of Azargashasp, Will bathe our heads and bodies, hands and feet, As well becometh worshippers of God, And to the almighty Maker of the world, In this our trouble, proffer muttered praise. Then, as we stand in presence of the Fire, It may be holy God will be our Guide, And He that showeth justice shows the way, To where Afrasiyab is lying hidden.’ This counsel they agreed to act upon, Not swerving either of them from the path, And, mounting swift as wind upon two chargers, Sped to the temple of Azargashasp, In white robes, with hearts filled by hope and fear. Whenas they looked upon the Fire they wept, As though they were consuming in fierce flames, Before the Master of the sun and moon; — 19 —

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They called upon the Maker of the world, And showered jewels on the archimages. Khusrau, while bathing still his face in tears, Let fall dinars upon the Zandavasta, And thus they passed a sennight in God’s presence; But think not that they used in days of yore To worship fire, ’twas but their cynosure. Tears from the eyes of worshippers might pour, Yet, though thou ponder long, when thought is done, All holy God is still the needful One. Thus at Azar Abadagan the two Remained one whole month with their retinue.13

The special prestige of the fire temple in Sasanian times is underlined by the fact that the administrative seals of that time characterise this place as autonomous, that is, as a place outside the usual provincial order. A high official with the title framadār presided over Adur Gushnasp, and the sanctum itself was supervised by a mogbed.14 The history of the layout of the site15 also testifies to the importance that the Sasanian kings attributed to the fire temple and the royal palace, where Khusraw I and his successors stayed during their regular visits to the site, and where Ferdowsi imagined Kay Ka’us and Kay Khusraw to have talked about everything under the sun and to have asked for divine help.16 The holy precinct in the square enclosure on the north side of the royal court was accessible both from the north gate and the royal courtyard. It was divided into two unequal parts by a straight corridor, with a massive chahār t.āq with surrounding corridors located exactly on the main north–south axis of the layout. Its central, domed cella was probably the place of the Adur Gushnasp fire altar. The function of each of the eastern rooms of the great temple is still disputed; the cruciform room with a central dome with a direct, axial connection to the cella possibly served as a storeroom for the ashes of the sacred fire. The western part of the sacred enclosure was identified as a completely independent second fire temple, probably reserved for the king and his entourage. Mud-brick structures on the west side of the second northern forecourt might have been remains of shelters, hostels and toilets for the pilgrims, whereas a room between the gate house of the northern temple court and the entrance to the north–south corridor, where the bullae (see below) were found, probably served administrative purposes. Compared with the comfortable southern approach to the site, which was reserved for the king and his court, the approach to the northern gate for the normal pilgrims was a painstaking enterprise. However, this exertion was compensated for by the fantastic view from the site, the experience of divine help, and – sometimes – by the splendour of royal visits to Adur Gushnasp. Beside late Sasanian coins, the numerous clay bullae indicate the existence of official documents and a large local archive.17 On the bullae, the excavators detected more than 1,200 impressions of about 800 different seals, and it was the seal of the mogbed ‘of the House of the Fire of Gushnasp’ that provided proof of the correct identification of this prestigious sanctuary. Since the bullae can be dated to a period of about 100 years before the looting and destruction of the fire temple in the seventh century ad,18 they also testify to the identification of Shiz, where — 20 —

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tradition locates the site of the imperial fire and to where it has the kings make a pilgrimage after their coronation, with the Takht (at least since the sixth century ad). It was the East Roman emperor Heraclius who, with his military counter-offensive of the year ad624, abruptly ended the great age of Adur Gushnasp (Theophan. 6114.307.19–308.25).19 In the years before, his opponent, the Sasanian king Khusraw II, had conquered almost the whole eastern part of Heraclius’ empire as well as Syria, Palestine and Egypt and had been able to transfer the Holy Cross from Jerusalem to Ctesiphon.20 We do not know whether by that time the holy fire had already been moved to a safe place or whether it was extinguished by the Byzantines. What is quite clear, however, from the Western sources is Heraclius’ religious fervour. The destruction of Adur Gushnasp was particularly important for him because the emperor had portrayed the campaign as a religious war against a loathsome pagan enemy. With the destruction of the Sasanian Royal Fire where Ohrmazd was venerated by the King of Kings, the Christian God had not only helped Heraclius to avenge Khusraw II’s misdeeds but had also proven his superiority over his Zoroastrian counterpart. Later, the fire was probably brought back to Shiz and relit, and the Zoroastrians nurtured it even after the Muslim conquest of Iran. For this is exactly what Abu Dulaf, who was an ‘Abbasid subject in the early tenth century ad, tells us about the fire and its priestly supervisors. The Takht as a place of recreation and Sulayman’s Throne

Although an agreement between the Muslim forces and the marzbān of Azerbaijan had guaranteed religious integrity to the sanctuary and had allowed the population of Shiz to go on celebrating their religious festivals,21 the heyday of Adur Gushnasp came to an end with the downfall of the Sasanian Empire in ad651. The close connection between Iranian royal rule and Zoroastrianism no longer existed, at least in practice, and the royal palace was deprived of its legitimate owner. Archaeology has been able to show that, in time, the buildings on the Takht fell into decline, the religious monuments were profaned and local people moved into the walled area. However, we do not know when exactly and under what circumstances the sanctuary finally came to an end. For the first centuries of Muslim rule, Perso-Arabian historiography still identifies the place with Adur Gushnasp, and Abu Dulaf still saw the Fire functioning in the first half of the tenth century ad. The Zoroastrian population took the fire or fires to another place as they migrated away. Nevertheless, the Takht, still under its name Shiz, developed as a prosperous Islamic town, with its population peaking in the Seljuq period. It is normally stated that after the Mongol invasion, Abaqa, the second Ilkhan, forced the inhabitants to leave the place and had his regal hunting palace built on the southern foundations of the ancient sanctuary.22 However, the recipient of this Festschrift has convincingly shown that the construction of the palace had already started under Hülegü.23 This impressive palace,24 which was decorated with glazed wall tiles and which incorporated the enlarged and rebuilt monumental īwāns of both the fire temple and the Sasanian palace, as well as the former cella, can still be seen and admired today. The palace, with its rebuilt and new īwāns and its kiosks, with the great palace courtyard with the lake in the centre, surrounded by arcades, and with the other buildings and rooms of varying shapes and functions, seems to have been part of a landscape garden. Other houses served administrative and official — 21 —

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purposes or as dwellings for the workmen during the construction phase. The northern area of the site quite quickly developed into the civilian settlement of Saturiq/Sagurluq. With the end of Mongol rule, the Takht was reoccupied by the peasant population, and there was destruction and squatter occupation, and building materials were used for erecting mosques, mausoleums and living houses. Probably soon after the Timurid conquest of Iran, the town of Saturiq was abandoned. Sometime after that abandonment the locals must have assigned the name Takht-i Sulayman (Solomon’s Throne) to the site.25 Arabic historiography considers Sulayman (Solomon) to have been the foremost ruler of a world empire who was a ‘believer’, thereby even surpassing Iskandar (Alexander) and confronting the ‘infidels’ Nimrod and Nebuchadnezzar.26 He is a king who is distinguished by a particular endowment of wisdom and justice. In the Qur’an, he is even characterised as a divine envoy and a precursor of Muhammad. It is he who is served by numerous people and jinns and who wins over the queen of Sheba, Bilqis, to the true – Muslim – faith. Later legends elaborate on this tradition, which is mostly based on Rabbinic sources, even further: in them, Sulayman becomes the royal master builder par excellence, which might explain the renaming of our place, as well as the wise ruler par excellence who is equipped with special magical powers. In Iran, where, in time, a specific Solomonic tradition developed, Sulayman is often compared to the famous primordial king Jamshid. Incidentally, the special prestige of the wise master builder Sulayman lies behind the fact that the name ‘Sulayman’s Throne’ was given not only to our place in Azerbaijan, but also to many other places or ruins in Iran. The local population introduced Adur Gushnasp to the first European travellers under its name Takht-i Sulayman at the beginning of the nineteenth century.27 The Englishman Sir Robert Ker Porter, who visited the site in August 1819, is regarded as the European discoverer of the Takht. We owe the first detailed description of the place to the English ‘Father of the Decipherment of Cuneiform’, Henry Creswicke Rawlinson, who in 1838 not only carried out an investigation of the ruins over several days but also made a sketch map of the Takht and the nearby Zindan-i Sulayman. On the Takht, he even recognised the cella of the sanctuary with its still vaulted corridors and the partly collapsed dome and rightly assigned all of it to the Sasanian era. Numerous other persons visited the Takht or saw it from the air, like the excavator of Persepolis, Erich F. Schmidt, in 1937; because of his aerial images, in the same year the American Institute for Iranian Art and Archaeology started an investigation lasting several days under the direction of Arthur Upham Pope, the results of which were later published. Finally, from 1959 till the end of the 1970s, the German Archaeological Institute (DAI), under the direction of Hans-Henning von der Osten, Rudolf Naumann and Dietrich Huff, conducted several excavation campaigns which have definitively shaped our view of the history and archaeology of the Takht-i Sulayman. Some years ago, archaeologists of the University of Tehran resumed fieldwork, which had come to an end after the Revolution of 1979. In 2003, UNESCO decided to inscribe the Takht into its list of World Heritage sites. On its website, the institution defines ‘World Heritage’ as ‘our legacy from the past, what we live with today, and what we pass on to future generations. Our cultural and natural heritage are both irreplaceable sources of life and inspiration’.28 Additionally, it adduces the following arguments of the Islamic Republic of Iran to justify its application: — 22 —

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Criterion i: Takht-e Soleyman is an outstanding ensemble of royal architecture, joining the principal architectural elements created by the Sasanians in a harmonious composition inspired by their natural context. Criterion ii: The composition and the architectural elements created by the Sasanians at Takht-e Soleyman have had strong influence not only in the development of religious architecture in the Islamic period, but also in other cultures. Criterion iii: The ensemble of Takht-e Soleyman is an exceptional testimony of the continuation of cult related to fire and water over a period of some two and half millennia. The archaeological heritage of the site is further enriched by the Sasanian town, which is still to be excavated. Criterion iv: Takht-e Soleyman represents an outstanding example of Zoroastrian sanctuary, integrated with Sasanian palatial architecture within a composition, which can be seen as a prototype. Criterion vi: As the principal Zoroastrian sanctuary, Takht-e Soleyman is the foremost site associated with one of the early monotheistic religions of the world. The site has many important symbolic relationships, being also a testimony of the association of the ancient beliefs, much earlier than the Zoroastrianism, as well as in its association with significant biblical figures and legends.29

It is revealing that the history of the site is thus deprived of its post-Sasanian and secular elements, even though the most impressive ruins on the spot are those of Mongol times. Conclusion

Starting as a small and poor settlement in Achaemenid times and re-established as a fortified (and regionally important and sacred) place in Parthian and early Sasanian time, Shiz had become the site of one of the three most revered fires of Sasanian Iran by the fifth century ad. Presumably rearranged, rebuilt and enlarged under Khusraw I, the site then became even more closely connected to royal legitimation, as a sacred place where the ruler was able to establish direct contact with the gods. It gained further prestige through its imagined remote past in the Sasanian-shaped semi-official ‘Iranian National History’ (Xwadāy-nāmag), as the leading fire of the mythical Kayanid kings. Alongside its special religious function and political prestige that was also reflected in its political autonomy, Adur Gushnasp became an important administrative centre, with its own functionaries and archives. From a very early point, the common people of the Zoroastrian faith must have imitated the pilgrimage of the kings (indeed, their custom of visiting the site might even have been older than that of the kings), and it was they who for centuries upheld the fame and prestige of Adur Gushnasp. After their disappearance and the end of fire-worshipping at the site, Shiz developed into a prosperous Islamic town, used as a place of recreation by a Mongol ruler, but only at a cost to the Zoroastrians and by exploiting for secular purposes the material remains of a once holy place. Transformed into the site of an imagined throne of an exemplary ruler, the Takht never lost its special reputation, despite being deserted. — 23 —

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Rediscovered for a European audience by travellers of the nineteenth century, excavated by European and Iranian archaeologists, the Takht-i Sulayman, the former Shiz and Adur Gushnasp, has now become a famous monument, not only for the Iranians themselves, but also for an interested foreign public. Fortunately, the site, because of its long, diverse history and unlike places like Pasargadae and Persepolis, has never played an important role in the ideology of postSasanian and contemporary dictators and despots. Those who visit the place today can hardly imagine how the pilgrims of Sasanian times must have thought of their long and painstaking journey to Media Atropatene and their conscientiously observed rituals as a step towards, and prerequisite of, divinely granted welfare.

Notes







1 Abū Dulaf Mis‘ar ibn Muhalhil’s Travels in Iran, ca. A.D. 950, ed. V. Minorsky (Cairo, 1955), pp. 31–3. 2 Main literature: K. Schippmann, Die iranischen Feuerheiligtümer, Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten 31 (Berlin and New York, 1971), pp. 309–57; R. Naumann, Die Ruinen von Tacht-e Suleiman und Zendan-e Suleiman und Umgebung, Führer zu archäologischen Plätzen in Iran 2 (Berlin, 1977); D. Huff, ‘Tak-t-e Solaymān’, EIr; idem, ‘Takht-i Suleiman. Sasanidisches Feuerheiligtum und mongolischer Palast’, in T. Stöllner, R. Slotta and A. Vatandoust (eds), Persiens antike Pracht (Bochum, 2004), vol.1, pp. 462–71; idem, ‘The functional layout of the Fire Sanctuary at Takht-i Sulaimān’, in D. Kennet and P. Luft (eds), Current Research in Sasanian Archaeology, Art and History (Oxford, 2008), pp. 1–13. 3 See the edition by P. Huyse, Die dreisprachige Inschrift Sabuhrs I. an der Ka‘ba-i Zardust (SKZ) (London, 1999). 4 For the Charitable Foundations, cf. M. Macuch, ‘Charitable Foundations in the Sasanian Period’, EIr; idem, ‘Die sasanidische Stiftung‚ “für die Seele” – Vorbild für den islamischen waqf?’, in P. Vavroušek (ed.), Iranian and Indo-European Studies: Memorial Volume of O. Klíma (Praha, 1994), pp. 163–80. 5 For this province in late Sasanian times, its capital Ganzak and its officials, cf. R. Gyselen, La géographie administrative de l’empire sassanide: Les témoignages sigillographiques, Res Orientales 1 (Paris, 1989), pp. 79–80; R. Gyselen, Nouveaux matériaux pour la géographie historique de l’Empire Sassanide: Sceaux administratifs de la Collection Ahmad Saeedi, Studia Iranica: Cahier 24 (Paris, 2002), p.127. 6 For these three Wahram Fires, cf. M. Boyce, ‘Ādur Gušnasp’, EIr; eadem, ‘Ādur Burzēn-Mihr’, EIr; eadem, ‘Ādur Farnbāg’, EIr. 7 Bundahišn 17.7; for the other Pahlavi sources cf. M. Molé, Culte, mythe et cosmologie dans l’Iran ancien: Le problème zoroastrien et la tradition mazdéenne (Paris, 1963), pp. 452–9. 8 Der Awesta-Text Niyāyis mit Pahlavi- und Sanskritšübersetzung, ed. and trans. Z. Taraf (Munich, 1981). 9 For the probable ancient itinerary and road system, cf. W. Kleiss, ‘Alte Wege in West-Iran’, in Archäologische Mitteilungen aus Iran N.F. 10 (1977), pp. 136–52. For the tradition of how the king travelled (on foot, on horseback), see the references in M. Abka‘iKhavari, Das Bild des Königs in der Sasanidenzeit, Texte und Studien zur Orientalistik 13 (Hildesheim, 2000), p. 115 and M.P. Canepa, The Two Eyes of the Earth: Art and Ritual of Kingship between Rome and Sasanian Iran (Berkeley, 2009), p. 235 n. 39. 10 Procop. Pers. 2.24.2 tells us that Khusraw I stayed at Shiz before his invasion of the Roman Empire; here, he also planned to receive Justinian’s envoys. 11 Canepa, The Two Eyes of the Earth, p. 15. 12 Boyce, ‘Ādur Gušnasp’. 13 The Sháhnáma of Firdausí, trans. A.G. Warner and E. Warner (London, 1905–25), vol. 4, pp. 258–9. 14 Gyselen, La géographie administrative, p. 67. 15 In my short archaeological report I follow Huff (see note 2). 16 For Byzantine descriptions of the audience hall of the palace with an image of Khusraw II seated in heaven (Nikeph. 12.40–45, Cedr. 721), cf. Canepa, The Two Eyes of the Earth, pp. 148–9 and J. Howard-Johnston, Witnesses to a World Crisis: Historians and Histories of the Middle East in the Seventh Century (Oxford, 2010), pp. 245–6. 17 R. Göbl, Die Tonbullen vom Tacht-e Suleiman. Ein Beitrag zur spätsasanidischen Sphragistik. Tacht-e Suleiman, Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen 1 (Berlin, 1976). 18 Naumann, in Göbl, Die Tonbullen, p. 23; R. Gyselen, Great-Commander (vuzurg-framadār) and Court Counsellor (dar-andarzbed) in the Sasanian Empire (224–651): The Sigillographic Evidence, Conferenze 19 (Rome, 2008), p. 15. 19 J. Howard-Johnston, ‘Heraclius’ Persian campaigns and the revival of the East Roman Empire 622–630’, War in History 6 (1999), pp.1–44. Reprinted in East Rome, Sasanian Persia and the End of Antiquity, Ashgate Variorum Collected Studies Series, chapter VIII (Aldershot, 2006). 20 Cf. the excellent monograph on the Romano–Sasanian Wars (and the succeeding Muslim conquests of the Near East) by HowardJohnston, Witnesses to a World Crisis. 21 Baladhuri, Kitāb Futūh. al-Buldān/Liber expugnationis regionum, ed. M.J. De Goeje (Leiden, 1866), p.326. 22 For Abaqa, see P. Jackson, ‘Abaqa’, EIr. 23 C. Melville, ‘From Adam to Abaqa: Qadi Baidawi’s rearrangement of history (part I)’, Studia Iranica 30/i (2001), pp. 67–86; idem, ‘From Adam to Abaqa: Qadi Baidawi’s rearrangement of history (part II)’, Studia Iranica 36/i (2007), pp. 7–64.

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24 Cf. D. Huff, ‘The Ilkhanid palace at Takht-i Sulaymān: excavation results’, in L. Komaroff and S. Carboni (eds), Beyond the Legacy of Genghis Khan (Leiden, 2006), pp. 94–110. 25 For the renaming of pre-Islamic sites, cf. A.S. Melikian-Chirvani, ‘Le royaume de Salomon et les inscriptions persanes de sites achéménides’, Le Monde Iranien et l’Islam, 1 (1971), pp. 1–41. 26 Cf. J. Walker, ‘Sulaymān b. Dāwūd’, EI2. 27 For the rediscovery of the site by European travellers and for the excavations, cf. the works of Huff (see note 2). 28 UNESCO, World Heritage. Available at http://whc.unesco.org/en/about (accessed 31 March 2013). 29 UNESCO, Takht-e Soleyman. Available at http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1077 (accessed 31 March 2013).

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4 Legitimating tyrants: the heroic rulers of archaic and classical Greece1 Lynette Mitchell

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ince we have worked jointly on kingship and ruling in the ancient and medieval worlds, it seems appropriate, as my gift to Charles, to advance some initial speculations about ruling in ancient Greece, and to make a first attempt at tackling one of the major problems that has beset the study of rulers and ruling in the archaic and classical Greek world. Following Aristotle’s Politics in particular it has become orthodox to see the tyrannoi of archaic and classical Greece as unconstitutional rulers, who seized control by force.2 However, this understanding of rulers has neglected the fact that no ruler can rule for long without achieving some kind of legitimacy. To that end, I argue in this short paper that even the so-called tyrants needed to rule legitimately in order to maintain control, and that they did so, as did other traditional rulers, by becoming heroes. In many ruling families in archaic and classical Greece, the succession was determined not by primogeniture but by the ability of one son (or one branch of a polygamous family) to gain control.3 This was a particular problem for the new dynasties that tried to assert themselves, but the point is well made by one of the established ruling families who clearly ruled with a mandate, and also (unusually in the Greek world) generally practised primogeniture. The Spartan dyarchy had been well established since about the tenth century,4 and in both ruling families succession was normally passed from father to son.5 However, in the sixth century, the Spartan king Anaxandridas (c.560–c. 525 bc) took a second wife (unusual at Sparta),6 because his first wife was apparently barren.7 Yet the sons of the two wives (both wives finally bore children) disagreed over who had the greater right to rule. The first wife, who had been childless, fell pregnant after — 26 —

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Anaxandridas married his second wife, who also bore him a son, Cleomenes. Cleomenes was the elder of the two, but, even though Spartan custom was for the eldest son to rule,8 Dorieus (the eldest son of the first wife – she had at least three sons) was sure he would succeed his father both because of his andragathia, his ‘manly courage’, and the fact that he was the ‘first’ ( prōtos) among his peers, while Cleomenes (it was said) was on the verge of madness.9 On their father’s death, Cleomenes as eldest did succeed to the basileia (c. 520–c.489bc), and so Dorieus left Sparta bent on founding a colony (which, as we shall see, was also significant, although he and most of his companions died in Sicily10). The point is that Dorieus thought he had the right to rule because ruling in archaic and classical Greece was fundamentally heroic, and it was essential that rulers proved their heroism. Heroic status was based (as for the heroes of Homer), on an intrinsic abundance of aretē,11 excellence (whether military or athletic), which, as Lloyd-Jones notes, ‘comes only to those fitted for it by their nature, the special aptitude that descends to those sprung from divine ancestors’.12 Therefore those who aspired to rule had to prove their heroism through explicitly heroic activities. Proof of such heroism could be achieved through athletic victories at the panhellenic games, which were themselves linked to prowess in war – Plutarch says the walls of cities were pulled down on the return of an athletic victor since there was no need of them when there were such men to defend them.13 Hieron, ruler of Syracuse (478–67bc), for example, won the single horse race at Olympia in 476 bc14 and in 472 bc, the chariot race at the Pythian games in 470,15 and at Olympia in 468,16 and Theron, ruler of Acragas (?–473 bc), won the chariot race at Olympia in 476 bc.17 Participation and victories in the games were not only important for competitive politics with other members of the elite, but also as a demonstration of excellence and wealth, which could bring glory to the ruled as well as the rulers.18 In Olympian 1, Pindar says that the horse-loving basileus, Hieron, ‘culls the peaks of every aretē’ (13), and Hieron, in Pythian 2, is said to excel everyone else in wealth and in honour, timē.19 Miltiades, the tyrant in the Thracian Chersonese in the sixth century bc, had been an Olympic victor before the Dolonci invited him to rule them.20 Becoming an oecist, the founder of a city, was another heroic activity. Miltiades, according to Herodotus, was appointed at the request of the Dolonci as oecist and tyrannos.21 Other rulers also used the position of founders to establish heroic credentials, perhaps because it was difficult, but more fundamentally because the role of the oecist was to mark out the limits of the city, define the sacred land, divide up allotments for citizens, and arrange the laws and the constitution.22 Hippocrates, tyrant of Gela (498–1bc), refounded Camarina as its founder.23 Hieron refounded Catana as Aetna, and received heroic honours on his death,24 and Diodorus says that his reasons for founding the city were the receipt of such honours. Timoleon, according to Plutarch, was asked to refound Syracuse, and was honoured by the city as an oikistēs, founder.25 Furthermore, as upholders of dikē, that is, the right order of things,26 rulers provided the conditions for political well-being (eunomia), and prevented ruptures in the cosmic order. Sarah Harrell in her treatment of the public representation of the Deinomenids of Sicily shows how Pindar represents them as kings, basileis, since he ascribes to the Deinomenids heroic status as founders, and says that Hieron wields a sceptre of lawfulness (themisteion skaptron)27 and recommends that he guides the people with a just rudder (dikaios pēdalios).28 He connects Hieron — 27 —

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as basileus (‘king’) with good order and the ‘divinely built freedom of Hyllus,’29 and says that as a leader (agētēr anēr), by apportioning the people with honours, turns them to harmonious quiet (symphōnos hēsuchia).30 Likewise Bacchylides31 praises Hieron for having a mind with straight justice ( phrēn euthudikos). These representations of the ruler as responsible for peace and order draw on Hesiod’s picture of Zeus as basileus,32 and father by Themis (Divine ordinance) of Eunomia (Good-order), Dikē (Justice), and Eirene (Peace).33 Zeus also distributed the laws (nomoi),34 and was not only the arbiter of justice (dikē),35 but also provided a framework of order. In this cosmic structure, while those who had the most honour also had the right to rule, it was also understood that the weak should not be oppressed by the strong.36 For this reason, as well as being heroes, rulers were also fathers, shepherds, benefactors and saviours.37 The heroic nature of rulers gave them a place between gods and men, since, as Currie observes, there was in Greek thought a ‘sliding scale’ between men and gods, and men could become gods through an abundance of aretē;38 but until the end of the fifth century cult came only on death. Gelon at Syracuse (485–78bc)39 and Theron at Acragas received heroic honours when they died.40 It is notable that the Spartan dyarchs were also said to be honoured like heroes on their death.41 Just as heroic cult transcended death and effected the translation from life to ‘life after death’, so also, as with other heroes, through the celebration of their deeds in panegyric song, their heroism transcended death and had a continued presence among the living.42 However, Harrell contrasts the so-called ‘tyrannical’ rulers of Sicily with ‘traditional kings’. While she argues that ‘the epinician praise of Hieron places the tyrant within a line of traditional kings that includes Zeus as well as his real and legendary counterparts’,43 she also claims that ‘[T]he tyrant in reality must have faced a difficult negotiation between asserting and justifying his absolute control over his people’, and that epinician poetry ‘played a role in this negotiation through conferring the legitimacy of an epic past on a figure with sole political control over his community’.44 Yet there was not necessarily the tension between ruler and ruled in the newer dynastic regimes that Harrell and others have often assumed,45 and she seems to suggest that the Deinomenids were trying to conceal, or at least repackage, their real status as [usurping and illegitimate] tyrants. She then compares the Deinomenids to the Battiads at Cyrene, a dynasty founded in the seventh century bc, probably on the basis of a Delphic oracle,46 and which passed through eight generations. She says that ‘[t]he Battiads had an advantage over the Deinomenids in that they were hereditary kings and descendants of Cyrene’s founder, Battus. Arkesilas’ ancestor Battus was worshipped as a hero at his tomb in the city’s agora, a fact that Pindar emphasizes.’47 The comparison between the Battiads and Deinomenids is a particularly apt one, but not because the Deinomenids were trying to ape legitimate kings (in fact, despite Herodotus’ claims, Gelon was elected as ruler),48 but rather the Battiads themselves were not a ‘traditional’ dynasty in the normal sense, and like the Deinomenids were a new foundation. What is so interesting is that the Deinomenids and Battiads use the same strategies to support the dynasty by insisting on heroic foundations and the cosmic significance of ruling. It is here, where these new dynasties are using the same or similar strategies to assert their legitimacy, that we should be looking for the heart of Greek ideas about rulers and ruling: they were the providers of good order, straight judgements, and heroic qualities. For this reason we need to lay aside the mirage of the tyrants of archaic and classical Greece as illegitimate rulers. That some rulers were called tyrannoi (rather than basileis – the term usually — 28 —

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employed for traditional rulers) means little, as in the archaic and classical periods rulers themselves very rarely used titles, and others like Pindar used both terms to address the Deinomenids of Sicily.49 Some may have seized their rule violently, but even Dionysius I, the archetypal tyrant, needed to legitimate his rule through suggestions of his heroism, and in his poetry (he had his plays performed at Olympia50) declared that tyrannis is the mother of injustice.51 However, we also need to recognise that the rulers of archaic and classical Greece and the communities they ruled saw their position as a cosmic one, which not only reflected the position of Zeus among the gods, but also brought the gods among men. When Demetrius Poliorcetes entered Athens in 291 bc, the Athenians greeted him as a god, and sang that, although the other gods were far away, he was not made of stone or wood, but was real and among them.52 The heroic rulers of archaic and classical Greece were not gods, but they brought the heroic world of Homer to the present, so that (as Simonides’ Plataea Elegy so graphically illustrates) the god-like heroes of another age still walked the earth and could bring victory to the Greeks over their enemies. Notes

1 Note the following abbreviations: FGrHist = F. Jacoby et al., Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker (Berlin, 1923–30; Leiden, 1962–). ML = R. Meiggs and D.M. Lewis, A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the end of the Fifth Century bc, rev. edition (Oxford, 1988). TGF Snell = B. Snell, Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (Göttingen, 1971). 2 Aristotle, Politica (Politics), ed. W.D. Ross (Oxford, 1957). 3 L. Mitchell, ‘The ruling women of archaic and classical Greece’, Classical Quarterly 62 (2012), pp. 1–21. 4 Herodotus, Historiae, ed. C. Hude, 3rd edition (Oxford, 1927), 7.204, 8.131.2. 5 Xenophon, Opera omnia, ed. E.C. Marchant (Oxford, 1910–63); s.v. Hellenica, 3.3.1–4. 6 Herodotus, Historiae, 5.40.2. 7 Ibid., 5.39–41. 8 Ibid., 5.42.2. 9 Ibid., 5.42.2; cf. 39.1. 10 Ibid., 5.42.2–46.1. 11 Cf. Aristotle, Ethica Nicomachea (Nicomachean Ethics), ed. I. Bywater (Oxford, 1894), 1145a ll. 23–4. 12 H. Lloyd-Jones, The Justice of Zeus (Berkeley, 1971), p. 51. 13 Plutarch, Plutarchi moralia, ed. C. Hubert (Leipzig, 1938); s.v. Quaestiones convivales, 639e. 14 Pindar, Olympian 1, in Olympian Odes, Pythian Odes, trans. W.H. Race, Loeb Classical Library (London and Cambridge, MA, 1997); Bacchylides 5, in Bacchylide: Dithyrambes, épinicies, fragments, ed. J. Irigoin (Paris, 1993). 15 Pindar, Pythian 1; Bacchylides 4. 16 Bacchylides 3. 17 Pindar, Olympian 2. 18 E.g. Pindar, Olympian 1.23–4; cf. Thucydides, Historiae, ed. H.S. Jones (Oxford, 1942), 6.15.2. 19 Hieron in Pindar, Pythian 2, pp. 59–61; cf. Bacchylides 3. 20 Herodotus, Historiae, 6.36.1. 21 Ibid., 6.34.1–36.1. 22 Homer, Opera vols III-IV, eds D.B. Monro and T.W. Allen, 2nd edition (Oxford, 1993); s.v. Odyssey, 6.1–10; Pindar, Pythian 5.89–3; Plutarch, Vitae parallelae, ed. K. Ziegler, 2nd edition (Leipzig, 1964), vol. 2.1, s.v. Timoleon 35.4. 23 Thucydides 5.6.5; Philistus, FGrHist 556 F 15. 24 Diodorus Siculus, Library of History, 12 vols, ed. C.H. Oldfather, Loeb Classical Library (London and Cambridge, MA, 1933– 67), 11.66.4. 25 Plutarch, Timoleon 23.1, 35.3–4. 26 E.g. Pindar, Pythian 1.86; Euripides, Fabulae, vol. II (incl. Supp.), ed. J. Diggle (Oxford, 1981); s.v. Electra 876–8; Isocrates, Opera Omnia, ed. B. Mandilaras (Munich and Leipzig, 2003); s.v. Isocrates, To Nicocles, 18. 27 Pindar, Olympian 1.12; cf. 6.93. 28 Pindar, Pythian 1.186. See also S.E. Harrell, ‘King or private citizen: Fifth-century Sicilian tyrants at Olympia and Delphi’, Mnemosyne 55 (2002), pp. 439–64. 29 Pindar, Pythian 1.60–5. 30 Pindar, Pythian 1.69–70. 31 Bacchylides 5.6. 32 Hesiod, Theogonia, Opera et Dies, Scutum, Fragmenta Selecta, eds F. Solmsen, R. Merkelbach and M.L. West, 3rd edition (Oxford, 1990); s.v. Works and Days, 169, 668; Theogony, 886. 33 Hesiod, Theogonia, 901–2; cf. Works and Days, 256.

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34 35 36 37



38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45



46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Hesiod, Theogonia, 73–4. Hesiod, Works and Days, 238–47, 256–85. Ibid., 202–47 (the hawk and the nightingale), 267–73. Xenophon, Opera omnia; s.v. Cyropaedia, 1.4.2, 4, 1.6.7–8, Memorabilia, 3.2.1; Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1161a14–15; Diodorus Siculus, 16.20.6. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1145a18–25. See also B. Currie, Pindar and the Cult of the Heroes (Oxford, 2005), pp. 175–8. Gelon had previously ruled at Gela (491–85bc), but transferred rule to his brother, Hieron, when he took Syracuse in 485bc. Diodorus Siculus 11.38.5, 53.1–2. Xenophon, Opera omnia; s.v. De republica Lacedaemoniorum, 15.9. Bacchylides 3.89–96. S.E. Harrell, ‘King or private citizen’, p. 447. Ibid., p.448. Cf. J.F. McGlew, Tyranny and Political Culture in Ancient Greece (Cambridge, 1993), pp. 49–51, who forms a subtle argument about how tyrants were ultimately unable to manage the positive picture the epinician poets painted of them. If ML 5 can be trusted, although Herodotus’ Cyrenean account has the Theran basileus appoint Battus: Herodotus 4.150.3. S.E. Harrell, ‘King or private citizen’, p. 449. Diodorus Siculus, 11.22.1; cf. 13.95.1. Basileus: Pindar, Olympian 1.23 (cf. 114), Pythian 1.60, 3.70. Tyrannos: Pindar, Pythian 3.84–6. Diodorus Siculus 14.109, 15.7.2–3. Fr. 4 TGF Snell. Douris of Samos, FGrHist 76 F 13.

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5 Between Persian legend and Samanid orthodoxy: accounts about Gayumarth in Bal‘ami’s Tarikhnama Maria Subtelny

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al‘ami’s Tarikhnama is no longer regarded merely as a Persian translation of Tabari’s general history in Arabic, Ta’rikh al-rusul wa al-muluk (History of Prophets and Kings), or even an abridged translation of it. Charles Melville has called it a ‘radical adaptation’ of Tabari’s history,1 while Elton Daniel, who first investigated the complex history of the manuscript tradition of the text, concluded that it should be viewed as an independent work, and he even went so far as to suggest that the ‘translation’ was probably never intended to be one in the first place, at least not in the conventional sense.2 Andrew Peacock, whose monograph Mediaeval Islamic Historiography and Political Legitimacy represents the latest contribution to the scholarly study of the topic, seconds these well-reasoned opinions and regards the Tarikhnama as a work in its own right, albeit based on Tabari.3 Commissioned in 352/963 by the Samanid ruler Mansur I b. Nuh (r.350–65/961–76) as part of a larger translation programme that included Tabari’s voluminous Qur’an commentary Jami‘ al-bayan ‘an ta’wil ay al-Qur’an, the work was composed in pārsī (according to the Persian preface), and in al-fārsiyya al-dariyya (according to the Arabic preface),4 by the Samanid vizier Abu ‘Ali Bal‘ami (d. 363/974),5 the son of the vizier Abu ’l-Fadl Bal‘ami (d.329/940–1 or 325/936–7), who played such an important role in the New Persian literary revival under the Samanid rulers Isma‘il b. Ahmad and Nasr II b. Ahmad, as patron of the poet Rudaki and translator of Kalila wa Dimna into Persian prose. Bal‘ami’s Tarikhnama, which is written in a straightforward and accessible style, represents a narrative, based loosely on Tabari, of pre-Islamic and early Islamic history, leading up to the rule — 33 —

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of the Samanids. The Islamic portions of the work have attracted the most attention, as scholars have examined the various versions of specific episodes in early Islamic history, compared them with Tabari’s original, and interpreted them in the light of Samanid political and religious policies.6 The pre-Islamic portion of the history has not been a priority for Islamicists, who in my opinion have undervalued it. Those who have devoted attention to it have by and large been specialists on Zoroastrianism who were not particularly interested in the Samanid context. My own modest contribution, which is in part a response to Andrew Peacock’s call for more detailed studies of specific sections of the Tarikhnama with a view to determining the reasons for the Samanids’ interest in commissioning a ‘translation’ of Tabari’s general history, consists in examining the pre-Islamic legendary accounts – those devoted to Gayumarth, regarded as the first man and first king in the later Zoroastrian tradition – and ascertaining their significance in the context of Samanid religious and cultural policies. It is offered to Charles Melville as a token of friendship, admiration and appreciation for his many contributions to the study of the history of Iran and Persian historiography. In his synopsis of the manuscript tradition of Bal‘ami’s Tarikhnama, Elton Daniel investigated the seemingly intractable problems associated with the transmission of the work. With approximately 160 identified manuscripts in existence, the Tarikhnama was one of the most popular medieval Persian prose works, far more popular, it seems, than Tabari’s original.7 The manuscripts exhibit a wide range of variants not only in terms of entire accounts but also in the case of particular details, making it virtually impossible to establish the stemmata of the manuscript tradition.8 Not all contain the pre-Islamic portion of the work.9 The oldest complete manuscript copy that includes the pre-Islamic portion of the history dates from the beginning of the fourteenth century (701/1302), almost 350 years after the work was commissioned.10 Reflecting the complexity of the manuscript tradition is the problem of the editions of the work, none of which can be viewed as definitive.11 Despite the fact that the introductions to the work state that the goal of the translation was to make Tabari’s work accessible to a Persian-speaking audience, the scholarly consensus is that the purpose of Bal‘ami’s Tarikhnama was not ‘Persianisation’ as such, but rather ‘Islamisation’, as the Samanid regime sought to counter growing sectarian threats, chiefly from Ismaili propagandists, and to legitimate itself in terms of a Sunni view of prophetic history.12 However, as Julie Meisami has demonstrated, the argument for Persianisation cannot be rejected out of hand, because Persian functioned after all as the lingua franca, the ‘chief language of communication’, as she puts it, in Samanid Transoxiana and the frontier regions of Central Asia and it served as the vehicle of acculturation of the newly converted Turkic slave soldiers who constituted the Samanid military elite.13 Both narrative historical traditions – Iranian and Islamic – co-existed and were being forged simultaneously in the eastern Islamic world under the Samanids.14 An important clue to the motives behind the translation of Tabari’s history (as well as of his Qur’an commentary) may be found in another Persian translation, commissioned about a decade later.15 This was the exposition of Hanafite doctrine entitled Radd ‘ala ashab al-ahwa’, al-musamma Kitab al-Sawad al-a‘zam ‘ala madhhab al-Imam al-a‘zam Abi Hanifa (A Refutation of Sectarians, known as the Book of the Great Majority, according to the legal school of the great Imam Abu Hanifa), translated into Persian in c.370/980–1, under Mansur b. Nuh’s son and successor, Nuh II b. Mansur I (r. 365/976–387/997), thus making it the third oldest work — 34 —

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of New Persian prose produced under Samanid patronage.16 Originally composed in Arabic (the other operative language of the Samanid court) by the jurist Abu ’l-Qasim al-Samarqandi, known as Hakim Samarqandi (d. 342/953), the work, later known simply as al-Sawad al-a‘zam, or ‘The Great Majority’, had been commissioned in the early part of the tenth century by Isma‘il b. Ahmad (r. 279/892–295/907), the real founder of the Samanid polity in Transoxiana and Khurasan, in order to define the parameters of the Sunni ‘orthodoxy’ the Samanids were committed to upholding. Blunt in style and authoritarian in tone, al-Sawad al-a‘zam was in effect a Hanafite catechism consisting of responses to a large number of doctrinal ‘questions’ (mas’ala).17 Like Tabari’s Qur’an commentary, it was translated anonymously, indicating that its contents were not tied to any individual authorial view but rather represented the collective position of the Hanafite theologians of Transoxiana. According to the introduction, the purpose of al-Sawad al-a‘zam was to counter the growth of sectarianism in the Samanid realm by setting out clearly the consensus of the theologians of Transoxiana regarding specific points of Hanafite doctrine. In the process of doing so, it condemned the beliefs of groups it deemed heretical. These included not just the usual suspects – the Ismailis – but also Mu‘tazilites, Kharijites, Murji‘ites, Jabarites, Qadarites, and even Shafi‘ites and Karramites.18 Its explicit targets were ‘the misguided’ (bī-rāhān), ‘heretics’ (mubtadi‘ān) and ‘sectarians’ (hawādārān) among the Muslims of ‘Samarqand, Bukhara, and Transoxiana’, whose false beliefs were contrasted with those of ‘the path of the Sunna and the Muslim congregation’ (madhhab-i sunnat wa jamā‘at), that is to say, Hanafism, which is presented as the only true, ancestral set of beliefs of the region.19 Thus, just as al-Sawad al-a‘zam delineated Hanafite dogmatic theology, Bal‘ami’s Tarikhnama set out the accepted Samanid version of pre-Islamic prophetic history and the events of early Islamic history. By the same token, the translation of Tabari’s Tafsir made available the Samanidsanctioned Hanafite interpretation of Qur’anic scripture. Here we have the tripos, if you will, of the Samanids’ project to impose Sunni orthodoxy in the closely related fields of theology, history and scriptural exegesis. The availability of these state-commissioned normative texts in the Persian language not only served to facilitate conversion to mainstream Hanafism, but also contributed to the formation of a Perso-Muslim regional identity in Transoxiana after the emergence of independent dynastic polities in the east, chief among these being that of the Samanids.20 It may be instructive to compare the Samanid translation project to other state-sponsored translation projects in the medieval Islamic world and beyond. Andrew Peacock has compared it with the translation movement of the early ‘Abbasid period of the eighth to tenth centuries, the purpose of which in his view (following Gutas) was to ‘legitimize the ruling dynasty through the actual and symbolic transfer of knowledge’.21 The same pattern may be observed at various periods under other ambitious dynasts – the Timurids under Shahrukh, for example, who in the first part of the fifteenth century sponsored the translation from Persian into Chaghatay Turkish of what were considered the two iconic texts of Muslim spirituality at the time – the hagiographical work Tadhkirat al-awliya’ by ‘Attar and the narrative of the Prophet’s ascension, or Mi‘rajnama.22 Translation under the Ottomans, which saw the wholesale transfer and adaptation of works of Persian literature into Turkish, reflected the same kind of ideological impetus.23 On another front, one that bordered directly on the Muslim world, the translation project initiated by Alfonso X (the Wise) in Spain in the mid-thirteenth century, the goal of which was — 35 —

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to appropriate the scientific and philosophical achievements of Arabic learning and literature (including the narrative of the Prophet’s ascension and the animal fables Kalila wa Dimna) through their translation into Castilian, has been interpreted as a political and ideological move on his part to break the Church’s monopoly on higher learning and to unify his kingdom through the use of a vernacular, ‘national’ language.24 We might even interpret the modern-day sponsorship of the English translation of Tabari’s history under the aegis of the Bibliotheca Persica along similar lines – as the symbolical appropriation and transfer of knowledge by the Iranian diaspora in the United States. Let us now examine Bal‘ami’s account about Gayumarth in light of the foregoing. To begin with, Bal‘ami’s account is quite long and detailed compared with Tabari’s.25 Whereas Tabari presents only a cursory report about the various views regarding Gayumarth (whose name appears in the Arabised form ‘Jayumart’), stating that ‘It would make this book of ours too long to mention them [all]’,26 Bal‘ami records a large number of Persian legends, Zoroastrian beliefs, as well as local traditions that must have been current in Persianate Central Asia in his time. These are not presented in a logical sequence but are rather separate statements or self-contained episodes. From the outset Bal‘ami states that there are many differences of opinion (ikhtilāf ) about Gayumarth and who he was. Unlike the portion of the Tarikhnama that deals with the accounts about early Islamic history, where, according to Peacock, Bal‘ami ‘moulds these dissenting voices into one’ to produce a new, authoritative narrative,27 in the accounts about Gayumarth Bal‘ami does not attempt to harmonise or even minimise the differences. He simply records all the traditions he has heard about Gayumarth, never disparaging any given account or questioning its veracity. In lieu of the long chains of transmitters assiduously cited by Tabari, he identifies his sources more generally as Persians/Iranians (‘ajam), Zoroastrians ( gabrān, mughān), ‘the common people of Balkh’ (‘āmma-i Balkh), ‘the doctors of Islam’ (‘ulamā-yi lslām) and ‘historians’ (‘ulamā-yi akhbār). He occasionally also refers to such written sources as the histories of the ancient Persian kings (siyar-i ‘ajam), the Sasanian Khudaynama (Book of Kings) compiled by the Zoroastrian high priest Bahram b. Mardanshah,28 and Ibn al-Muqaffa‘, the pre-eminent eighthcentury authority and translator of Pahlavi literature into Arabic.29 Bal‘ami begins by stating that some Persians (‘ajam) believe Gayumarth is Adam, the father of mankind. He provides the explanation of his name as ‘the living, speaking one who is mortal’ (zinda-i gūyā-yi mīrān),30 together with the Arabic translation h.ayy nāt.iq mayyit, which conveys precisely the Pahlavi zīndagīh gōwāgīh mērāg[īh], interpreted to mean ‘mortal life’ or ‘life and death’ or ‘life, death, and reason’.31 He notes that the Persians also call him Gilshah (king of clay), ‘because he was created from clay and ruled over clay (that is, the earth)’,32 and also Garshah (king of the mountain) or Kahumarth (one who lives in the mountains).33 According to (presumably early Muslim) historians (‘ulamā-yi akhbār), Bal‘ami says he was either the grandson of Adam or the great-grandson of Adam, in which case he was identified with the Biblical Kenan (Qaynan),34 while according to some Persian scholars (dānāyān-i ‘ajam), he was one of the sons of Kenan’s son Mahala’il.35 As for Tabari, after pointing out the discrepancy of opinion between those who regard Adam as the first man and the Persians (or Magians), who believe it to be Gayumarth,36 his main concern was to use the figure of Gayumarth, whom he acknowledges as ‘the father of the — 36 —

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Persians,’ as the starting point for the chronology of the world, which he based on the rule of the Persian kings.37 A major difference between Bal‘ami’s and Tabari’s accounts is that whereas Tabari based his on the fact that Gayumarth inaugurated Persian kingship (the first king effectively being his grandson Hushang),38 some of the accounts recorded by Bal‘ami describe Gayumarth not only as the first man and first king but also as a divinely inspired prophetic figure.39 In one account he is described as a Zoroastrian priest (mawbad ),40 and in another, as a handsome man (nīkū-rūy) who was characterised by ‘good intention’ (niyyat-i nīkū), the latter undoubtedly an allusion to the Zoroastrian precept summed up in the mantric formula ‘good thoughts, good words, good deeds’.41 Neither Tabari nor Bal‘ami try to harmonise the Zoroastrian/Iranian tradition of Gayumarth as the first man with the Judaeo-Islamic tradition that dictated it was Adam. The identification of Gayumarth with Adam is attributed by both to the Persians themselves. Most scholars of Islamic Iran have assumed that the functional harmonisation of the two traditions occurred only in the Islamic period, but Shaul Shaked has suggested that the process must already have begun in the Sasanian period as a result of the close contacts between Zoroastrian priests and Jewish rabbis in Iraq.42 The accounts about Gayumarth’s mate and progeny are rather confused and confusing, although the various relationships can be explained within the framework of Zoroastrian nextof-kin marriage. According to one account, Bal‘ami states that Gayumarth’s mate ( juft) was Eve (Hawwa), whose name in some variants is given as Yalda.43 Whereas Tabari simply records the Biblical traditions about Eve and her creation,44 Bal‘ami adds that after she and Adam were both (sic) created from clay, they had to face the Zoroastrian arch-demon, Ahriman, who was already on earth with his army, all alone.45 Bal‘ami records the Persian tradition that Gayumarth’s offspring46 were the brother-and-sister pair Mashi and Mashaya/Mashyana,47 but unlike Tabari he provides the legendary detail that they grew out of the ground as a plant in the form of a man.48 This is close to orthodox Zoroastrian tradition, although it does not tell the whole story, which involves the Zoroastrian practice of next-of-kin marriage (xwēdōdah) that Muslim authors may have been reluctant to expound upon.49 According to orthodox Zoroastrian interpretation, Mashi and Mashyana were born after a drop of Gayumarth’s sperm fell on the ground when he was killed by Ahriman, thereby impregnating his mother, Spendarmad, the deity of the earth. Hence it was from the union of mother and son that Mashi and Mashyana were born. The union of the brother-and-sister pair produced a son named Siyamak.50 But according to another account, Bal‘ami intimates that Siyamak was Gayumarth’s son.51 According to another tradition, Bal‘ami states that Gayumarth had a son named Hushang;52 according to yet another, that Hushang was the son of Siyamak, who is called ‘the father of kings’ (pidar-i mulūk).53 Bal‘ami records a number of legends about Gayumarth that are not found in Tabari or, to the best of my knowledge, in the works of other early Islamic authors, such as Hamza Isfahani, Biruni, and others.54 These legends were undoubtedly the product of oral transmission, reflecting Zoroastrian beliefs and Persian traditions that must have been current in eastern Iran in Bal‘ami’s time (or in that of his redactor). This contention would appear to be supported by the engaging narrative style of the accounts. Most prominent are the accounts about Gayumarth’s encounters with demons (dīvān) against whom he is described as fighting using a big wooden club and a sling on which was inscribed the greatest name (nām-i bartarīn) of God.55 These demons — 37 —

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ultimately succeeded in killing his son Hushang, who is portrayed as a pious ascetic who lived in the mountains and whose death was foretold by Gayumarth’s sighting of an owl: Gayumarth had a son named Hushang, who was just as brave as he was.56 This son spent all of his time in the mountains worshipping God.57 Whenever his father would come to visit him, he would ask, ‘What is the best occupation?’ [His father] would answer, ‘Whatever does not harm people and worshipping God, who is great and exalted.’ [Hushang] would say, ‘It is impossible not to do harm except by being apart from people,58 and [it is impossible to] worship [God] except in solitude.’ Sometimes [Gayumarth] would visit him and sometimes [Hushang] would visit his father. When some of those demons who had been attacked by his father, Gayumarth, saw Hushang alone on that mountain, they plotted to kill him, saying, ‘Let his father’s heart be broken so that he will no longer be able to fight against us.’ They watched him, and [on one occasion] when he had bowed his head in prayer, they took a piece of stone from the mountain and threw it at his head, killing him on the spot. No one was aware that this had happened, but on account of the divine inspiration ( farr-i īzadī) he was endowed with, Gayumarth became troubled without his knowing the reason why. [In the past] whenever he became troubled he would visit his son, and as soon as he saw him his heart would be set at ease on account of the great love he had for him. [So] he set out to visit him. Whenever his sons would bring him something to eat, [Gayumarth] would [always] set aside a portion for Hushang and bring it to him. That boy would eat a little bit [of it] and leave the rest for the birds of the air. This time, Gayumarth [was bringing] a lot of things with him [for his son]. As he was travelling along the road, he spotted an owl. It alighted on the road and uttered several terrifying cries. Whenever Gayumarth approached it, it would fly away and alight a bit further away, all the while continuing to screech. Gayumarth became troubled and said: ‘This anxiety in my heart and this bird’s screeching are not in vain’ [i.e., they must be connected].59 He said [to it]: ‘O bird, if the news is good, may you be good-omened (khujasta-fāl), and may you always be a considered a good omen for the sons of Adam for as long as the world exists. But if [the news] is bad, may you be ill-omened (shūm), and may you always be considered a bad omen for as long as the world exists.’ When he went up on the mountain, he found his son’s body. He cursed the owl and got up [and left]. For this reason the Persians (‘ajam) consider it to be ill-omened and its cry inauspicious and they take augury [from it] along these lines. Otherwise, [the owl] has committed no sin that the other birds have not committed [i.e., it is blameless]. Gayumarth wept on Mt. Damavand for a long time and he prayed for God to reveal to him who had killed his son. He did not know how to bury that son of his, so God, who is great and exalted, caused a pit (chāh) to appear at the top of that mountain in which he could bury his son in lieu of a grave. The Zoroastrians (mughān) relate the following about this matter: [They say] Gayumarth kicked the mountain and in this way made a hole in it. He then cast his son into it. When he learned that it was demons who had killed his son, he lit a fire beside that pit. The fire fell into it and from that time until today it flares up ten to fifteen times [a day], rising up into the air and then falling back down into the pit. The Zoroastrians say that it is the fire of Gayumarth that keeps the demons away from his son.60 After he buried his son, Gayumarth stayed beside that pit for three days to mourn him.61 He prayed, saying, ‘O God, show me who killed this son of mine.’ The next night he had a dream vision of a sage (pīr)62 who said to him, ‘How much longer will you lament? God, who is exalted, has given you many sons and you will have many more, and everything on this earth will be under your command. You have no power over Our [divine] decree (qad.ā) and you cannot question what We say, — 38 —

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for [God] does as He pleases.’ [Gayumarth] replied: ‘I am in accord with His decree. Nevertheless, I have a desire to know who killed this son of mine in this manner.’ [The sage] replied: ‘A group of contumacious [demons] (marada), who are in such-and-such a place, did it.’ And he showed him the place where they lived. When Gayumarth awoke from his sleep he gave thanks to God, who is exalted, and sought forgiveness for his despondency (tang dilī). He recognized in those parts the birds [his son] had befriended and to whom his son would offer whatever he used to bring him. He awakened from his dream so terrified (bā haybat) that if anyone had looked at his face his heart would have been filled with awe (haybat).63

According to another account that records the tradition that Siyamak was Gayumarth’s son, Siyamak was also killed by demons. Gayumarth buried him in an ossuary (sutūdān)64 in the mountains of Balkh and settled there for a while in order to raise Siyamak’s little son Hushang. Gayumarth avenged Siyamak’s death by routing a group of demons and driving them out of the mountains.65 While he was in the mountains with his grandfather, Hushang, who was seven years old at the time, encountered a lion. Thanks to his divine farr, he grabbed the lion’s ears with both hands and smashed its head against a rock, after which he threw it down from the mountain.66 Hushang then hurried to catch up with Gayumarth, and when Gayumarth saw him, he asked: ‘Why are you all by yourself? Are you not afraid of those enemies who killed your father [i.e., Siyamak]?’ Hushang replied: ‘O father [i.e., grandfather], my fear cannot change God’s decree (qad.ā), may He be exalted.’ Gayumarth was amazed [to hear] these words from such a young child. On the way back, Gayumarth saw the dying lion that had fallen onto the road below. He said: ‘What is this supposed to mean?’ Hushang related to him what had happened. Gayumarth could not believe [the boy’s] virtue and intelligence. He said to him: ‘Do you know what this is?’ [Hushang] replied: ‘No.’ He said: ‘This is a lion, the most powerful of all the wild beasts in the world.’ Hushang said: ‘That is why I killed him.’67 Gayumarth witnessed many other amazing things from him after that. It is for this reason that some Persians ( pārsīyān) say that he [i.e., Hushang] was a prophet and call him Pīshdād.68

This episode is depicted in an illustration from an early fourteenth-century manuscript of Bal‘ami’s Tarikhnama held in the Freer Gallery of Art that brilliantly conflates several closely related accounts connected with Gayumarth (see Plate 2).69 In flashback mode it portrays Hushang as a child on the lower right, crouched over the lion he is about to kill. The figure battling the two demons in the centre is also Hushang, portrayed as an adult. According to the surrounding text, thanks to his divine inspiration (ilhām-i īzadī), Hushang was able to extract iron from the mountains and craft it into various types of weapons, including the formidable studded club he is depicted as wielding with both hands.70 The metal armour on his legs alludes to his epithet Zīnāvand, meaning ‘well armed’, by which Bal‘ami says he was known.71 The figure behind Hushang must be Gayumarth himself who, according to the text, made Hushang his khalīfat, or successor.72 He is portrayed loading a sling, one of the weapons he is described as using in his battles against the dīvs.73 All the figures are portrayed with halos around their heads, symbolising their divine farr. Depicted on the upper left is a rooster, the significance of which will be discussed presently. Some of the culturally most convincing Persian legends recorded by Bal‘ami concern the rooster and Gayumarth’s relationship to it. Although at no time does Bal‘ami explicitly reveal — 39 —

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the rooster’s symbolical significance, it undoubtedly represents the Zoroastrian deity Srosh, and the accounts about it preserve some of the Zoroastrian traditions associated with this deity of religious observance and ritual prayer, who was venerated by Zoroastrians as the protector of man, mediator between man and the divine, and angelic messenger.74 According to one such account, as Gayumarth was travelling along the road at the time of the midday prayer he saw a rooster, behind which followed a hen.75 All of a sudden a snake appeared and headed toward the rooster. The rooster attacked it, crowing each time it struck it with its beak. Gayumarth expressed delight at the scene and remarked: ‘Of all the birds [the rooster] is the most amazing. It is kind to its mate, keeping it away [from danger] and fighting on its behalf with the enemies of the children of Adam. Its disposition (t.ab‘ ) is similar to man’s.’ Gayumarth threw a stone at the snake and finished it off, causing the rooster to crow with joy. Bal‘ami provides a hint about the rooster’s significance when he explains that its reaction was the result of its being divinely inspired. When Gayumarth threw it some food, the rooster called to its mate and would not eat anything until after the hen had eaten.76 Gayumarth praised the rooster, saying: ‘One of the enemies of the progeny of Adam is the snake, and this [bird] always fights against the snake. This is a blessed (farrukh) bird,77 and it is obligatory (wājib) to keep it.’ Gayumarth then took the rooster and the hen to his sons and said to them: ‘Keep them, because the [rooster’s] disposition (t.ab‘ ) is similar to man’s and it is good-omened.’78 The snake is, of course, the symbol of the arch-demon, Ahriman, and the above-mentioned legend illustrates the rooster’s apotropaic function against the evil he represents.79 Bal‘ami states that the Persians (‘ajam) consider the rooster – especially the white rooster (khurūs-i sapīd ) – and its crowing at the right times (bi-waqt) to be auspicious. He says Persians believe that demons (dīvān) will not enter a house in which it is kept. On the other hand, the rooster’s crowing at the time of the evening prayer (namāz-i shām) is considered a bad omen, the reason for this being that it foretold Gayumarth’s death. Bal‘ami adds that people say by way of augury (zajr) that if a rooster crows at the time of the evening prayer and its owner kills it, the evil destined for him will pass. But if he does not kill it, he will suffer misfortune.80 It would appear that some of these popular beliefs concerning the rooster were Islamicised and even ensconced in prophetic traditions.81 According to another account recorded by Bal‘ami, Gayumarth instructed his daughter, Mashyana, to keep a white rooster together with a hen in the house in which her son, Siyamak, was being raised in order to protect him against demons. Citing the histories of the Persians (siyar-i ‘ajam), Bal‘ami relates that when the demons learned that Siyamak would grow up to be the father of kings, they conceived a plan to kill him by throwing a snake into the room in which he was sleeping. When the rooster spotted the snake, it began to crow, thereby alerting the mother to the snake’s presence in the child’s room, and it kept crowing until they came and killed it. This account illustrates Srosh’s role as guardian of man, particularly at night when, according to Zoroastrian belief, the powers of evil and pollution are greatest.82 The rooster’s symbolical association with Srosh stems from this nocturnal protective function, for its crowing, like the barking of the dog – another of Srosh’s collaborators – serves to repel demonic forces, especially from the home.83 To assess the significance of these legends in Bal‘ami’s Tarikhnama properly, we ought to take into account the status of Zoroastrians and Zoroastrianism in tenth-century Samanid — 40 —

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Transoxiana and Khurasan. Zoroastrians had constituted the bulk of the population of eastern Iran in pre-conquest times, and although many had converted to Islam by the tenth century, their legendary beliefs and practices, as recorded by Bal‘ami, must still have been current.84 These were evidently not of the ‘orthodox’ variety reflected in the Pahlavi religious books codified in Iraq and western Iran in the ninth to tenth centuries. In his analysis of the ‘confused and amorphous’ picture painted of Zoroastrian beliefs in the early Islamic (Arabic) sources, Shaul Shaked came to the conclusion that the canonical corpus of Zoroastrianism did not accurately reflect Zoroastrian beliefs in the late Sasanian period.85 In his view, several different varieties of Iranian religion existed in the ninth to tenth centuries (and presumably in earlier periods as well), proof of which is the fact that many of the beliefs recorded in the Arabic sources would have been considered heretical by Zoroastrian priestly standards.86 Being the result of regional, orally transmitted traditions, they were necessarily heterogeneous and often contradictory. By way of example, Bal‘ami records the belief that Gayumarth – who according to mainstream Zoroastrian doctrine was the unique creation of Ahura Mazda – had a twin brother.87 The Samanid-Hanafite attitude toward Zoroastrians and their beliefs was uncompromising. On the religious plane, Zoroastrian beliefs and practices were regularly reviled, and Zoroastrians came under pressure to convert to Islam. It is no coincidence that it was during Samanid times that, according to diasporic tradition, organised groups of Zoroastrians began to emigrate from eastern Iran in the early decades of the tenth century, eventually to form the Parsee community in India.88 But by the 960s, Zoroastrianism qua religion no longer posed a threat to the Samanid goal of achieving doctrinal uniformity. The incorporation of many regional Zoroastrian beliefs and Persian legends about Gayumarth in Bal‘ami’s Tarikhnama may thus be regarded as a cooptation of the Zoroastrian religious and legendary past by the Samanid ideological project. Rather than being discarded or discredited, Zoroastrian beliefs and Persian legends were duly recorded by Bal‘ami (or by his informed redactor) but as relics of a confused pre-Islamic past that had been superseded, thanks to the Samanids, by a clearly formulated, unambiguous HanafiteMuslim present. Notes



1 C. Melville, ‘From Adam to Abaqa: Qadi Baidawi’s rearrangement of history (part I)’, Studia Iranica 30, no 1 (2001), p. 84. 2 Elton L. Daniel, ‘Manuscripts and editions of Bal‘amī’s Tarjamah-i Tārīkh-i T.abarī’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3/ii (1990), pp.285–6; and Elton Daniel, ‘The Sāmānid ‘translations’ of al-T.abarī’, in Hugh Kennedy (ed.), Al-T.abarī: A Medieval Muslim Historian and His Work (Princeton, NJ, 2008), pp. 296–7. 3 A.C.S. Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography and Political Legitimacy: Bal‘amī’s Tārīkhnāma (London, 2007), p. 167. 4 For the two prefaces to the work and the differences between them, see P.A. Griaznevich and A.N. Boldyrev, ‘O dvukh redaktsiiakh “Ta’rīx-i T.abarī” Bal‘amī’, Sovetskoe vostokovedenie 3 (1957), pp. 47–54; and Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, pp. 55–6. 5 For him, see Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, pp. 31–5; and ‘Amīrak Bal‘amī’, EIr. 6 For example, Elton L. Daniel, ‘Bal‘amī’s account of early Islamic history’, in Farhad Daftary and Josef W. Meri (eds), Culture and Memory in Medieval Islam: Essays in Honour of Wilferd Madelung (London, 2003), pp. 163–89. 7 See the inventory compiled by Daniel in his ‘Manuscripts and editions’, pp. 309–21; and the corrections and additions to it in Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, pp. 183–8. 8 Daniel argued for three redactions, which he called ‘late’, ‘abbreviated’ and ‘full’ (Daniel, ‘Manuscripts and editions’, pp. 299– 301), while Peacock suggests the manuscript tradition represents a case of ‘horizontal transmission’, which accounts for the fact that a given manuscript copy may contain material taken from a number of different sources (Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, pp. 61–2). 9 The oldest extant manuscript copy (Mashhad, Astan-i quds, 129) (published as Tarjuma-i Tarikh-i Tabari: Hawadith-i salha-yi 15 ta 132 hijri (facsimile ed. Mujtaba Minuvi) (Tehran, 1345/1966)) does not date from earlier than 586/1190, roughly two hundred years after the work was commissioned, and it does not contain the pre-Islamic portion of the history – see Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, pp. 142–4. An older manuscript (Cambridge, University Library, Add. 836), ostensibly dating

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10



11



12



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18 19



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21 22



23



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26 27 28



29

from 442/1050, is actually a fifteenth-century copy of a thirteenth-century copy of an Arabic re-translation of the original Persian, somewhat abridged – see Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, pp. 66–75. London, Royal Asiatic Society, Persian 22. For a description of the manuscript, which according to Daniel represents ‘one of the most important redactions of the text’, see Daniel, ‘Manuscripts and editions’, p. 315; and Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, p. 53. The following editions of the Tarikhnama have been used in this article: Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Muhammad Rawshan, 5 vols, reprint (Tehran, 1389/2010) (with Arabic preface); and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Muhammad Taqi Bahar and Muhammad Parvin Gunabadi, 2nd edition, reprint (Tehran, 1385/2006), vol. 1 (with Persian preface). Although Rawshan’s is generally regarded as the standard edition, I have also used the earlier edition of the pre-Islamic portion begun by Muhammad Taqi Bahar and completed by Muhammad Parvin Gunabadi. In fact, with some very minor differences, the accounts about Gayumarth in the Rawshan and Bahar/Gunabadi editions are virtually identical. This is curious, because the Rawshan edition is essentially the Royal Asiatic Society manuscript Persian 22, and the Bahar/Gunabadi edition did not use this manuscript. However, the Bahar/Gunabadi edition did use Süleymaniye, Fatih 4281 (with Persian preface), which has a detailed account of Gayumarth – see Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, eds Bahar and Gunabadi, pp. lxiii–lxv; Daniel, ‘Manuscripts and editions’, p. 311; and Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, p. 185. I have not referred to the French translation by Hermann Zotenberg (1867–74), which was based mainly on Bibliothèque nationale de France, persan 63 (dating from the early fourteenth century), which devotes only five lines to Gayumarth. According to Daniel (‘Manuscripts and editions’, pp. 304–5), Zotenberg’s translation is no longer suitable for serious research. On this point see Daniel, ‘Manuscripts and editions’, p. 286; and A.C.S. Peacock, ‘Early Persian historians and the heritage of pre-Islamic Iran’, in Edmund Herzig and Sarah Stewart (eds), Early Islamic Iran (London, 2012), pp. 65–6. For translations of the relevant portions of the Arabic and Persian prefaces, and a discussion of the instructions to Bal‘ami, see Elton L. Daniel, ‘The rise and development of Persian historiography’, in Charles Melville (ed.), Persian Historiography (London, 2012), pp. 104–7. See Julie Scott Meisami, ‘Why write history in Persian? Historical writing in the Samanid period’, in Carole Hillenbrand (ed.), Studies in Honour of Clifford Edmund Bosworth, vol. 2, The Sultan’s Turret: Studies in Persian and Turkish Culture (Leiden, 2000), pp. 355–8, 364–6; and Julie Scott Meisami, Persian Historiography to the End of the Twelfth Century (Edinburgh,1999), pp. 29–34. Julie Scott Meisami, ‘The past in service of the present: two views of history in medieval Persia’, Poetics Today 14, no 2 (1993), pp.250–1. Daniel, ‘Manuscripts and editions’, p. 286; and Peacock, Medieval Islamic Historiography, pp. 46–8 (for a description of the work). Ulrich Rudolph, Al-Māturīdī und die sunnitische Theologie in Samarkand (Leiden, 1997), p. 109; Wilferd Madelung, Religious Trends in Early Islamic Iran (Albany, 1988), p. 30; and Peacock, Medieval Islamic Historiography, pp. 46–8. For an edition of the Persian translation, see Hakim Samarqandi, Tarjuma-i al-Sawad al-a‘zam, ed. ‘Abd al-Hayy Habibi (Tehran, 1348/1969). Josef van Ess has characterised it as ‘a popular Hanafite catechism’ – Josef van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft im 2. und 3. Jahrhundert Hidschra: Eine Geschichte des religiösen Denkens im frühen Islam, 6 vols (Berlin, 1991–5), vol. 2, p. 565. Samarqandi, Tarjuma-i al-Sawad al-a‘zam, pp. 167ff. Ibid., pp. 17–18. Madelung identified the ahl al-sunna wa al-jamā‘a more specifically with the views of the influential Hanafite theologian of Samarqand, Abu Mansur al-Maturidi (d. c. 333/944) – see Wilferd Madelung, ‘The spread of Māturīdism and the Turks’, in Actas do IV Congresso de Estudos Árabes e Islâmicos, Coimbra-Lisboa, 1968 (Leiden, 1971), p. 117. According to Rudolph, however, the work does not reflect the views of the Maturidite school of Hanafism – see Rudolph, Al-Māturīdī, pp. 106–31. See Elton L. Daniel, ‘The Islamic East’, in The New Cambridge History of Islam, vol.1, Chase F. Robinson (ed.), The Formation of the Islamic World, Sixth to Eleventh Centuries (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 465–6. Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, pp. 169–70. For the famous BnF manuscript containing these two translations, see Maria E. Subtelny, ‘The Jews at the edge of the world in a Timurid-era Mi‘rājnāma: the Islamic ascension narrative as missionary text’, in Christiane Gruber and Frederick Colby (eds), The Prophet’s Ascension: Cross-Cultural Encounters with the Islamic Mi‘rāj Tales (Bloomington, 2010), pp. 50–77. Gottfried Hagen, ‘Translations and translators in a multilingual society: a case study of Persian-Ottoman translations, late fifteenth to early seventeenth century’, Eurasian Studies 2, no 1 (2003), pp. 96–134. For Alfonso X’s project, see Joseph F. O’Callaghan, The Learned King: The Reign of Alfonso X of Castile (Philadelphia, 1993), pp.141–4. For Bal‘ami’s main account, see Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, pp. 77–87; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, eds Bahar and Gunabadi, pp. 75–86. For Tabari’s account, see al-Tabari, Ta’rikh al-Tabari: Ta’rikh al-umam wa al-muluk, 6 vols., reprint (Beirut, 1408/1988), vol. 1, pp. 92–3, 96–7; and The History of al-T.abarī (Ta’rīkh al-rusul wa’l-mulūk), vol. 1, General Introduction and From the Creation to the Flood, trans. Franz Rosenthal (Albany, 1989), pp. 318–20, 325–6. History of al-T.abarī, trans. Rosenthal, vol. 1, p. 318. Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, p. 172. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 87; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, eds Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 85 (reading Bahram al-Mawbad for Bahram al-Mu’ayyad in both editions). He was said to have collated 20-odd manuscript copies of the Khudaynama in order to write a history of the Persian kings starting from the time of Gayumarth – see Hamza al-Isfahani, Tarikh sini muluk al-ard wa al-anbiya’ (Beirut, 1961), p. 26; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, eds Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 6, n. 1. Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, eds Bahar and Gunabadi, pp. 3–5, 4–5 (nn.). If the introductory chapter on cosmology, where Gayumarth is also mentioned, is taken into account, the following written sources and authors may also be included: the prose Shahnama-i buzurg of Abu ’l-Mu’ayyad al-Balkhi, Muhammad b. al-Jahm al-Barmaki, Zaduya b. Shahuya (al-Isfahani), the Khudaynama of Bahram b. Mihran Isfahani, the history (nāma) of the Sasanians by Musa b. ‘Isa al-Khusrawi, Hashim/Hisham b. Qasim Isfahani, and the history (nāma) of the kings of Persia (pādishān-i Pārs). The significance of Bal‘ami’s use of these sources

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is diminished somewhat by the fact that the passage was actually lifted from the so-called older preface to the prose Shahnama completed in 346/957 for Abu Mansur b. ‘Abd al-Razzaq – see V. Minorsky, ‘The older preface to the Shāh-nāma’, in Studi orientalistici in onore di Giorgio Levi Della Vida (Rome, 1956), vol. 2, p. 173. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 77 has only zinda-i gūyā for the Persian, and h.ayy nāt.iq for the Arabic equivalent. Shaul Shaked, ‘First man, first king: notes on Semitic-Iranian syncretism and Iranian mythological transformations’, in S. Shaked, D. Shulman and G.G. Stroumsa (eds), Gilgul: Essays on Transformation, Revolution and Permanence in the History of Religions Dedicated to R.J. Zwi Werblowsky (Leiden, 1987), p. 245. Middle Persian Gayōmard < Avestan Gaya maretan is primordial man, sometimes referred to as righteous man (mard i ahlaw). According to the Pahlavi book Bundahishn, he was one of seven getig creations of Ahura Mazda/Ohrmazd, the others being sky (asmān), water (āb), earth (zamīg), plant (urwar), cattle/livestock (gōspand ) and fire (atakhsh) – see Carlo G. Cereti and David N. MacKenzie, ‘Except by battle: Zoroastrian cosmogony in the 1st chapter of the Greater Bundahišn’, in Carlo G. Cereti, Mauro Maggi, and Elio Provasi (eds), Religious Themes and Texts of PreIslamic Iran and Central Asia: Studies in Honour of Professor Gherardo Gnoli on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday on 6th December 2002 (Wiesbaden, 2003), pp. 31–59. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 77; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, eds Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 75. ‘[For this reason] [i.e., because he lived on Mt Damavand], they also call Gayumarth “Kahumarth”’ – Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol.1, p. 78; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, eds Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 76. ‘Afterwards they called him Garshah because the world was deserted and he lived all by himself in a cave/cleavage in the mountains. The meaning of gar is mountain (kūh) and they called him King of the Mountain (pādishāh-i kūh)’ – Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 6; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, eds Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 8. Neither of these epithets existed in orthodox Zoroastrianism. According to Shaul Shaked, and following him, Touraj Daryaee, the tradition of calling Gayumarth ‘Gilshah’ was due to Semitic influence already present during the Sasanian period, whereas the tradition of calling him ‘Garshah’ was the result of a mistake in reading the Middle Persian script – see Shaked, ‘First man, first king’, p. 247; and Touraj Daryaee, ‘Gayōmard: king of clay or mountain? The epithet of the first man in the Zoroastrian tradition’, in Siamak Adhami (ed.), Paitimāna: Essays in Iranian, Indo-European, and Indian Studies in Honor of Hanns-Peter Schmidt (Costa Mesa, 2003), pp. 339, 345–6. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 77; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, eds Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 75. For the Biblical genealogy, Adam > Seth > Enosh > Kenan > Mahala’il > Enoch, see al-Tha‘labi, ‘Arā’is al-majālis fī qis.as. al-anbiyā’ or ‘Lives of the Prophets’, trans. William M. Brinner (Leiden, 2002), pp. 83, 92. According to some Muslim scholars (‘ulamā-yi Islām), Gayumarth was one of the sons of Ham, who was the son of Adam (sic) – Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 77; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 76. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 87 (I have opted for this reading); and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p.86. In the same passage he is also associated with Mahala’il’s son Enoch who reportedly taught him to spin wool and to tailor, the origins of which are usually attributed to Idris in the Islamic prophetic legends. History of al-T.abarī, trans. Rosenthal, vol. 1, pp. 185–6, 318–19, 325. For example, Tabari states that non-Persians identify the Gayumarth that Persians believe is Adam with Gomer, the grandson of Noah. Ibid., pp.318–19. Ibid., pp.186, 319, 326. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 78; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 76. The term used is farr-i īzadī, sometimes also ilhām-i īzadī, meaning charisma, divine inspiration. Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 78. For the interesting variant reading muwah.h.id, meaning monotheist, see Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 80. This may be an allusion to the idea that Gayumarth received the wisdom of the Zoroastrian religion before the religion was even established, making him a proto-monotheist in the same sense that Abraham/ Ibrahim was regarded by Muslims as a monotheist avant la lettre. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, pp. 78, 87; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, pp. 76, 86. Gayumarth’s good looks must be connected to the tradition recorded in the Khudaynama that his reign began when the sun entered Aries (i.e., spring), both the sun and by association Aries being beautiful – see Arthur Christensen, Les types du premier homme et du premier roi dans l’histoire légendaire des Iraniens (Leiden, 1934), pt. 1, p. 90. See Shaked, ‘First man, first king’, pp. 245, 252–3; Shaul Shaked, ‘Some Islamic reports concerning Zoroastrianism’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 17 (1994), 49; and Shaul Shaked, ‘Zoroastrian polemics against Jews in the Sasanian and early Islamic period’, Irano-Judaica 2 (1990), p. 90, where he refers to the idea of ‘les mages sémitisés’ and sees the eighth–ninth centuries as the age of Iranian-Jewish syncretism. Shaked’s idea has not gained currency among Islamicate historians of Iran who appear to have been convinced by the rhetoric of the early Islamic authors who sought to present the great divide between pre-Islamic and Islamic history – see Mohamad Tavakoli-Targhi, ‘Contested memories: narrative structures and allegorical meanings of Iran’s pre-Islamic history’, Iranian Studies 29, no 1–2 (1996), pp. 153–6. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 77: ‘Balda’ (read Yalda) whom they called Eve (Hawwa).’ For Yalda (’YLDH), see Sven S. Hartman, Gayōmart: Étude sur le syncretisme dans l’ancien Iran (Uppsala, 1953), pp. 40, 187, n. 5. History of al-T.abarī, trans. Rosenthal, vol. 1, pp. 273–4. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 77; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 75. Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 75 has ānkada, perhaps from MP kadag, meaning ‘house’, hence ‘family’, ‘offspring’. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 77 has ‘Gayumarth and Abalda/Ibalda, his mate, were Mashi and Mashyana’, which makes no sense unless the idea is that Mashi and Mashyana were other names for Gayumarth and Yalda/Eve. I propose the following more difficult reading that corrects Abalda/Ibalda (which appears to be a distortion of the earlier reference to Balda) to: ‘The progeny (ibilla) of Gayumarth and his mate ( juftash) were Mashi and Mashyana.’ For Arabic ibilla or ubulla (from the root ’-B-L), meaning ‘progeny’ or ‘tribe’, see Georg Wilhelm Freytag, Lexicon arabico-latinum, 4 vols. (Halle, 1830–7) vol.1, p.5; and Dihkhuda, Lughatnama (with the meaning khvīsh, qabīla). However, it seems to me that the word ibilla is actually from the Arabic root B-L-L (‘to moisten’). The Arabic word bulal means ‘semen’, and the word balāl is attested with the meaning ‘to have intercourse with a relative or sibling’ – see Freytag, Lexicon arabico-latinum, vol. 1, p. 148 (coniunctio cum propinquis et

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uterinis). This connotation fits perfectly the orthodox Zoroastrian understanding of the origin of the first couple, according to which Gayumarth’s semen fell on the earth, thereby impregnating his mother, Spendarmad. These names occur in many different variants, including Mari and Marna – see Christensen, Les types du premier homme, pt. 1, pp.9–10; and Hartman, Gayōmart, pp. 45 ff. The Pahlavi forms of their names were Mashyag and Mashyanag. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, pp. 77, 80, 83; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, pp. 75, 78, 81. The brother-and-sister pair grew together as a plant (traditionally believed to be the rhubarb) and then separated. Next-of-kin marriage, or incest marriage, involved the sexual union of mother and son, father and daughter, brother and sister. It was not only condoned by orthodox Zoroastrian tradition but regarded as meritorious. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, pp. 84–5; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 83. This is the tradition recorded in History of al-T.abari, trans. Rosenthal, vol. 1, p. 325. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, pp. 85–6; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 84. According to Ferdowsi and other early Islamic authors, Siyamak was the son of Gayumarth – see Hartman, Gayōmart, p. 107. Following Zoroastrian tradition, Siyamak should have been born after Gayumarth’s death, but in the account recorded by Bal‘ami not only is Gayumarth described as still alive after Siyamak’s birth, but Siyamak even predeceases him. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 78; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 76. For other Muslim authors who report this ‘horizontal’ tradition about Gayumarth, see Hartman, Gayōmart, p. 107. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, pp. 85–­6; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, pp. 83–5. According to Tabari, Hushang was the son of Siyamak’s daughter Afri and her brother Afrawak. Tabari also mentions a parallel biblical genealogy according to which Hushang was believed by ‘some Persian genealogists’ to be Mahalalel/Mahala’il, and that his father [A]frawak was Mahalalel/Mahala’il’s father Kenan; that Siyamak was Kenan’s father Enosh; that Mashi was Enosh’s father Seth; and that Gayumarth was Adam – see History of al-T.abarī, trans. Rosenthal, vol. 1, pp. 325–6. For this major difference between Tabari’s and Bal‘ami’s accounts of Gayumarth, see also Daniel, ‘Rise and development of Persian historiography’, p. 111. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 78; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 76. His name appears in many different variants: Hishang – Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 78; Bashang – Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 76; Hushank, Ushahanj – History of al-T.abarī, trans. Rosenthal, vol. 1, p. 97. This is in accordance with Herodotus’s observation that the ancient Persians did not use temples for worship but rather worshipped their deities on the tops of mountains – see Richard N. Frye, ‘The fate of Zoroastrians in eastern Iran,’ in Rika Gyselen (ed.), Au carrefour des religions: Mélanges offerts à Philippe Gignoux (Bures-sur-Yvette, 1995), p. 67. Read judā for khudā, as in Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 78. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 78 reads: ‘This bird is wounding my heart with its screeching.’ A fantastic explanation for volcanic activity on Mt Damavand. The belief that Gayumarth himself is fire must come from the idea that fire, the seventh of Ohrmazd’s creations, permeates all things in creation, including man. For the notion, expressed by later authors like Hafiz-i Abru, that Gayumarth represents the volcanic action of Mt Damavand, see Hartman, Gayōmart, pp. 71, 78, 198. An allusion to the three days of mourning for the dead in Zoroastrian ritual. The ceremony performed by the priest on the fourth day, called chaharom, assists the soul in making its passage to the other world. The motif of seeing a pīr, or sage, in a dream vision would seem to reflect Muslim mystical tradition. In the Shahnama it is the angel Surush (< Srosh) who informs Gayumarth about the death of his son. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, pp. 78–9; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, pp. 76–8. MP ostōdān. According to Zoroastrian funerary custom, the bones would be buried after the corpse had been exposed to the elements and the flesh eaten by wild creatures. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, pp. 85–6; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 84. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 87; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 85. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 87 adds: ‘After that Hushang always killed lions.’ Like other predatory animals, and the wolf in particular, the lion was considered a khrafstar by Zoroastrians, and killing it was regarded as meritorious – see Mahnaz Moazami, ‘Evil animals in the Zoroastrian religion’, History of Religions 44, no 4 (2005), pp. 312–13. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 87; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, pp. 85–6. The name of the mythical Pishdadian dynasty was usually interpreted to mean ‘those who first promulgated laws’. However, the etymology of the name may actually be from Avestan paradhata, and thus mean something like ‘created before [others]’, that is, ‘first created’, an epithet of the first man, who, according to Avestan sources, was Hushang – see Christensen, Les types du premier homme, pp.136–7. Freer Gallery, Smithsonian, Washington, DC, F1957.16.18. It is embedded in the text of the Tarikhnama that corresponds (roughly, on account of the fragmentary nature of the first few lines of the folio) to: Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p.86, lines 5–23 (above illustration) and p. 86, line 23 to p. 87, line 13 (below illustration); and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 84, line 14 to p. 85, line 11 (above illustration) and p. 85, line 11 to p. 86, line 2 (below illustration). For a discussion of the illustration, see Teresa Fitzherbert, ‘“Bal‘ami’s Tabari”: An Illustrated Manuscript of Bal‘ami’s Tarjama-yi Tārīkh-i T.abarī in the Freer Gallery of Art, Washington (F59.16, 47.19 and 30.21)’ (PhD dissertation, University of Edinburgh, 2001), vol.1, pp. 82–7, although my interpretation of the image differs somewhat from hers. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 86: bāhūy, a reading supported by the Freer manuscript. Bal‘ami notes that some people attributed this epithet to Tahmurath. After assisting Gayumarth in routing the demons, Hushang captured many and bound them up in jars with iron chains. According to Bal‘ami, this was believed to be the origin of the prison (zindān) – see Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 86; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 85. Fitzherbert believes the figure may be one of Gayumarth’s other sons – see Fitzherbert, ‘“Bal‘ami’s Tabari”’, vol. 1, p. 85. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 78; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 76. I would like to thank Adam Ali for clarifying a number of points concerning the ancient weapons depicted in the illustration.

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74 For Srosh and his functions, see G. Kreyenbroek, Sraoša in the Zoroastrian Tradition (Leiden, 1985), pp. 7–13, 81, 301; Fritz Meier, ‘Niz.āmī und die Mythologie des Hahns’, in Fritz Meier, Bausteine: Ausgewählte Aufsätze zur Islamwissenschaft, ed. Erika Glassen and Gudrun Schubert (Istanbul/Stuttgart, 1992), vol. 2, p. 1011; and Maria E. Subtelny, ‘Zoroastrian elements in the Islamic ascension narrative: the case of the cosmic cock’, in Maria Szuppe, Anna Krasnowolska and Claus V. Pedersen (eds), Mediaeval and Modern Iranian Studies: Proceedings of the 6th European Conference of Iranian Studies (Vienna, 2007) (Paris, 2011), pp.202–3. 75 The midday prayer (namāz-i pīshīn) must correspond to the Zoroastrian prayer (gāh) Rapithwa – see Mary Boyce, Zoroastrians: Their Religious Beliefs and Practices, reprint (London, 2001), p. 32. 76 For this characteristic of the rooster, see Abbas Daneshvari, Animal Symbolism in Warqa wa Gulshāh (Oxford, 1986), p. 63. 77 Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 80 adds: ‘and good omened’. 78 Ibid., pp.80–1; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, pp. 78–9. 79 For the snake and other creatures considered noxious or evil (khrafstars) by Zoroastrians, see Moazami, ‘Evil animals’, pp. 310– 11. 80 Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 81; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, p. 79. 81 See Subtelny, ‘Zoroastrian elements’, pp. 204–5; Daneshvari, Animal Symbolism, pp. 58–61; and Roberto Tottoli, ‘At cock-crow: some Muslim traditions about the rooster’, Der Islam 76 (1999), pp. 139–47. 82 Kreyenbroek, Sraoša, pp. 115, 150. 83 Ibid., p.118; and Franz Cumont, ‘Le coq blanc des Mazdéens et les Pythagoriciens’, Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-lettres (1942), pp. 288–9 (who notes that this belief was maintained throughout the medieval history of Iran). 84 On this point see Richard W. Bulliet, ‘Conversion to Islam and the emergence of a Muslim society in Iran’, in Nehemia Levtzion (ed.), Conversion to Islam (New York, 1979), pp. 35, 47; and Richard W. Bulliet, Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period: An Essay in Quantitative History (Cambridge, MA, 1979), pp. 44–52. For the many problems associated with the study of the process of conversion in Iran, see ‘Conversion. ii. Of Iranians to Islam’, EIr. 85 Shaked, ‘Some Islamic reports’, pp. 50–2. 86 Ibid., pp.43–7. See the recent discussion of the problem of regional vs official Zoroastrian doctrines in Patricia Crone, The Nativist Prophets of Early Islamic Iran: Rural Revolt and Local Zoroastrianism (Cambridge, 2012), pp. 317ff. 87 Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 82; and Bal‘ami, Tarikh-i Bal‘ami, ed. Bahar and Gunabadi, pp. 80–1. The same phrase, bi-yak ishkam āmada būdand, occurs in the Middle Persian Denkart (pat ēvak aškom) with reference to Ohrmazd and Ahriman or Spenta Mainyu and Angra Mainyu, who are described as twin brothers who come together to create Gayumarth and endow him with life and non-life, or death (see Hartman, Gayōmart, pp. 20–1). This belief was recorded by the Muslim author Shahristani (d.1153) in his heresiographical work al-Milal wa al-nihal under the heading ‘Zurwāniyya’ (see Shaked, ‘Some Islamic reports’, pp. 56–7). The account about Gayumarth’s twin brother in Bal‘ami’s Tarikhnama serves as background for the explanation of the popular etymology of the name of Balkh, which Gayumarth is described as having founded: when they saw his brother approaching from afar, Gayumarth’s sons did not recognise him and thought he was a demon in disguise. But Gayumarth recognised his brother and said in suryānī (meaning here not Aramaic/Syriac but a primordial or Adamic language that Bal‘ami explains was ‘mixed with Arabic’): ‘Bal akh lī’, meaning ‘Nay, he is my brother’, thereby giving Balkh its name. 88 According to their diasporic tradition, a group of Zoroastrians emigrated from the town of Sanjan in Khurasan, eventually making their way in 936 to Gujarat, where they established the settlement of Sanjan – see Boyce, Zoroastrians, p. 157; and Alan Williams, The Zoroastrian Myth of Migration from Iran and Settlement in the Indian Diaspora: Text, Translation and Analysis of the 16th Century Qes.s.e-ye Sanjān, ‘The Story of Sanjan’ (Leiden, 2009).

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6 Recent contributions to the history of the early Ghaznavids and Seljuqs C. Edmund Bosworth

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hen in 2005 I completed what had been six years’ work on the translation and commentary for the Ghaznavid official and historian Bayhaqi’s Tarikh-i Mas‘udi, eventually published as The History of Beyhaqi (The History of Sultan Mas‘ud of Ghazna, 1020–1041) by Abu’l-Fazl Beyhaqi, translated by C.E. Bosworth, revised by Mohsen Ashtiany, 3 vols, Ilex Foundation Series 6 (Boston and Washington, DC: Ilex Foundation, Boston, MA, and Center for Hellenic Studies, Trustees for Harvard University, 2011), I did not expect that it would be six more years before it was actually published. For the copious commentary on the text, which makes up most of volume 3 after the two previous volumes of translation, I had endeavoured to use as many as possible of the relevant texts, translations and studies which would illuminate Bayhaqi’s lengthy text (though we possess only a part of the Mujalladat, the totality of what the author originally composed being now lost). During the intervening years between 2005 and 2012 various works have appeared which would have further illuminated, or would have helped understand, Bayhaqi’s text and its historical setting, and it is essentially with these that the present opuscule is now concerned. It is meant as a tribute to one who is himself a distinguished historian of the pre-modern Iranian world, though with his main interests in a slightly later period than that of Bayhaqi’s eleventh century.

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Texts al-‘Utbi’s al-Ta’rikh al-yamini

Although it is listed in the Bibliography at volume 3, p.406, I was not in fact able to use the new edition of this text, one vital for the story of the beginnings of the Ghaznavid amirate, later sultanate, under Sebüktegin and his son Mahmud. This edition by Ihsan Dhunun al-Thamiri, alYamini fi sharh akhbar al-sultan Yamin al-Dawla wa-Amin al-Milla Mahmud al-Ghaznawi (Beirut: Dar al-Tali‘a, 1424/2004, pp. 22 and 538) now replaces the earlier texts on which historians have willy-nilly previously had to rely, notably Indian lithographs and the text by the eighteenth-century Shaykh Ahmad al-Manini (Cairo, 1286/1869) printed round his commentary on al-‘Utbi’s work al-Fath al-wahbi, crabbed and tedious to use. The work was extremely popular throughout the central and eastern Islamic lands for its bravura, euphuistic style (see Bosworth, ‘Early sources for the history of the first four Ghaznavid sultans (977–1041)’, The Islamic Quarterly 7 (1963), pp. 5–7) and it seems that over a hundred manuscripts survive. To those listed by Brockelmann, GAL, I2, pp. 382–3, S I, pp. 547–8, Andrew C.S. Peacock has, for instance, added ten further ones in the Istanbul Süleymaniye Library alone (‘‘Utbī’s al-Yamīnī: patronage, composition and reception’ (see below), p. 500 n. 2). Al-Manini presumably based his text directly on a Cairo manuscript, since Brockelmann, op. cit., S I, p.547, lists at least one Cairo manuscript. Al-Thamiri has based his edition essentially on four manuscripts: (1) A Chester Beatty Library one, completed in 676/1278, which the editor takes as his asl; (2) a Berlin Staatsbibliothek manuscript, completed in 1159/1746; (3) a Bodleian Library one, Pococke collection, completed in 1042/1632; and (4) a Paris, Bibliothèque nationale one, completed in 617/1220. These are described in al-Thamiri’s Introduction, pp. sin-shin, with useful, unusually well-reproduced facsimiles from the four manuscripts (Peacock, op. cit., p.512 n.79, mentions also an article by al-Thamiri, ‘Kitab al-Yamini li’l-‘Utbi; dirasa minhajiyya’, al-Ahmadiyya 22 (Muharram 1427/ February 2006), not seen by me). This new edition, spaciously laid out and provided with good indices, will undoubtedly make life a lot easier for future researchers in the field. Gardizi’s Kitab Zayn al-akhbar

For my commentary on Bayhaqi, I used the well-known but clearly unsatisfactory partial edition of Muhammad Nazim (Berlin-Steglitz: Orientalische Zeitschriftenverlag Iranschahr, 1928) (it was heavily criticised by Mirza Muhammad Qazvini) and the much better and genuinely critical edition, reproduced in an attractive ta‘līq script, of ‘Abd al-Hayy Habibi (Intisharati Bunyad-i Farhangi-yi Iran, Tehran, 1347/1968; a subsequent version, of 1363/1974, was printed in a more usual naskhī Arabic font). Both texts cover what is for us here the crucial period of the Samanids and early Ghaznavids, though neither comprises Gardizi’s complete text. This is now at last provided by Rahim Rida-zada Malik’s edition (Anjuman-i Athar wa Mafakhir-i Farhangi, Tehran, 1384/2005, pp. 72 and 636), which has a useful 65 -page introduction which discusses the various preceding partial editions and which has detailed indices and ta‘līqāt, making the whole work pleasant and easy to use. I have not been able to see an Arabic translation of the Zayn al-akhbar by ‘Affaf al-Sayyid Zaydan (Cairo: Dar alTiba‘a al-Muhammadiyya, 1982). — 47 —

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Malik builds on the work of previous editors like Sa‘id Nafisi and Habibi, and if he does not go beyond them critically (see analysis in my Gardizi translation, listed below at page 8 of the Introduction), this is probably a reflection of the unavoidable fact that we depend for the text on only two manuscripts, one probably a later copy of the other. Hence it is not easy to see how those parts of the Zayn al-akhbar dealing with universal history and then with Iranian history can be much improved, although the short sections at the end of the work dealing with various classes of non-Iranian peoples, including the Turks, the Rumis, the Indians and the Zanj may well repay further critical examination, since it is now over 60 years since Minorsky examined the section on the Indians and 30 years since A.P. Martinez worked on Gardizi’s information on the Turks. Translations

On the whole, we are now quite well provided with satisfactory translations of the main texts of our period. Notable exceptions are first, al-‘Utbi’s Yamini, mentioned above (the ancient translation by J. Reynolds, now over 150 years old, of Jurbadhqani’s Persian translation of the Arabic original being totally inadequate, though used in the past by non-Arabist and nonPersianist historians faute de mieux), and second, al-Bundari’s abridgement of the still unedited and unpublished Nusrat al-fatra of ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani which drew on the (definitely lost, it seems) administrative memoirs of Anushirvan b. Khalid, vizier to Seljuq sultans and ‘Abbasid caliph (al-Isfahani’s work is not in fact lost, as asserted by many writers, including the present author in The History of the Seljuq State (for which see below, in the Introduction at pages 5–6) but exists in a B.N. Paris manuscript; David Durand-Guédy has traced this piece of misinformation back to Henri Massé, see his ‘Un fragment inédit de la chronique des Salğūqides de ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Is.fahānī: le chapitre sur Tāğ al-Mulk’, see below, pages 205–6). Gardizi awaits a complete translation, and it is doubtful whether the earlier parts of the History, on the prophets and the ancient Persian kings, are worth translating anyway. The core of the book, from the point of view of Islamic historians, is the central section on the Islamic history of the Iranian lands, from the Arab governors of Khurasan appointed by the caliph ‘Uthman up to 432/1041 and the accession to power of the Ghaznavid sultan Mawdud b. Mas‘ud. This has now been translated, with extensive notes, by myself as The Ornament of Histories. A History of the Eastern Islamic Lands ad 650–1041. The Original Text of Abu Sa‘id ‘Abd al-Hayy Gardizi (BIPS Persian Studies Series, London: I.B.Tauris, 2011). Specifically useful for the origins and early history of the Seljuqs is the work conventionally attributed to Sadr al-Din Abu ’l-Hasan ‘Ali al-Husayni, which covers the whole spread of the history of the Great Seljuq sultanate until its demise at the hands of the Khwarazmshahs, and this has now been translated, also by myself, as The History of the Seljuq State. A Translation with Commentary of the Akhbār al-dawla al-saljūqiyya (Studies in the History of Iran and Turkey, London: Routledge, 2011). This has detailed notes and is made from the edited texts of Muhammad Iqbal (Lahore: The University of the Panjab, 1933) and the more recent one by Muhammad Nur al-Din (Beirut: Dar al-Iqra’, 1406/1986). Al-Husayni starts with what might be termed the pre-history of the Seljuq sultanate, probably using, if not specifically naming, the lost Malik-nama (cf. Bosworth, Introduction, p.5), and goes on to the attempts of the early — 48 —

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Ghaznavid sultans to stem the Türkmen incursions into Khurasan and the eventual success of the Seljuq chiefs in conquering most of the Persian lands, with the Ghaznavids pushed back into what is now eastern Afghanistan and north-western India. Studies

These include several important books specifically on our topic; chapters within wider books; and articles. 1. Ali Anooshahr, ‘‘Utbi and the Ghaznavids at the foot of the mountain’, Iranian Studies 38, no 2 (2005), pp. 271–91. This surveys scholarship on the Yamini during the 150 years since Nöldeke’s pioneering study, a period in which writers have emphasised the distinction between ‘rhetoric’ and ‘truth’ and on the whole have condemned the author for a concentration on producing a dazzling style at the expense of conveying historical information. Anooshahr emphasises ‘Utbi’s implicit, indirect criticism of Sultan Mahmud’s avarice in extorting money for his military campaigns, his violence towards his enemies and subjects alike, and his negligence in controlling the tyrannical policies of his tax-extorting officials, but goes on, ‘‘Utbi wrote into his text more than just a subliminal criticism of a problematic relationship with a negligent patron. The whole text of the Yamini continues to shock its audience and keep contradicting itself in many other ways’ (pp.278–9). 2. David Durand-Guédy, ‘Un fragment inédit de la chronique des Salğūqides de ‘Imād alDīn al-Is.fahānī: le chapitre sur Tāğ al-Mulk’, Annales islamologiques 39 (2005), pp.205– 22. The author examines the relationship between al-Bundari’s abridgement, the Zubdat al-nusra, of al-Isfahani’s Nusrat al-fatra, and al-Isfahani’s actual work, extant, as noted above, in B.N. Paris ms. Arabe 2145 but neglected by scholars writing on Seljuq history. Durand-Guédy concludes, on page 214, that al-Bundari’s text amounts to only 59 per cent of what al-Isfahani originally wrote, but ‘Cependant, le problème n’est pas tant quantitatif que qualitatif ’, since al-Bundari did not merely trim ornamental, rhetorical literary flourishes but expunged ‘faits bruts’, and Durand-Guédy illustrates this writing out of solid historical facts by an examination of the two parallel passages on Malikshah’s t.ughrā’ī or head of the Chancery Taj al-Mulk, noting al-Bundari’s evident partisanship for Taj al-Mulk’s rival Nizam al-Mulk. 3. Jürgen Paul, ‘The Seljuq conquest(s) of Nishapur: a reappraisal’, Iranian Studies 38, no 4 (2005), pp. 575–85. Paul looks at the two occupations of Nishapur by the Seljuqs, temporarily in 429/1038 and definitively after the Ghaznavid defeat at Dandanqan in Ramadan 431/May 1040, concentrating on the first occupation, for which we have a detailed account in Bayhaqi’s history, reported back to Sultan Mas‘ud in Ghazna by his .sāh.ib barīd there, operating clandestinely in the occupied city. Was the attitude of the Nishapuris, the local notables and leaders, simply that reported as being based on the dictum ‘subjects do not fight’? Paul suggests that the accounts of various struggles for control of the city, from later Samanid times onwards, show that there were in fact Nishapuris ready to fight when resistance seemed opportune, perhaps by local troop levies and by the ‘ayyārūn so characteristic of the faction-ridden towns of Khurasan (these groups in the eastern Islamic lands have been recently studied in detail by Deborah G. — 49 —

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Tor in her Violent Order. Religious Warfare, Chivalry, and the ‘Ayyār Phenomenon in the Medieval Islamic World (Würzburg: Istanbuler Texte und Studien, 2007), but that critical factors in Nishapur’s apparent surrender to the Seljuqs without resistance were first, its lack of fortifications, unlike those of other Khurasanian cities like, for example, Balkh and Herat, and second, internal social divisions amongst the city’s notables or patriciate, to use Bulliet’s term. 4. Andrew C.S. Peacock, ‘‘Utbī’s al-Yamīnī: patronage, composition and reception’, Arabica 54, no 4 (2007), pp. 500–25. In this, the author considers the Yamini as a work usually taken as the oldest surviving dynastic history in Arabic and a model for future historical works. It is usually taken as being essentially about Mahmud of Ghazna and his exploits, hence as being essentially eulogistic, but Peacock notes that quantitatively, there is as much about the founder of the dynasty, the Sultan’s father Sebüktegin, as about Mahmud himself and that the picture of the former is decidedly more favourable than that of the latter, Mahmud appearing as ‘irrational, unapproachable and vengeful’ (p.506). The dark side of the Sultan’s regime, with uncontrolled exploitative officials and tyranny of all kinds, is not glossed over, and by implication Mahmud is made ultimately responsible for all this malfeasance. In fact, the whole work is as much concerned with al-‘Utbi’s own preoccupations and motivations as with Ghaznavid dynastic panegyrics. His own official career seems to have ended in frustration and, in his eyes, a lack of appreciation for his talents; he may even, like his friend Sebüktegin’s secretary Abu ’l-Fath al-Busti, have ended his days in exile. An interesting final part of the article examines the several later commentaries, eight known and four extant, that the Yamini’s bravura style stimulated. 5. G.E. Tetley, The Ghaznavids and Seljuk Turks: Poetry as a Source for Iranian History (Studies in the History of Iran and Turkey, London: Routledge, 2009). This, based on an Oxford doctoral thesis, is essentially a study first, of the Ghaznavid poet, Farrukhi Sistani, eulogist of the sultans Mahmud and his son Muhammad and then Mas‘ud and of their ministers like Ahmad b. Hasan Maymandi and the latter’s son ‘Abd al-Razzaq; and second, the Seljuq poet Mu‘izzi, eulogist of various Seljuq sultans, Malik Shah and his sons Berkyaruq, Muhammad and Sanjar, and of their ministers, starting with an elegy, marthiya, on the great Nizam al-Mulk. The story of the poets’ careers is skilfully integrated with and illuminated by the course of political events, and of especial value is Tetley’s introductory chapter on the Turkish component of the social and political history of the time, given that in both dynasties, the rulers themselves and their military supporters, many of the latter group also mamdūh.s of the poets, were Turks, establishing a tradition of rulers in Iran that was to endure for some nine centuries. 6. David Durand-Guédy, Iranian Elites and Turkish Rulers: A History of Isfahan in the Saljuq Period (Studies in the History of Iran and Turkey, London: Routledge, 2010). Based on what was originally an Aix-en-Provence doctoral thesis, this very rich and solid book is a major contribution to the literature on the rich genre of Persian local histories (concerning which see the special issue of Iranian Studies, 33/1–2 (Winter–Spring 2000) devoted to them, with a study by Jürgen Paul of al-Mafarrukhi’s history of Isfahan at pages 117–32). Durand-Guédy states that he chose Isfahan as the subject for his research not only from the topic’s intrinsic interest and the richness of the historical sources available, but also — 50 —

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because western Iran in this period has been rather neglected, compared with Khurasan and its cities. He deals with Isfahan as a place with a strong regional identity, the greatest city of Jibal and of western Iran in general; it was the centre of the Daylami Kakuyids’ power, knew an evanescent control by the early Ghaznavids but then fell to the incoming Turks and eventually functioned intermittently as an imperial capital, for quite lengthy periods, of the Great Seljuq sultans. The local elites of the city, the ulema and the town notables, had to cope with changes of allegiance, within which material considerations, the preservation of the city and of their own influence, and probably the commercial significance of the city (though the sources are sparse on this economic aspect of life there) seem, as at Nishapur, to have been paramount. Hence the author has much to say about the influence of the great local families, and especially of the Khujandis and the Sa‘ids within the life of Isfahan during the twelfth century, sc. the last decades of Seljuq authority and the coming of their temporary supplanters, the Khwarazmshahs. 7. C. Edmund Bosworth, ‘The origins of the Seljuqs’, in Christian Lange and Songül Mecit (eds), The Seljuqs. Politics, Society and Culture (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010), pp.13–21. This examines the history of the Oghuz in the Western Siberian steppes and at the settlements of the lower Syr Darya, before their mass eruption into the Islamic lands. 8. A.C.S. Peacock, Early Seljuq History. A New Interpretation (Studies in the History of Iran and Turkey, London: Routledge, 2010). The author deals in general with the historical processes behind the formation of the Great Seljuq sultanate and the spread of the Oghuz/Ghuzz Türkmens across the northern tier of the Middle East, that is, across Khurasan, Jibal, Azerbaijan, Transcaucasia and into Byzantine Anatolia, with a terminus ad quem of 1072. More specifically, he examines the family origins of the Seljuq chiefs and the role of their tribal following, stressing its continued significance in the early decades of the Great Seljuq sultanate and after, even though Tughril started after his arrival at Baghdad in 1055 to recruit slave troops, ghulams, for a professional, standing army. There are chapters on the part played by the Türkmens in the overrunning of northern tier regions favourable to the pastoralist way of life of the Oghuz and their herds, and on the religious attitudes of the first Seljuq sultans (not so monolithically Hanafi in sympathy as has been often assumed). Finally, there is a detailed consideration of the Türkmen overrunning of Anatolia up to the Byzantine defeat at Mantzikert/ Malazgird in 1071, with the suggestions that eastern Anatolia in general was already undergoing economic and demographic decline before the Türkmens arrived, and that the north-eastern frontiers of Anatolia, including much of Armenia and the lands facing Transcaucasia, were only lightly defended and lacking in strong fortifications compared with south-eastern Anatolia, where the Byzantines had faced up against and warred with the Arabs for some four centuries. For a more detailed account of the book and its significance, see my review in Journal of Islamic Studies 24, no 1 (2013), pp. 86–8.

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7 Idris ‘Imad al-Din and medieval Ismaili historiography Farhad Daftary

U

ntil the middle of the twentieth century, the Ismailis, representing a major Shi‘i Muslim community, were studied and judged almost exclusively on the basis of evidence collected or fabricated by their detractors. Consequently, they were persistently misrepresented and a host of myths and legends circulated about their teachings and practices. In fact, in Sunni polemics, the Ismailis were depicted as the arch-enemy of Islam, aiming to destroy Islam from within. The breakthrough in modern Ismaili studies occurred with the recovery and study of a large number of genuine Ismaili texts – manuscript sources which had been preserved in numerous private collections and copied throughout the centuries in the Yemen, Syria, Persia, Central Asia and India. This progress, amounting to a revolution, was initiated in the 1940s and has been continuing at an unabated pace ever since. Many Ismaili texts have now been edited and studied, shedding light on different aspects of Ismaili history and thought, and also enabling a better understanding of the rich intellectual heritage of the Ismailis in both Muslim and Christian-European milieus. The findings of modern scholarship in Ismaili studies make this field of enquiry particularly fascinating in its own right.1 Ismaili historiography has had its own distinctive features and evolution, which have been closely related to the very nature of the Ismaili movement and the changing political fortunes of the Ismailis during the various phases of their history. Outside the territories of their states, the Ismailis were frequently persecuted by their numerous enemies, necessitating the strict observance of taqiyya or precautionary dissimulation by them. Furthermore, the Ismaili dā‘īs, or religio-political missionaries, who were trained as theologians and at the same time functioned — 52 —

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as the scholars and authors of their community, often operated in hostile surroundings, and they too were obliged to observe utter secrecy in their activities. Owing to their training and circumstances, these dā‘ī-authors were not particularly interested in compiling annalistic or other types of historical accounts. The general lack of Ismaili interest in historiography is well attested by the fact that only a few historical works have been found in the Ismaili literature recovered in modern times. These texts, written in Arabic and Persian, reflect the diversity of this rich literary heritage, ranging from legal compendia, biographical works, poetry and treatises on the central Shi‘i doctrine of the imamate, to complex esoteric and metaphysical compendia culminating in the gnostic system of Ismaili thought, known as the h.aqā’iq, with its cyclical sacred history, cosmology, eschatology and soteriology.2 From early on, a good portion of the theological literature of the Ismailis was related to ta’wīl, or esoteric interpretation of passages from the Qur’an and religious prescriptions and prohibitions, which became the hallmark of Ismaili thought. Some of the learned dā‘īs of the Iranian lands, such as Abu Ya‘qub al-Sijistani (d. after 361/971), Hamid al-Din al-Kirmani (d. c.411/1020) and Nasir-i Khusraw (d. after 462/1070), elaborated a distinct intellectual tradition of ‘philosophical theology’ by amalgamating their Ismaili theology with Neoplatonism and other philosophical traditions. It should be noted, however, that the religious texts of the Ismailis are themselves indispensable for tracing the doctrinal history of the community at various times. In addition, some of the Ismaili works of the Fatimid period, such as the majālis collections of different chief dā‘īs, contain historical references that are not found in other sources. The majālis, representing a specifically Ismaili genre of religious literature, were normally compiled as lectures organised for the Ismailis and known more specifically as the majālis al-h.ikma or the ‘sessions of wisdom’.3 Among the few historical works written in medieval times by Ismaili authors, mention may be made of al-Qadi al-Nu‘man’s Iftitah, completed in 346/957 and covering the background to the establishment of the Fatimid caliphate in North Africa in 297/909.4 This is the earliest known historical work in Ismaili literature, written by the eminent jurist al-Nu‘man (d.363/974), who was also responsible for codifying Ismaili law and producing the major legal compendia of the Ismailis. And in later medieval times, only one general history of the Ismailis was written by an Ismaili author. As we shall see, this was the dā‘ī Idris ‘Imad al-Din’s ‘Uyun al-akhbar, which as such has a unique distinction in the entire Ismaili literature. There are also certain brief, but highly significant, accounts of particular events in Ismaili history, notably the Istitar al-imam of the dā‘ī al-Nisaburi (d. after 386/996), relating unique details on the activities of the early Ismaili imams during the pre-Fatimid dawr al-satr, or period of concealment, in Ismaili history.5 In spite of the general absence of an Ismaili historiographical tradition, there were two periods during which the Ismailis concerned themselves with historical writings, and they produced or encouraged works which in a sense may be regarded as official chronicles. During the Fatimid and Alamut periods of their history, the Ismailis possessed their own states and dynasties of rulers, whose political events and achievements needed to be recorded by reliable chroniclers. In Fatimid times (297/909–567/1171), especially after the seat of the Fatimid state was transferred from Ifriqiya to Cairo in 362/973, numerous histories of the Fatimid caliphate and dynasty were compiled by contemporary historians, both Ismaili and non-Ismaili, such as Ibn Zulaq (d. 386/996), al-Musabbihi (d. 420/1030) and al-Quda‘i (d.454/1062). With the exception of a few fragments, however, none of the Fatimid chronicles survived the downfall of the Fatimid — 53 —

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dynasty. The Sunni Ayyubids, who succeeded the Ismaili Shi‘i Fatimids in Egypt, systematically destroyed the renowned Fatimid libraries in Cairo, including the vast collections of the Dār al‘Ilm (House of Knowledge), also persecuting the Ismailis and destroying their literature.6 In addition to historical writings, the Ismailis of the Fatimid period, who enjoyed the protection of their state, also produced some biographical works of the sīra genre, and munāz.arāt works reflecting disputations between Ismaili scholars and others, with much historical value. Amongst the extant examples of such categories, mention should be made of the autobiography of al-Mu’ayyad al-Shirazi (d. 470/1078), who held the office of chief dā‘ī in Cairo for almost 20 years and played a key role in the anti-Seljuq activities of the Turkish commander al-Basasiri who had the khut.ba read for one full year (450–451/1058–1059) in ‘Abbasid Baghdad in the name of the Fatimid caliph-imam.7 Of the munāz.arāt genre, there is a book composed around 334/945, which contains the disputations of the dā‘ī Ibn al-Haytham (fl. fourth/tenth century) with the dā‘īs Abu ‘Abdallah al-Shi‘i (d. 298/911), and his brother, Abu’l-‘Abbas Muhammad, recounting unique details of the first year of Fatimid rule in Ifriqiya.8 Abu ‘Abdallah al-Shi‘i, it will be recalled, had prepared the ground for the establishment of the Fatimid caliphate. The Nizari Ismailis of the Alamut period (483/1090–654/1256) also maintained a historiographical tradition. During this turbulent period when the Nizaris had a territorial state in Persia centred at the fortress of Alamut, they compiled chronicles in the Persian language recording the events of their state according to the reigns of the successive rulers, known as the lords of Alamut.9 This historiographical tradition was initiated with a work entitled Sargudhasht-i Sayyidna, covering the life and career of Hasan-i Sabbah (d.518/1124), the founder of the Nizari Ismaili state and the first lord of Alamut. Hasan also adopted Persian in preference to Arabic as the religious language of the Persian-speaking Nizaris. The events of the Nizari state in Persia during the subsequent times until the reign of the eighth and final lord of Alamut, Rukn al-Din Khurshah, and the Mongol destruction of that state were compiled by other Nizari chroniclers, such as Ra’is Hasan Salah al-Din Munshi Birjand. All the Persian Nizari chronicles held at the libraries of Alamut and other Nizari fortresses in Persia perished in the Mongol invasions of 654/1256, or soon afterwards during Ilkhanid rule over Persia. However, the Nizari chronicles and other writings were seen and used extensively by a group of three Persian historians of the Ilkhanid period, namely Juvayni (d. 681/1283), who personally examined the library of Alamut shortly before its destruction, Rashid al-Din Fadl Allah (d.718/1318) and Abu ’l-Qasim Qashani (d.c. 738/1337), in their own histories of the Ismailis. These histories remain our main primary sources on the Nizari Ismaili state in Persia.10 Unlike the Persian Nizaris, the Syrian Nizaris as well as the Nizari Khojas of South Asia did not elaborate any historiographical tradition. The Nizari tradition of historiography was discontinued upon the destruction of the Nizari state by the Mongols. In the turbulent conditions of the early post-Alamut centuries, the Nizaris of Persia and Central Asia once again resorted to taqiyya practices and engaged in very limited literary activities; and they did not find ready access to the Ismaili literature of the earlier times, especially the classical Arabic texts produced during the Fatimid period. The situation was quite different for the Tayyibi Musta‘lian Ismailis who had survived in the Yemen after the downfall of the Fatimid state. The post-Fatimid Tayyibi Musta‘lian Ismailis found refuge for several centuries in the Haraz and other mountainous regions of the Yemen, initially under the protection of the Ismaili — 54 —

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Sulayhid dynasty there. The Tayyibis, who were led by a line of learned dā‘īs, also preserved a good portion of the Arabic Ismaili texts of the earlier times, in addition to producing a relatively voluminous religious literature of their own. They also maintained some of the literary and educational traditions of the Ismailis of the Fatimid period, including some limited interest in historiography. The third dā‘ī mut.laq of the Tayyibis, Hatim b. Ibrahim al-Hamidi (d.596/1199), had already produced a work entitled Tuhfat al-qulub with much information on the history of the Tayyibi community.11 By the nineteenth century, several Tayyibis, belonging to the Da’udi branch, had produced works of a strictly historical nature (some in Gujarati but transcribed in Arabic), covering the history of their imams, da‘wa, dā‘īs, and communities in the Yemen and India. But in medieval times, the tradition of Ismaili historiography attained its peak in the works of the dā‘ī Idris ‘Imad al-Din. Idris ‘Imad al-Din b. al-Hasan b. ‘Abd Allah b. ‘Ali b. al-Walid al-Anf hailed from the prominent al-Walid branch of the Quraysh in the Yemen. Members of the Walid family led the Tayyibi Musta‘lian Ismaili da‘wa and community for more than three centuries from the beginning of the seventh/thirteenth century. Idris was born in 794/1392 in the fortress of Shibam, a high peak on the Jabal Haraz and a stronghold of the Ismailis in the Yemen. He succeeded his uncle, ‘Ali b. ‘Abd Allah Ibn al-Walid, as the nineteenth dā‘ī mut.laq or supreme leader of the Tayyibi Ismailis in 832/1428.12 An eminent scholar of Ismaili doctrines, Idris was also a politician and warrior. At the time, various Yemeni tribal confederations and dynasties were engaged in incessant confrontations with one another. Maintaining the policies of his predecessors, the dā‘ī Idris allied himself with the Rasulids of Zabid, in the region of Tihama, and participated in several battles against the Zaydis of northern Yemen, the perennial enemies of the Yemeni Ismailis. As a result, several fortresses were acquired by the Tayyibis. Idris also enjoyed the support of the Tahirids, who replaced the Rasulids as the masters of Aden and other parts of lower Yemen around 858/1454. Idris paid particular attention to the spread of the Tayyibi da‘wa in Gujarat and during his long leadership, lasting some four decades, contributed significantly to the consolidation and expansion of the Bohra community in western India. Indeed, he prepared the ground for the subsequent transference of the central headquarters of the Tayyibi da‘wa from the Yemen to Gujarat in India. Idris ‘Imad al-Din died on 19 Dhu ’l-Qa‘da 872/10 June 1468 at Shibam, where he had his own headquarters. As it was already an established Tayyibi da‘wa practice, the dā‘ī Idris had appointed his son al-Hasan, as his successor to lead the Tayyibi Ismaili da‘wa and community. Idris ‘Imad al-Din is generally considered the most celebrated Ismaili historian. Idris’s eminence as a historian was facilitated by the fact that as the dā‘ī mut.laq he had ready access to the entire contemporary literary corpus of the Ismailis then available in the Yemen, texts which had been transferred gradually from Egypt to the Yemen from the middle of the fifth/eleventh century onwards, many of which have not survived directly. Drawing on a wide variety of Ismaili and other primary sources, including local histories of the Yemen as well as the oral traditions of the Tayyibi Ismailis, Idris wrote three historical works, which may be regarded as the main Ismaili historical sources on the Ismailis until the Nizari–Musta‘lian schism of 487/1094, and then as the most authoritative texts on the history of the early Musta‘lians and then (after the Tayyibi–Hafizi schism of 526/1132) the Tayyibi Musta‘lian Ismailis until his own time, the — 55 —

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second half of the ninth/fifteenth century. Idris’s major historical work, ‘Uyun al-akhbar, in seven volumes, is the most comprehensive source on the formative period of Shi‘ism, the history of the Ismaili da‘wa from its origins, and of the imams recognised by the Ismailis (including the early Shi‘i imams until Ja‘far al-Sadiq, acknowledged also by the Twelver Shi‘a, as well as the Fatimid caliph-imams), until the second half of the sixth/twelfth century. After earlier partial editions, a critical edition of the complete set of the ‘Uyun al-akhbar has now been published by The Institute of Ismaili Studies in association with the Institut Français du Proche-Orient.13 The first volume of the ‘Uyun, on the life of the Prophet Muhammad, is of particular significance as it reflects the Ismaili tradition on the subject. Similarly, the second and third volumes convey Ismaili perspectives on the life and times of ‘Ali b. Abi Talib (d.40/661), and the confrontations of this first Shi‘i imam with various opponents. The fourth volume covers the biographies of the early Shi‘i imams, from al-Hasan (d.49/669) and al-Husayn b. ‘Ali (d.61/680) until al-Husayn b. Ahmad, the last of the hidden imams of the early Ismailis. The fifth volume covers the initiation of the da‘wa in the Yemen and North Africa, the establishment of the Fatimid caliphate in Ifriqiya in 297/909, and the reigns of the first three Fatimid caliph-imams, al-Mahdi, al-Qa’im and al-Mansur. The sixth volume continues the history of the Fatimids, covering the reigns of the next four members of the dynasty, al-Mu‘izz, al-‘Aziz, al-Hakim, alZahir, and the early years of al-Mustansir’s reign (427–487/1036–1094). The seventh and final volume of the ‘Uyun covers the remaining period of al-Mustansir’s caliphate and imamate, the establishment of Sulayhid rule in the Yemen, the Nizari–Musta‘lian schism following al-Mustansir’s death in 487/1094, the reigns of the next two Fatimid caliphs, al-Musta‘li and al-Amir, recognised as imams only by the Musta‘lian Ismailis, as well as the commencement of the Tayyibi da‘wa in the Yemen and the collapse of the Fatimids in Egypt. This volume serves as the main primary source for the history of the Ismaili da‘wa in the Yemen under the Sulayhids, who initially recognised the suzerainty of the Fatimids. Idris began his work on the ‘Uyun around 838/1434, and, as noted, he used a variety of Ismaili and non-Ismaili sources, many of which are no longer extant. Amongst the Ismaili sources used by Idris, mention may be made of the writings of al-Qadi al-Nu‘man, al-Mu’ayyad al-Shirazi, who is regarded as the spiritual father of the da‘wa in the Yemen, and numerous Ismaili sīras, including the anonymous Sirat al-imam al-Mahdi and Sirat Ibn Hawshab Mansur al-Yaman, which are no longer extant. He also drew on a wide range of non-Ismaili Yemeni and other sources, such as the histories of Ibn Zulaq, al-Quda‘i and ‘Umara al-Yamani (d.569/1174), some of which have not survived directly. Idris also had access to numerous archival documents, such as decrees, letters and epistles (sijillāt), which shed light on important historical aspects of the Ismaili da‘wa in the Yemen and relations between the Fatimids and the Sulayhids, especially under the queen Arwa, the effective ruler of the Yemen from 477/1084 until her death in 532/1138. It was, in fact, this capable queen who founded the Tayyibi da‘wa independently of both the Fatimid and the Sulayhid establishments. All this makes the ‘Uyun al-akhbar an indispensable source on many aspects of medieval Ismaili history. The dā‘ī Idris’s second historical work, Nuzhat al-afkar, in two volumes and still in manuscript form,14 deals with the history of the Ismaili community in the Yemen, especially from the demise of the Sulayhids around 532/1138 until 853/1449. This is the most important source on the history of the Yemeni Tayyibis during those three centuries. In this work, Idris also recounts — 56 —

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important details on the Tayyibi da‘wa in India and the relations between the Yemeni Tayyibis and their Bohra co-religionists in Gujarat. Idris’s third historical work, Rawdat al-akhbar, is a continuation of his Nuzha, in which he includes the events of his own time in Tayyibi history, from 854/1450 to the year 870/1465.15 The Rawda is an important source on Idris’s own period of Tayyibi leadership in the Yemen; it is also vital for the history of the Tahirids, who ruled over southern Yemen after the Rasulids, because Idris was allied with them. In addition to his historical and theological works, Idris composed a number of polemical treatises in refutation of Sunni, Mu‘tazili and Zaydi doctrines. He was also a poet and the unpublished Diwan of his poetry contains much historical information in addition to panegyrics of various Ismaili imams and dā‘īs. The bulk of the dā‘ī Idris’s writings have survived, having been copied faithfully by generations of Tayyibi scholars and scribes. These texts are now preserved in various private and institutional collections, including those of The Institute of Ismaili Studies Library in London, and the extensive collections at the official Da’udi Tayyibi Bohra libraries in Surat, Gujarat and Bombay. A systematic evaluation of Idris ‘Imad al-Din’s historical writings, and the sources used therein, as well as his contribution to the Tayyibi esoteric system of gnostic thought, are yet to be undertaken. At any rate, he remains unchallengeable as the doyen of the Ismaili historians of all ages. Notes







1 For further details, see Farhad Daftary, Ismaili Literature: A Bibliography of Sources and Studies (London, 2004), pp. 84–93. 2 See Isma‘il b. ‘Abd al-Rasul al-Majdu‘, Fahrasat al-kutub wa’l-rasa’il, ed. ‘A.N. Munzawi (Tehran, 1966); W. Ivanow, Ismaili Literature: A Bibliographical Survey (Tehran, 1963), pp. 17–173; I.K. Poonawala, Biobibliography of Ismā‘īlī Literature (Malibu, CA, 1977), pp.31–297; Daftary, Ismaili Literature, pp. 104–73. 3 Heinz Halm, ‘The Ismaili oath of allegiance (‘ahd) and the “Sessions of Wisdom” (majālis al-h.ikma) in Fatimid times’, in F. Daftary (ed.), Mediaeval Isma‘ili History and Thought (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 91–115; idem, The Fatimids and their Traditions of Learning (London, 1997), especially, pp. 23–9, 41–55; P.E. Walker, ‘Fatimid institutions of learning’, Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt, 34 (1997), pp. 179–200, reprinted in his Fatimid History and Ismaili Doctrine (Aldershot, 2008), article I. 4 Al-Qadi Abu Hanifa al-Nu‘man b. Muhammad, Iftitah al-da‘wa, ed. W. al-Qadi (Beirut, 1970); ed. F. Dachraoui (Tunis, 1975); H. Haji (trans.), Founding the Fatimid State: The Rise of an Early Islamic Empire (London, 2006). 5 Ahmad b. Ibrahim al-Nisaburi, Istitar al-imam, ed. W. Ivanow, Bulletin of the Faculty of Arts, University of Egypt, 4 (1936), pp.93–107; English trans. in W. Ivanow, Ismaili Tradition Concerning the Rise of the Fatimids (London, etc., 1942), pp. 157–83. 6 Paul E. Walker, Exploring an Islamic Empire: Fatimid History and its Sources (London, 2002), pp. 152–69. 7 Al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Din al-Shirazi, Sira, ed. Muhammad K. Husayn (Cairo, 1949). See also Verena Klemm, Memoirs of a Mission: The Ismaili Scholar, Statesman and Poet al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Dīn al-Shīrāzī (London, 2003), esp. pp. 19–54, 69–86. 8 Abu ‘Abd Allah Ja‘far Ibn al-Haytham, Kitab al-munazarat, ed. and trans. W. Madelung and P.E. Walker as The Advent of the Fatimids: A Contemporary Shī‘ī Witness (London, 2000). 9 Farhad Daftary, The Ismā‘īlīs: Their History and Doctrines (Cambridge, 2007), 303–10, and idem, ‘Persian historiography of the early Nizārī Ismā‘īlīs’, Iran 30 (1992), pp. 91–7, reprinted in his Ismailis in Medieval Muslim Societies (London, 2005), pp. 107–23. 10 ‘Ata-Malik b. Muhammad Juvayni, Ta’rikh-i jahan-gusha, ed. M. Qazvini (Leiden and London, 1912–37), vol. 3, pp. 106–278; idem, The History of the World-Conqueror, trans. J.A. Boyle (Manchester, 1958) vol. 2, pp. 618–725; Rashid al-Din Fadl Allah, Jami‘ al-tawarikh: qismat-i Isma‘iliyan, ed. M.T. Danishpazhuh and M. Mudarrisi Zanjani (Tehran, 1338/1959); ed. Muhammad Rawshan (Tehran, 1387/2008); Abu ’l-Qasim ‘Abd Allah b. ‘Ali Kashani, Zubdat al-tawarikh: bakhsh-i Fatimiyan va Nizariyan, ed. M.T. Danishpazhuh (Tehran, 1366/1987). 11 See Delia Cortese, Arabic Ismaili Manuscripts: The Zāhid ‘Alī Collection in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies (London, 2003), pp.188–90. This work has now been edited by A. Hamdani (London, 2012). 12 For bio-bibliographical details on Idris, see Qutb al-Din Sulaymanji Burhanpuri, Muntaza‘ al-akhbar, partial ed. S.F. Traboulsi (Beirut, 1999), pp. 166–75; Muhammad ‘Ali b. Mulla Jiwabha’i Rampuri, Mawsim-i bahar (lithographed, Bombay, 1301/1884– 1311/1893), vol. 3, pp. 107–8, 138–46; al-Majdu‘, Fahrasat, pp. 73–7, 150–1, 239–42, 275–7; Ivanow, Ismaili Literature, pp. 77– 82; Poonawala, Biobibliography, 169–75; Delia Cortese, Ismaili and Other Arabic Manuscripts (London, 2000), pp. 23–28; eadem, Arabic Ismaili Manuscripts: The Zāhid ‘Alī Collection, pp. 23–4, 37–8, 45–6, 126–7, 149–50, 191–4, 196. 13 Idris ‘Imad al-Din b. al-Hasan, ‘Uyun al-akhbar wa-funun al-athar, vols. 4–6, ed. M. Ghalib (Beirut, 1973–8); portion of vol. 5, ed. F. Dachraoui as Ta’rikh al-dawla al-Fatimiyya bi-l-Maghrib (Tunis, 1979); vol. 5 and part of vol. 6, ed. M. al-Ya‘lawi as Ta’rikh

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al-khulafa’ al-Fatimiyyin bi-l-Maghrib (Beirut, 1985); vol. 7, ed. Ayman F. Sayyid, with summary English trans. by P.E. Walker and M.A. Pomerantz, as The Fatimids and their Successors in Yaman: The History of an Islamic Community (London, 2002); vols. 1–7, ed. A. Chleilat, M. Sagherji et al. (Damascus and London, 2007–10). 14 See, for instance, Poonawala, Biobibliography, p. 172; Adam Gacek, Catalogue of Arabic Manuscripts in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies (London, 1984), vol. 1, pp. 85–6, and Cortese, Arabic Ismaili Manuscripts: The Zāhid ‘Alī Collection, pp. 126–7. 15 Idris ‘Imad al-Din, Rawdat al-akhbar wa-nuzhat al-asmar fi hawadith al-Yaman, ed. Muhammad b. ‘Ali al-Akwa‘ al-Hiwali (Sanaa, 1995).

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8 The Kimiya-yi sa‘adat ( The Alchemy of Happiness) of al-Ghazali: a misunderstood work?1 Carole Hillenbrand

This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for lesse be told. George Herbert (d.1633), The Elixir 2

T

he writings of al-Ghazali in Persian have been largely neglected in Western and Muslim scholarship alike. A large number of authentic works in Arabic have been attributed to al-Ghazali and it is these that have attracted the attention of scholars. However, his small corpus of Persian writings composed in his later years, and therefore arguably giving his mature views on certain themes, are also worthy of attention. This chapter will focus on the longest book in Persian that al-Ghazali wrote, the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat (The Alchemy of Happiness). It will aim to give a more precise and nuanced view of this important work than has yet been presented in a Western language, analysing its authorship, structure and contents, and examining the context in which it was written. This discussion should do something to dispel a number of the long-standing misconceptions that surround this work. In particular, the chapter will argue that the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat is more than a summary in Persian of al-Ghazali’s magnum opus, the Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din.

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What exactly is the work entitled the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat?

There are many manuscripts of a long Persian work entitled Kimiya-yi sa‘adat dispersed in libraries across the world. Their dates testify that this text, popular in the Persophone lands of the eastern Islamic world – Iran, Central Asia, India and Ottoman Turkey – was frequently recopied over the centuries. The oldest surviving complete manuscript of the Kimiya dates from 595/1199.3 Two rather different editions were published in Iran, one first published by Ahmad Aram in 19404 and the other by Husayn Khadivjam in 1982.5 More recently, Alexei Khismatulin has published four chapters of the Kimiya in a parallel Russian–Persian facsimile edition; this is based on one of the very oldest known manuscript fragments of the Kimiya – Ms. B 4612 in the St Petersburg Branch of the Institute of Oriental Studies.6 Various specialists on al-Ghazali have mentioned a small epistle entitled Kimiya al-sa‘ada, written in Arabic and included in a collection of shorter works of al-Ghazali published in Beirut in 1409/1988.7 Reputable scholars have preferred to use this work rather than to consult the much longer work in Persian.8 Such scholars have readily accepted at face value the notion that al-Ghazali wrote this work, despite the fact that Persian specialists, such as de Fouchécour, Khismatulin and Karimi, who have looked more closely into this matter, have produced convincing arguments to the contrary; it therefore seems preferable to term the author of this work Pseudo-al-Ghazali.9 The translations of the Persian Kimiya

There are frequent references in the scholarly literature on al-Ghazali to translations of the work entitled the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, but such references are very misleading. These so-called translations of the Kimiya are only partial translations, and they are sometimes one stage removed from the Persian original. Until recently, there was no complete translation of the Kimiya into English.10 The Kimiya proved a popular work from a very early stage. It was a major source for the unknown author of the Bahr al-fawa’id (The Sea of Precious Virtues), which was written in Persian in Aleppo in the mid-twelfth century and is a ‘Mirror for Princes’. Meisami points out that a number of passages in this work are quoted verbatim from the Kimiya.11 Parts of the Kimiya were translated, sometimes with commentaries, into Ottoman Turkish from the fifteenth century onwards; as Ülken explains, the majority of such translations consist of little books that concentrate on only one chapter at a time of this voluminous book.12 Henry Homes’ work called The Alchemy of Happiness by Mohammed al-Ghazzali, and published in 1873, is a translation of an Ottoman Turkish translation of part of the Kimiya, published in Istanbul in 1260/1845. Claud Field’s short book The Alchemy of Happiness/al-Ghazzali, which appeared in its first edition in 1910, takes a similarly convoluted route into English. It is a translation from a Hindustani translation of a tiny part of the Persian text and is published in a small format with wide margins and quite large print. Hellmuth Ritter’s German translation of a small proportion of the Kimiya is typically idiosyncratic. He does not mention what text or texts he is using for his translation and he gives no references to the page numbers of the texts he is translating. However, his exiguous footnotes, together with Schimmel’s foreword to the reprint of the book, make it clear that — 60 —

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he is using parts of the Kimiya in conjunction with excerpts from the Ihya’.13 He shortens or omits difficult passages in the Kimiya without comment, but he does mention in the footnotes certain problematic phrases in the text, the translation of which he says he is unsure. His book consists of 199 pages in small format, whilst Khadivjam’s published edition of the Kimiya, in a much larger format with much more content on each page, has 1,165 pages of text. So Ritter’s translation can only be described as a very partial one indeed.14 To summarise, then, it is a mere travesty of the truth to treat either Field’s or Ritter’s translation as even an approximate guide to the contents of al-Ghazali’s great work. More recently, Khismatulin’s Russian translation of part of the Kimiya has proved a very useful addition to knowledge about this important work.15 To what extent is the Kimiya based on the Ihya’?

Both works contain 40 books. These are divided into four quarters, each containing ten books. The plan set out in the appendix of this chapter presents the layout of chapters in both these works. It is clear from this plan that the Kimiya has many sections which bear similar names to those of the Ihya’. There are, however, major differences of structure in the two works. Firstly, the Kimiya has an introduction, which is not found in the Ihya’. Secondly, Pillar 2, Section 10 in the Ihya’, entitled ‘The life and character of the Prophet’, is omitted in the Kimiya and is replaced by a new section called ‘Government and exercising authority’; this is a small ‘Mirror for Princes’.16 Thirdly, the Kimiya does not include a section entitled ‘The wonders of the heart’ (‘‘Aja’ib al-qalb’), which is found in Pillar 3, Section 1 of the Ihya’.17 It is apparent from the plan in the appendix that the order of the sections in the two works often varies. It is important too to mention that within a given section the detailed arguments are frequently put in the Kimiya in a different order from that followed in the Ihya’. Generally speaking, the result is clearer in the Kimiya than in the Ihya’. The lengthy introduction to the Kimiya is also not present in the Ihya’. It sets the tone for the whole work and meditates extensively on the Sufi spiritual way. It is divided into a prologue and then four parts: on the knowledge of oneself, on the knowledge of God, on the knowledge of this world and on the knowledge of the next world. This new section is beautifully written. It contains and develops ideas scattered throughout the Ihya’, and more especially those located in Pillar 3, Section 1 of the Ihya’, and the section on ‘The wonders of the heart’ which is not found in the Kimiya. This introduction gives an extended treatment of spiritual themes that are to be found all through the Ihya’ but which are concentrated in a more accessible and persuasive form in the Kimiya and appropriately placed at the very beginning of the work. As for the content of the two works, the Kimiya omits much of the legal discussion found in the Ihya’. More than that: the remaining material is simplified. Clear-cut instructions in the Kimiya replace complex, detailed legal counsels in the Ihya’. The Kimiya also contains fewer examples than the Ihya’ to illustrate one general point. In the Kimiya, al-Ghazali is less anxious to present a complete scholarly apparatus in support of his argument. He is content to prove his point with Qur’anic quotations, hadith and a few other supporting anecdotes that are homespun and unpretentious in tone.18 The frequent Qur’anic quotations found in the Ihya’ are never summarised or omitted in the Kimiya; they are given in full in Arabic and then translated into Persian on each occasion (the — 61 —

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ratio of Qur’anic quotations to other quotations in the Kimiya is broadly speaking the same as in the Ihya’ ). Similarly, there is no pruning of the regular references to the Prophet’s own example, and, like the Ihya’, the Kimiya quotes many so-called hadith that do not appear in the canonical hadith collections. Hadiths are presented generally in their Persian form. Both the Ihya’ and the Kimiya also make liberal use of similar anecdotes or sayings attributable to ‘Umar, Ahmad b. Hanbal, Jesus, and early Sufis, such as Junayd and Dhu ’l-Nun. Al-Ghazali’s tendency to utilise large sections of his predecessors’ work – so apparent in the Ihya’ – is less obvious in the Kimiya. The very task of crystallising and reinterpreting his thoughts written in lengthy form in Arabic in the Ihya’ and now expressed in short, lucid passages in Persian makes al-Ghazali less directly dependent on the actual phrasing of previous writers. To cite but one example, in the Kitab al-tawba of the Ihya’ al-Ghazali has taken whole sections from al-Makki’s Qut al-qulub.19 There is little of his own here at all. In contrast, in the Kitab al-tawba of the Kimiya, the dependence on al-Makki, whilst still present in the themes addressed, is less apparent once al-Ghazali has pruned, summarised and recomposed the subject matter in Persian.20 This suggests that al-Ghazali composed the Kimiya in a more extempore manner than scholars have hitherto recognised, and that he did so on the basis of a framework borrowed from the Ihya’ rather than working laboriously to produce a summarised Persian translation of an Arabic text in front of him. So it would be fair to say that much, but by no means all, of the Kimiya is a summary of the material in the Ihya’, but that it is emphatically not a translation, even an abbreviated one, of the actual Arabic wording of the Ihya’, with the exception, of course, of the translated quotations from the Qur’an. The result is an entity rather different from the Ihya’. Was al-Ghazali the author of the Kimiya?

The discussion so far has assumed that al-Ghazali did indeed write the Kimiya and it is now time to verify this assumption. Indeed, the same question of authenticity has been asked of alGhazali’s works in Arabic by specialists in Islamic thought, such as Bouyges and Badawi,21 who rejected as spurious a number of books attributed to al-Ghazali. There is, moreover, always the possibility that a work thought to have been written by him may be genuinely his in some parts but not in others, as is probably the case, for example, with the Nasihat al-muluk, the second part of which does not seem to have been written by al-Ghazali.22 And the situation with this latter work is all the more complicated because it was also written in Persian.23 As for the Kimiya, it has generally been accepted as being the work of al-Ghazali by those scholars who have actually read it.24 Others who did not know Persian and therefore did not read the work have also accepted uncritically that it is a work of al-Ghazali.25 There is in fact ample evidence, both internal and external, that al-Ghazali wrote the work. Within the body of the Kimiya, its author mentions explicitly in a number of places that he has also written the Ihya’.26 Since therefore it is generally accepted that al-Ghazali wrote the Ihya’, it follows that he also wrote the Kimiya. Moreover, the author of the Kimiya also mentions other works of his, such as Jawahir al-Qur’an,27 the Bidaya28 and the Mishkat al-anwar.29 Since these are also generally accepted as al-Ghazali’s works, this lends further support to the hypothesis that al-Ghazali wrote the Kimiya. The external evidence is also telling. In one of the Persian — 62 —

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letters attributed to al-Ghazali, a letter addressed to the Seljuq vizier Fakhr al-Mulk b. Nizam alMulk, the author exhorts his reader to consult the Kimiya if he wishes to know the truth about Sufism.30 This statement suggests that the Kimiya was in existence at the time that the letter was written and that its author was the same person who wrote the letter. In addition, the ‘Mirror for Princes’ section in the Kimiya (Pillar 2, Section 10) is identical in subject matter31 with part of the first half of the Nasihat al-muluk, which is still generally accepted as having been written by al-Ghazali.32 The Kimiya is also mentioned by al-Ghazali in the Munqidh, which is widely considered to be his work.33 On the other hand, it could be argued that a number of works have been falsely attributed to al-Ghazali. Why not the Kimiya too? It was common for works to be attributed to famous people for a number of different motives and it is not easy to assess the validity of these claims, especially as in-depth analyses of al-Ghazali’s literary style have not yet been published.34 Alternatively, it is possible that some of the Kimiya may have been written by al-Ghazali, whilst other parts were inserted by another person or persons, perhaps one or more of his disciples in Khurasan. Unfortunately, given the absence of holograph manuscripts, or texts authenticated in alGhazali’s own lifetime, there is clearly no easy way out of these difficulties. Nevertheless, it may be proposed that the onus of proof lies rather on the doubters than on those who believe the Kimiya to be the work of al-Ghazali. Such as it is, the evidence on balance points firmly in favour of accepting the arguments that al-Ghazali did write the Kimiya himself. Even so, it is only proper to give the reasoning that underlies this conclusion. If the Kimiya is a forgery, it is a very unsuccessful one and the forger has made a number of obvious blunders. A good forger would have followed the plan of the Ihya’ throughout, instead of inserting new material and rearranging the material in the Ihya’. A good forger would also have been more careful. Omitting the chapter about the Prophet would have been a bold move for anyone but al-Ghazali to have made. The new passages in the Kimiya that are not in the Ihya’ are echoes, expansions or reworkings that fall well within the spirit of the Ihya’ and other known works of al-Ghazali. To write such passages would be no easy task for a forger. The rearrangement and shortening of material in the Kimiya are also fully in accord with the spirit of the Ihya’. Only the true author of the Ihya’ would have dared to rearrange and add material so extensively when writing the Kimiya. The writer of the Kimiya knows the Ihya’ so intimately that he often draws in relevant quotations and ideas from disparate sections of the Ihya’ to illustrate his current argument. This is not surprising if it is accepted that al-Ghazali is indeed the author of both works; but it would be a remarkably sustained feat of memory if the Kimiya were by someone other than al-Ghazali. The choice of a new title: the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat

To distance the Kimiya from the Ihya’, and to reinforce the new emphasis and independent nature of the Kimiya, al-Ghazali gives this work a new title. As in other medieval cultures, the ‘science’ or pseudo-science of alchemy presented writers with a potent set of images. Alchemists believed that metals formed a hierarchy of increasing purity until one attained the mystical perfection of gold. The transformation of base metals, which were imperfect, into gold can serve as an evocative symbol of man’s spiritual regeneration through travelling along the Sufi — 63 —

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path. Al-Ghazali was no stranger to these symbols. It is probable that Ahmad al-Ghazali, a wellknown Persian Sufi poet and scholar,35 remained a major influence on the spiritual development of his more famous brother Abu Hamid Muhammad throughout the latter’s life. Alchemical imagery is expressed in the introduction to the Kimiya: ‘Though man’s body is made of clay and lowly, the essence of his spirit is sublime and godly; though in the beginning his substance is mixed and contaminated with beastly, feral and devilish qualities, when he is placed in the crucible of conflict, he is cleansed of this pollution and contamination and becomes worthy to be close to God’s presence.’36 Al-Ghazali then goes on to explain the meaning of the title of his book: Just as that alchemy which changes copper and brass into the brightness of pure gold is difficult to find […] so too the alchemy which changes the essence of man from the mud of bestiality to the purity and preciousness of the angelic state, so that he may find eternal happiness, is difficult to find and is not known to everyone. The purpose of writing this book is to explain the components of this alchemy which in truth is the alchemy of happiness. For this reason we have named this book The Alchemy of Happiness (Kimiya-yi sa‘adat). The name ‘alchemy’ is very fitting for it. The difference between copper and gold is no more than yellowness and weight, and the product of that [earthly] alchemy is no more than the enjoyment of this world. But how long does this world endure and wherein do the delights of this world lie? [However], the difference between the attributes of beasts and the attributes of angels is as vast as [the gap] from the lowest of the low to the highest of the high; and the product of this spiritual alchemy is eternal happiness, whose duration has no end, the varieties of whose enjoyment have no limit and whose purity of enjoyment no cloudiness can pollute.37

Why did al-Ghazali write the Kimiya?

The emergence of New Persian as a vehicle for literature and scholarly writing in the Persophone lands of Iran and Central Asia in the tenth and eleventh centuries has received much attention in recent years. It is not surprising, therefore, that when al-Ghazali returned to Tus after his long absence from public life he must have realised that in Khurasan in the last decade of the fifth century hijri there were good reasons for writing major works in his native tongue.38 The Kimiya is not the only work attributed to al-Ghazali that is composed in Persian. Amongst his other writings in Persian are a number of letters that he wrote to prominent people of the age and that date from the period after his spiritual crisis in 488/1095.39 It is also believed that his pedagogical treatise, Ayyuha al-walad, was originally composed in Persian before appearing in Arabic, as was the first part of the Nasihat al-muluk. These writings of al-Ghazali in Persian, and especially the longest of them, the Kimiya, seem to have been motivated by the Zeitgeist in Seljuq Iran and the nature of the religious and political milieu in which he spent the last few years of his life. It would seem, moreover, that knowledge of Arabic in the eastern Islamic world was not very solid and that Persian was the language through which to reach a wider audience.40 The years following the deaths of Nizam al-Mulk and Malikshah in 485/1092 were turbulent, and the imminent advent of a new century must have added to an apocalyptic atmosphere, engendering deep malaise and anxiety about the future. Indeed, it seems that al-Ghazali, with his towering intellect and pan-Islamic fame, may — 64 —

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well have been cast in the hearts and minds of the people of Khurasan and beyond in the role of the mujaddid, the person who renews the faith of Islam at the beginning of a new century in the Muslim calendar.41 Writing in Persian liberates al-Ghazali and allows him, unencumbered by the necessity for elaborate argumentation, to address, criticise and try to reform contemporary society in his homeland of Khurasan. Two specific religious groupings, viewed by staunchly Sunni ulema as heretical, may well have contributed to al-Ghazali’s decision to write the Kimiya. Firstly, one may cite the so-called Assassins of Alamut. Al-Ghazali does not attack them and their leader Hasan-i Sabbah overtly in the Kimiya. However, in view of the blistering attack on this group that alGhazali made in his treatise, the Kitab al-Mustazhiri, commissioned by the caliph in Baghdad in the period 1091–5,42 it is unlikely that he changed his stance towards them in the years of his retreat from public life. On the contrary, just as the ‘new preaching’ (al-da‘wa al-jadida) of Hasan-i Sabbah was written in Persian in order to be understood by the people of Iran and Central Asia, so too, if al-Ghazali was to present a convincing alternative interpretation of the true path of Islam in his local milieu in Khurasan, he should write it in Persian.43 It is also not impossible, as de Fouchécour remarks tentatively, that it was to respond to the Ismailis, who borrowed the vocabulary and concepts of Jabirian alchemy, that al-Ghazali presented his treatise as an ‘alchemy of happiness’.44 A second group, much more explicitly targeted in the Kimiya, is the Ibahis, rather nebulous, pseudo-pious figures who parade in the apparel of Sufis but flout the sharia; on such people alGhazali vents much spleen and powerful invective, combining a violent attack on them with a staunch defence of the religious sciences and those who teach them: As for these free-thinkers (Ibahatiyyan) and these useless wearers of tall hats (mutawwaqan),45 who have appeared nowadays, […] who have got hold of a few fraudulent phrases from the incoherent speech of the Sufis, who do nothing but wash themselves all day long, adorn themselves with a loincloth, a patched cloak and a prayer mat and then pour scorn on learning and learned men, they deserve to be put to death. They are utterly devilish people and enemies of God and the Messenger; for God and the Messenger praised learning and learned men and they summoned the whole world to learning.46

As in his Persian letters, which are permeated with a political dimension, the Kimiya can be seen to be speaking to the rulers of the time and advising them how to govern justly according to the precepts of Islam. Indeed, the insertion of Pillar 2, Section 10, the little ‘Mirror for Princes’, could well have been prompted by the pressure placed on al-Ghazali in 499/1105 by the vizier of the Seljuq sultan Sanjar, Fakhr al-Mulk b. Nizam al-Mulk, to play a more prominent public role again and to teach at the Nizamiyya in Nishapur.47 A year later, Fakhr al-Mulk was killed, reportedly by the Assassins: a frightening reminder to al-Ghazali of the dangers of fitna and of the horrific events of 485/1092 when he was in Baghdad. And for a man of al-Ghazali’s years, the murder of Fakhr al-Mulk might serve as a warning of God’s imminent judgement in the next world. Given the earthly and eschatological dangers of straying from the ‘straight path’, it is clear that al-Ghazali sees the need to write about the importance of ‘true Sufism’ – that which is conducted within the framework of the sharia. The Kimiya has been labelled a work of religious — 65 —

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devotion and a treatise of Muslim ethics, and both these labels are appropriate for it. But it is decisively more than that, for it is also an eloquent expression of the importance of Sufism ‘of the heart’. So the Kimiya is a work directed to those who follow the Sufi path, and no doubt to the disciples of al-Ghazali himself, whom he exhorts to live their lives according to the spiritual rules carefully elaborated in the Kimiya. Al-Ghazali explicitly states that he wishes the Kimiya to have wide circulation and to be understood with ease: ‘We shall withhold our pen from lengthy, obscure expressions and subtle, difficult meanings, so that it (the book) may be understood […] The aim of this book is people at large (‘awamm-i khalq),48 who have asked for this subject (to be explained to them) in Persian, and beyond the limit of whose understanding the discussion will not pass.’49 It would be naive to assume that al-Ghazali really uses the phrase ‘awamm–i khalq to mean the ‘common people’ in this context. It is much more likely that he is referring here to the Persian-speaking urban elites in Khurasan, as well as their Turkish overlords who were more likely to know Persian rather than Arabic. And of course, as already mentioned, the Kimiya is also directed to his disciples. The style of the Kimiya is typical of the Persian prose produced in Khurasan in the eleventh century and the early twelfth century. It is beautiful, pellucid language; indeed, the Iranian scholar Bahar calls it the best Persian prose dating from Khurasan in the eleventh century.50 Concluding comments

Nearly all the attention in Western scholarship has been paid, not surprisingly, to al-Ghazali’s numerous works in Arabic. These do, indeed, form the overwhelming majority of al-Ghazali’s oeuvre. It is important, however, to note that al-Ghazali was a Persian who also composed works in his native tongue; and yet these have been largely neglected by all but a few scholars – although all seem to accept en passant that al-Ghazali did write in Persian too. Insufficient attention has been given to the fact that the Kimiya was a summation rather than merely a summary of alGhazali’s thought. It seems plausible that he wrote this huge work – its very size proclaims the seriousness of his purpose – as a testament to his life’s work, and in the full awareness of his own mortality. And he used his native language for this purpose, with all the ease and freedom of expression that it allowed him. These, then, are words which deserve careful attention for that very reason. Scholars of al-Ghazali, who on the whole until recently have not even bothered to learn Persian,51 all too often say that the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat is a summary of the Ihya’, which it is not, and they imply, by their lack of interest in the Kimiya, that its material is all to be found in the Ihya’, which it is not. Traditionally, scholars unwilling to engage at close quarters with the Kimiya have consulted the so-called ‘translations’ of Homes, Field or Ritter. It is to be hoped that the above discussion has shown that these translations offer a mere travesty of the breadth and detail of the Persian text of the Kimiya and that it is a work that deserves specific attention in its own right. If this paper has succeeded in dispelling some of the loose and lazy myths that surround al-Ghazali’s Persian works, it will have fulfilled its purpose.

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Appendix: The relationship between the structure of the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat and that of the Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din

The plan set out below presents the layout of chapters in both these works. Ihya’ Kimiya

Introduction

Pillar 1 Section 2 = Section 1 Section 1 = Section 2 Sections 3–10 (in same order) Pillar 2 Sections 1–9 (in same order) Section 10 Section 10 (entitled: The life (entitled: Government and and character exercising authority) of the Prophet) Pillar 3 Section 1 (entitled: The wonders of the heart) Section 2 = Section 1 Section 3 = Section 2 Section 4 = Section 3 Section 5 = Section 4 Section 6 = Section 5 Section 7 = Section 6 Section 8 = Sections 7 and 8 Sections 9–10 (in same order) Pillar 4 Sections 1–4 (in same order) Section 5 = Section 8 Section 6 = Section 9 Section 7 = Section 5 Section 8 = Section 6 Section 9 = Section 7 Section 10

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Notes









1 It is a great pleasure to contribute to this Festschrift in honour of Charles Melville, who has done so much, through his scholarship and public service, to promote Persian studies in Britain. 2 George Herbert, The Poems of George Herbert (London, 1903), p. 166. 3 Charles de Fouchécour, Moralia: Les notions morales dans la littérature persane du 3e/9e au 7e/13e siècle (Paris, 1986), p. 224. 4 The seventh edition of this work published by Intisharat-i Ganjina is referred to in this chapter: Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, ed. Ahmad Aram (Tehran, 1381/1961). 5 Ed. Husayn Khadivjam (Tehran, 1341/1976). The references to the Persian text used in this chapter come from Khadivjam’s seventh edition. The number of reprints of Aram’s and Khadivjam’s editions offer powerful testimony as to how popular this work is in the modern Persophone community. 6 This manuscript is described in detail by Khismatulin. It is a fragment of the Kimiya on which the date Ramadan 605/March–April 1209 appears. Cf. Alexei A. Khismatulin, ‘“The Alchemy of Happiness”: al-Ghazali’s Kimiya and the origins of the KhwajaganNaqshbandiyya principles’, in Sebastian Günther (ed.), Ideas, Images, and Methods of Portrayal: Insights into Classical Arabic Literature and Islam (Leiden, 2005), pp. 229–30; see also the reference to this manuscript in Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, i, p. 39. 7 Pseudo-al-Ghazali, Kimiya al-sa‘ada in Majmu‘at rasa’il al-Imam al-Ghazali (Beirut, 1409/1988), pp. 121–42. 8 Bouyges remarks that al-Ghazali composed the Ihya’ in his period of retreat and then wrote the Kitab al-sa‘ada and other little works (opuscules): Maurice Bouyges, Essai de chronologie des oeuvres de al-Ghazali (Algazel), ed. Michel Allard (Beirut, 1959), p. 42. Smith wrote about the Kimiya as the ‘little Arabic text’; Margaret Smith, Al-Ghazali the Mystic (reprinted Lahore, 1983), p. 175. Glassen speaks of a shorter Persian version of the Ihya’ with the title Kimiya al-sa‘ada; Erika Glassen, Der mittlere Weg: Studien zur Religionspolitik und Religiosität der späteren Abbasiden-Zeit (Wiesbaden, 1981), p. 175. 9 De Fouchécour, Moralia; Alexei A. Khismatulin, ‘Some notes on The Kimiya-yi Sa‘adat (“The Elixir of Happiness”) by Abu Hamid al-Ghazali at-Tusi’, in S. Leder et al. (eds), Studies in Arabic and Islam: Proceedings of the 19th Congress Union Européenne des Arabisants et Islamisants Halle (Saale), 1998 (Leuven, 2002), pp. 469–84; Muhammad Karimi, ‘Etica politica e scomunica in età selgiuchide: Un’indagine critica delle opere di Abu Hamid Gazali’, in Daniele Cevenini and Svevo D’Onofrio (eds), ‘Uyun al-akhbar: Studio sul mondo islamico. Conflitti e dissensi nell’Islam (Bologna, 2009), pp. 351–79. 10 Some years ago I completed a draft translation, with substantial commentary, of Volume 1 of the Khadivjam edition. In the interim, a complete translation has appeared: al-Ghazzali: Alchemy of Happiness (Kimiya al-sa‘adat): Hujat (sic) al-Islam Abu Hamid Muhammad Ghazzali Tusi, trans. Jay R. Crook, Introduction by Laleh Bakhtiar, 2 vols (Chicago, 2008). 11 Anon, The Sea of Precious Virtues (Bahr al-fawa’id): A Medieval Islamic Mirror for Princes, trans. Julie Scott Meisami (Salt Lake City, 1991), xv–xvi. 12 Ülken provides an impressive list of the Ottoman Turkish translations of the Kimiya; cf. Hilmi Ziya Ülken, ‘Les traductions en turc de certains livres d’al-Ghazali’, İlâhiyat Fakültesi Dergisi 9 (1961), pp. 71–2. This list has been updated and expanded by Günaydin; cf. Yusuf Turan Günaydin, ‘Gazâlî Tercümeleri: Osmanlı Devri ve 1928 Sonrası İçin Bir Bibliyografya Denemesi’, Dîvân Disiplinlerarasi Çalısmalar Dergisi 16 (2011), pp. 75–6. 13 Hellmut Ritter, Al-Ghasali: Das Elixier der Glückseligkeit (Munich, 1989; 1st edition 1923). 14 It is certainly misleading to imply in bibliographies, such as the one given by Böwering in Encyclopædia Iranica, that the ‘translations’ of the Kimiya by Field and Ritter are complete ones. That is, of course, far from the case. These ‘translations’ should be described more accurately. 15 Alexei A. Khismatulin, The Kimiya-yi Sa‘adat (‘Elixir shchast’ya’) (Part 1: ‘Unwan 1–4. Rukn 1, St Petersburg, 2002; Part 2: Rukn 2, St Petersburg, 2007). Unfortunately, the valuable data in these two volumes will not have wide circulation amongst scholars because of the serious lack of knowledge of Russian in academic circles today. 16 Cf. Carole Hillenbrand, ‘A little-known Mirror for Princes of al-Ghazali’, in Rüdiger Arnzen and Jörn Thielmann (eds), Words, Texts and Concepts Cruising the Mediterranean Sea (Leuven, 2004), pp. 593–601. 17 The Kimiya’s omission of the ‘Aja’ib al-qalb, a very important part of the Ihya’ which has a much more overtly Sufi spirit, is significant. The reason for this omission is not hard to find, since the Kimiya overtly treats the Sufi way on many of its pages, not just in one section. 18 The same approach had been used in the Persian translation of the Tafsir of al-Tabari; Peacock comments that ‘virtually all of the commentary […] is jettisoned in the Persian translation’; A.C.S. Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography and Political Legitimacy: Bal‘ami’s Tarikhnama (London, 2007), p. 45. 19 For the dependence of al-Ghazali on al-Makki, cf. Muhammad Amin, ‘Evaluation of the Qut al-qulub of al-Makki’, PhD thesis, University of Edinburgh, 1991. 20 Al-Ghazali, Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din, editor unidentified (Cairo, n.d.), vol. 4, pp. 2–59; Kimiya, vol. 2, pp. 318–42. 21 ‘Abd al-Rahman Badawi, Mu’allafat al-Ghazali (Cairo, 1961); Bouyges, Essai de chronologie. 22 Cf. Patricia Crone, ‘Did al-Ghazali write a Mirror for Princes?’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 10 (1987), pp. 167–91; Carole Hillenbrand, ‘Islamic orthodoxy or Realpolitik?: al-Ghazali’s views on government’, Iran 26 (1988), p. 92. 23 Bagley’s translation is based on the Persian text edited by Jalal Huma’i and the Bodleian Arabic text edited by Haskell Isaacs. For details, cf. Nasihat al-muluk, trans. F.R.C. Bagley as Ghazali’s Book of Counsel for Kings (London, 1964). 24 De Fouchécour writes that there are no arguments to question the authenticity of the Kimiya; cf. Moralia, 224; cf. also Khismatulin, ‘The Alchemy’, p. 262. 25 George M. Wickens, ‘The “Persian letters” attributed to al-Ghazali’, Islamic Quarterly 3, no 2 (1956), p. 109. 26 For example, Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, pp. 231–2, 262. 27 Ibid., vol.1, p. 275. 28 Ibid., vol.1, p. 262. 29 Ibid., vol.1, p.58: ‘We have given an explanation of this in our book Mishkat al-anwar wa-misfat al-asrar: it can be sought there’.

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30 31 32 33 34



35



36 37 38



39



40



41



42 43



44 45



46



47



48 49 50 51

Al-Ghazali, Fada’il al-anam, trans. Abdul Qayyum as Letters of al-Ghazzali (Lahore, 1976), p. 37. But it is not identical in the arrangement of its sections; cf. Carole Hillenbrand, ‘A little-known Mirror’, p. 600. Cf. note 16. Al-Ghazali, Al-munqid min adalal (Erreur et Délivrance), ed. and French trans. Farid Jabre (Beirut, 1959), p. 50. Sprenger mentions, for example, a History of the Prophets that was attributed to al-Ghazali, as noted by Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, p. 151. Like his brother, Ahmad also taught at the Nizamiyya at Baghdad; Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan wa anba’ abna’ al-zaman, trans. Baron MacGuckin de Slane as Kitab Wafayat al-a‘yan: Ibn Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary (Paris, 1843–71), i, p. 79. Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, p. 4. Ibid., vol.1, p.5. This decision did not, however, deter him from continuing to write major works in Arabic, including the Munqidh and the Mustasfa. Al-Ghazali, Fada’il al-anam, trans. Abdul Qayyum as Letters of al-Ghazzali (Lahore, 1976); cf. the German translation by Dorothea Krawulsky as Briefe und Reden des Abu Hamid Muhammad al-Gazzali (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1971). Richter-Bernburg remarks sagely that the choice of which language to use is ‘nearly always based on practical grounds only’; Lutz Richter-Bernburg, ‘Linguistic Shu‘ubiya and early neo-Persian prose’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 94/1 (1974), p.57. Cf. the discussion in Josef van Ess, ‘Quelques remarques sur le Munqid min ad-dalal’, in Ghazali: La raison et le miracle (Paris, 1987), pp.61–2. Al-Ghazali, Kitab fada’ih al-Batiniyya wa-fada’il al-Mustazhiriyya, ed. ‘Abd al-Rahman Badawi (Cairo, 1382/1964). Cf. Henri Corbin, ‘The Isma‘ili response to the polemic of al-Ghazali’, in Seyyed Hossein Nasr (ed.), Isma‘ili Contributions to Islamic Culture (Tehran, 1977), pp. 67–99. De Fouchécour, Moralia, p. 227. Amongst the various meanings of taqiyya in Persian territory is a tall hat; Reinhard Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes (Beirut, 1968), vol. 2, p. 71. Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, p. 38. One of his lesser-known works in Persian is a treatise attacking this group: al-Ghazali, Hamaqat al-Ibahiyya, ed. with a German translation by Otto Pretzl as Die Streitschrift des Gazali gegen die Ibahija (Munich, 1933). The four letters written in Persian to Fakhr al-Mulk by al-Ghazali are very revealing in this respect. The murder of Fakhr al-Mulk is mentioned in the earliest extant biography of al-Ghazali, that of ‘Abd al-Ghafir al-Farisi, parts of which are translated by Richard J. McCarthy, Freedom and Fulfillment: An Annotated Translation of al-Ghazali’s al-Munqidh min al-Dalal and Other Relevant Works of al-Ghazali (Boston, 1980), xvii. This phrase has been translated thus, rather than as ‘the common people’. Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, p. 9. Bahar, quoted by de Fouchécour, Moralia, p. 225. De Fouchécour, Karimi and Khismatulin are obvious exceptions to this generalisation.

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9 Help me if you can! An analysis of a letter sent by the last Seljuq sultan of Kirman David Durand-Guédy

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways, My independence seems to vanish in the haze. But every now and then I feel so insecure, I know that I just need you like I’ve never done before. The Beatles (1965)

T

he document I present here is a letter written by the last Seljuq sultan of Kirman to the Atabeg of Azerbaijan asking him for immediate military aid in order to save his crown. Some may find that the tragic and despairing tone of this text does not lend itself to the joyous occasion of this volume. Nevertheless, I consider it a suitable contribution since its subject matter – the collapse of a Turko-Iranian state caused by a nomadic invasion – is, I think, of interest to Charles Melville. Indeed, 33 years before the Mongol onslaught on the Iranian lands, the Seljuq sultanate of Kirman was destroyed by Türkmen nomads (called Ghuzz) coming from Khurasan. The specific context in which this letter was written is well known thanks to the writings of Afdal al-Din Kirmani, who witnessed the events.1 In Sha‘ban 582/October–November 1186, the Türkmen leader Malik Dinar (d. 591/1195) had taken control of the entire province except its capital, Bardasir, which was heavily fortified. The Seljuq sultan Muhammad b. Bahramshah, then aged 29, refused to listen to those who advised him to negotiate an agreement with Malik Dinar, and decided instead to seek external assistance. He entrusted the capital to his amirs and — 70 —

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went west. He first contacted the atabeg of Fars, but he received only excuses. He then wrote to Atabeg Qizil Arslan (d. 587/1191), the head of the Ildegüzid family who ruled Azerbaijan and Jibal. Quite miraculously, the letter composed for the occasion has been preserved in a collection of inshā’ documents compiled in the thirteenth century.2 I give here a translation from the Persian.3 To the high court of the righteous, wise, supported [by God] and victorious king, Muzaffar al-Dawla wa ’l-Din, the crown of Islam and the Muslims, the brother of the sultan of the sultans (akhū sult.ān al-salāt.īn), the king of the armies of the worlds (malik al-juyūsh fī l-‘ālamīn),4 the vanquisher of the unbelievers and of the polytheists [i.e. the Christians] (qāhir al-kafara wa l-mushrikīn), the slayer of the heretics [i.e. the Ismailis] (qātil al-mulh.idīn), the choice of the Caliph (ikhtiyār al-imām) and the glory of mankind (iftikhār al-anām), the king of Iran (shahryār-i Īrān), the Faridun of the age (Afarīdūn-i rūzigār) – may God protect his greatness – we address all sorts of salutations (as.nāf-i salām wa tah.āyā) and the sweetest praises (alt.āf-i mah.āmid wa it.rā). Our desire to meet your Majesty is extreme (ishtiyāq bi liqā-yi mubārak bī nihāyat); our pride [to be related to him/or: on friendly terms with him] and the support of [our] family for your Lordship are visible [to everyone] (nāzish-ū-istiz.hār-i īn khāndān bi makān-i buzurgvār z.āhir). While until now we were addressing our greetings [to you] repeatedly and continuously, and without any other motivation than our intimate belief and the pressing desire [that we had to write you], today this unfortunate situation is itself the excuse we have [for failing to write to you] (parīshānī-yi ah.wāl, khūd mumahhid i‘dhār ast). The order and justice [that prevail in your territories] are well known; the good news [of your victories (?)] is celebrated as is right. Your Majesty, whose moral virtues (makārim-i akhlāq) and the numerous qualities ( funūn-i ma‘ālī) are famous (angushtnamā-yi rūzigār), will consider it your duty (az wājibāt) to secure the interests of Kirman, which is part of Iraq5 (az mamālik-i ‘Irāq). The extent of the destruction committed in this province by the wicked Ghuzz (makhādhīl Ghuzz) – may God destroy them (dammarahum Allāh), is undoubtedly known to everyone. Their misdeeds ( fisād) are increasing while the armies of your Majesty (mawākib-i sāmiyya) are all employed to extinguish the flame of polytheism (shirk). The endeavours they are making in this area would yield much better results here [in Kirman]. For compassion and for help, there was nobody to turn to except [your] victorious army (h.asham-i mans.ūr). We wanted to send to your court a trustworthy messenger (rasūlī mu‘tabar), but the acceleration [of events] prevented us from doing so.  This letter and these gifts (khadamāt)6 are sent to the highest court of the king of the world (khudāygān-i ‘ālam), the greatest sultan (sult.ān-i a‘z. am), the giver of orders on this earth ( farmāndahi rūy-i zamīn), the shadow of God on earth (z.ill Allāh fī l-ard. ) – may God double his power (d. ā‘afa Allah sult.ānahu), care of the noble (mihtar) Sabiq al-Din Abu Bakr – may his glory last (dāma ‘izzuhu). He is a servant from this region (?) (az bandigān-i maskūn [sic]) and he knows the situation very well (h.āl mut. āli‘a karda). There is no doubt that this year you will take care of the affairs of this country and that you will not suffer any delay. God willing, we will benefit from your compassion (shafaqat), we will receive letters from you (mufāwad.āt-i sāmiyya) and in them you will make mention of the letters, the gifts and important cases [we have mentioned here]. ‘God is sufficient for us; an excellent Guardian is He’ (Qur’an, 3: 173).

As is almost always the case in inshā’ collections, the closure of the letter (eschatochol) which gives the date and place of writing has not been reproduced by the copyist.7 According to the text, — 71 —

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the letter was sent care of a Sabiq al-Din Abu Bakr, described as a notable of the place where the Sultan was then staying. However, since the identity of this man is not known to us, we cannot be sure where the letter was written. It was probably composed in northern Fars, or maybe even in Isfahan, since that was where the Mukhtarat min al-rasa’il was probably written. The date of composition must logically have been between the departure of the Sultan from Bardasir (Oct.–Nov. 1186) and the capture of that city by Malik Dinar (Sept. 1187) (see Table 9.1). It is perhaps possible to be more precise and to date the composition of the letter to summer 1187. Indeed, if we add the duration of the journey to the time lost by Muhammad b. Bahramshah in waiting for a response from the Atabeg of Fars, several months must have passed since his departure from Bardasir. Besides, the laqabs given to Qizil Arslan might indicate that at that time the sultan Tughril III b. Arslan had already rebelled.8 The Atabeg is designated as the ‘brother of the sultan of sultans’, which may be a standard formula, but also a reference to Qizil Arslan’s relationship to the late Seljuq sultan Arslan b. Tughril II (d. 571/1176), the father of Tughril III (see Fig. 9.1). In this case it could be a way to avoid any reference to Tughril III himself, of whom he was still the uncle by marriage. Qizil Arslan is also called ‘the greatest sultan’ and ‘choice of the Caliph’. In the ‘diarchal’ regime created by Atabeg Ildegüz (d. 571/1175), I think these titles would have been the privilege of the puppet Events in Kirman

Events in Jibal (Iraq)

581/summer(?) 1185: arrival of Malik Dinar in Kirman 581/winter 1185–6: Malik Dinar rallies the Ghuzz who occupy the garmsīr region

XII 581/Feb.–Mar. 1186: death of Atabeg Pahlawan (Abu Hamid: 184, line 5); Qizil Arslan arrives in Jibal

582/spring–summer 1186: Malik Dinar conquers the cities of the sardsīr

Summer(?) 1186: rebellion of the amirs Rus and Ay-Aba against Qizil Arslan

VIII 582/Oct.–Nov. 1186: Muhammad b. Bahramshah leaves Bardasir for Fars or Iraq 9 IX 582/22 Nov. 1186: death of the Atabeg Bozqosh Bardasir (Muhammad b. Ibrahim: 153) V 583/July–Aug. 1187: rebellion of Tughril III against Qizil Arslan (Abu Hamid: 185, line 9) 5 VII 583/10 Sept. 1187: Malik Dinar enters Bardasir (Muhammad b. Ibrahim: 167) IX 583/Nov.–Dec. 1187: Qizil Arslan leaves Jibal for Azerbaijan

TABLE 9.1

Comparative chronology of the events in Kirman and Jibal in 1185–7.

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sultan, not the ruling atabeg. All this suggests that when the letter was written, Tughril III had already cast off the yoke of Qizil Arslan, and that Muhammad b. Bahramshah, to his great unhappiness, was aware of that. The ‘unfortunate situation’ (parīshānī-yi ah.wāl) mentioned by Muhammad b. Bahramshah is a nice euphemism, typical of the epistolary style. Indeed, over the two preceding years, most of the sultan’s amirs had been killed by the Ghuzz; Atabeg Bozqosh, who was the kingpin of Kirman politics for two decades, had died just days after the departure of the Sultan; and in Bardasir itself, the population was starving. The only bulwark that protected the Seljuq sultanate was the city’s heavy fortifications. Rarely has a diplomatic letter been written in such desperate circumstances, and the final Qur’anic verse (‘God is sufficient for us; an excellent Guardian is He’) had indeed a prescient dimension. Nevertheless, disillusioned though he might well be, Muhammad b. Bahramshah makes a desperate attempt to get help from the Atabeg. Insofar as he has taken the trouble to come in person to Jibal, his desire (expressed at the beginning of the letter) to meet the Atabeg might be real. But he could not come impromptu at his court and he sent an envoy. In pre-Mongol Iran as elsewhere, the diplomatic missive had two main functions: for the envoy, it served as a letter of introduction, to be delivered to high officials (usually the chancellor) at his arrival at the court; for the king and his political advisers, it was less a way to know what the envoy would ask than an expedient not to receive him (and therefore not have to answer his demand) when deemed appropriate. The real message was presented directly and orally by the envoy to the king, and discussed thereafter. Hence the importance of ‘a trustworthy envoy’, who ‘knows the situation very well’. Hence also the formal aspect of these letters, which often seems to be nothing more than a stylistic exercise.9 However, that particular letter sent by Muhammad b. Bahramshah differs in that the ‘stylistic show-off’ is reduced to the minimum and the level of information much higher than in comparable documents. The reason is probably that Muhammad b. Bahramshah, whose capital was about to fall, could not afford to have his envoy kept waiting at the Atabeg’s door, especially if this envoy, as he seems to say, is not of a high rank. The sultan risked his all directly in the letter. The text contains three arguments. First, the sultan plays full-on the opposition ‘we (me and you) against the Ghuzz’, as if there were two irreconcilable principles, one good and one evil, one aiming for order and the other responsible for disorder, one of the two having to be eliminated for the conflict to stop. The fact is that, unlike the Great Seljuqs (and their successors, the Seljuqs of Iraq), the Seljuqs of Kirman never had to deal with the presence of Türkmen nomads on their territory, and therefore never collaborated with them. The Atabegs of Azerbaijan, who were originally slaves, also held the nomads at a much greater distance than the Seljuq sultans did.10 Muhammad b. Bahramshah knew this, and probably sounded this note on purpose. Implicitly, using a well-known argument, the Sultan advises the Atabeg to fight against the Ghuzz in Kirman before he has to fight them at home, in Jibal. Indeed their successive victories over the past three decades in eastern Iran could indeed suggest that they would soon attack the areas to the west (in the event, it was not to happen, in part thanks to the formation of the strong state of the Khwarazmshahs in the east). By presenting the Ghuzz as solely responsible for the destruction in Kirman, he greatly distorted reality. The Ghuzz did carry out much looting when they spread into the province in 575/1179 (especially in the regions of Jiruft in winter 575/1180–1, Narmashir in autumn 576/1181, and the rabad. of Bardasir in summer 577/1182). But as soon as their authority was — 73 —

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recognised, they set themselves to developing the territories they controlled.11 More importantly, if any one party was to be held responsible for the tragic situation in Kirman, it would be the Seljuqs themselves. The Ghuzz could not have taken control of this once strong and wealthy province if not for the weakness of the Seljuq state, undermined by years of dynastic wars, lootings, massacres and famines. The crisis had begun after the death of Sultan Tughrilshah in 565/1170 and only benefited the amirs, while the power of the Seljuqs themselves was reduced to almost nothing. Muhammad b. Bahramshah was the epitome of this phenomenon: in 571/1175, aged 17, he was made sultan by Atabeg Bozqosh, but a few months later he was deposed by his uncle Arslanshah (who was backed by the Atabeg of Yazd and Atabeg Ay-Beg), until eight years later another amir placed him on the throne once more after murdering Sultan Turanshah (another of Muhammad’s uncles).12 In his second argument to convince Qizil Arslan to intervene, Muhammad b. Bahramshah explicitly submits to him. ‘Kirman is part of Iraq’, he says, and therefore the Atabeg has the ‘duty’ to intervene (since it is now for him an operation of policing within its territories). This is quite straightforwardly a renunciation of sovereignty, whereby Muhammad b. Bahramshah proposes to be the local representative of the Atabeg in Kirman, just as the sons and grandsons of Muhammad b. Malikshah had been the representatives of Sanjar in Iraq in the first part of the sixth/twelfth century. This is an interesting reversal given the careful policy of the Seljuq sultans of Kirman during the previous hundred years to stay out of what was happening in the territories of their cousins. Outsiders were brought into the Kirman political field only after the dynastic crisis had erupted. The first involved were the neighbouring rulers of Yazd, Fars and Khurasan. But the Atabeg of Azerbaijan, although further distant, was also called on for help (in 567/1171–2 Qizil Arslan’s father Ildegüz sent troops to back Arslanshah).13 Muhammad b. Bahramshah’s gesture of submission is even more interesting given the vindictive attitude of Atabeg Pahlawan (Qizil Arslan’s brother) towards the Seljuqs of Kirman during the previous decades. Atabeg Pahlawan did not deign to answer any of the letters sent by Turanshah (r.572/1177–579/1183), even after the Ghuzz invaded Kirman.14 Turanshah, who had once come to Jibal for help, had made the fatal mistake of treating Pahlawan as his junior (and failing to dismount). According to Afdal, Pahlawan said: ‘The elder brother is here with a multitude of horsemen, foot soldiers, and Persian subjects who have come from Kirman to Iraq out of love of him. The little brother has arrived, hungry and naked with a mountain of arrogance and stupidity.’15 Pahlawan was not only immensely more powerful than Turanshah; he was also, in the Seljuq family tree, his senior (see Fig. 9.1). No doubt Qizil Arslan, who had been very close to his brother, found Muhammad b. Bahramshah’s self-abasement sweet.16 For his third argument, Muhammad b. Bahramshah emphasises the ease with which Qizil Arslan will be able to make himself master of Kirman. And not only this: since the Atabeg is a champion of Islam, he will be able to kill two birds with one stone by dealing with the Ghuzz who insulted Islam and expanding his territories at the same time. Muhammad b. Bahramshah explicitly refers to the campaigns led by the Ildegüzids against the Georgian kings (the ‘polytheists’).17 But he also subtly implies that these campaigns have not yielded the desired results. The Bagratid dynasty which ruled Georgia was then at the height of its power and posed a serious challenge to Seljuq influence in the Caucasus. This is the meaning of the sentence: ‘The endeavours that they [your armies] are making in this area [i.e. jihād] would yield much better — 74 —

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results here [i.e. in Kirman].’ The Ghuzz are termed ‘makhādhīl’ (pl. of makhdhūl, ‘abandoned’, implied: by God18) and guilty of ‘fisād ’ (‘corruption’, implied: against the divine order). We can, however, remark that Muhammad b. Bahramshah does not explicitly designate them unbelievers (kāfir). This is probably not so much because of their (perhaps only formal) adherence to the Sunni faith but because of the very origin of the Seljuq dynasty (the Seljuqs themselves stemmed from the Ghuzz).19 As for the military promenade that Muhammad b. Bahramshah promises to Qizil Arslan, there is a lot of exaggeration. True, Qizil Arslan had the most powerful army in Iran at the time (the Khwarazmshah apart). The Akhbar al-dawla al-saljuqiyya, the most knowledgeable source on the Atabegs, mentions a strength of up to 50,000 horses.20 The Ghuzz in Kirman would have been only 5,000.21 However, the outcome of a fight, had Qizil Arslan chosen to intervene, would not have been as predictable as Muhammad b. Bahramshah claimed to believe. The Seljuq troops inside Kirman had been decimated by the Ghuzz in previous years. And Malik Dinar had been able to rally not only the Ghuzz who occupied the garmsīr, but also Turkish amirs (such as the brother of Atabeg Bozqosh,22 or the powerful governor of Bam). More importantly still, he had the support of key Iranian notables ready for a change of regime if it meant a return to stability.23 During the previous 20 years of war, the Iranian notables had been the first victims of massacres in cold blood (as in Bardasir in 575/1180), of famine (in 576/1181, and again in 580/1185–582/1187) and, even more dangerously, of the tottering of the social order. Since the episode of Khabis in 581/1185, it had been clear to all that the Seljuqs could not win and that their elimination was only a matter of time.24 Malik Dinar presented a credible political alternative to the discredited Seljuqs. His military expertise, his charisma and his political sense had immediately established him as Kirman’s new strongman. In the ‘Iqd al-ula, written only a few months after this letter, Afdal explicitly says that as far as the country is concerned, Malik Dinar’s association with the Ghuzz is not a hindrance: ‘For the kingdom, an unjust king with a lion heart is better than a sultan just but impotent.’ Except the handful of Turkish and Daylamite amirs besieged and starving in Bardasir, everyone longed for the end of the fighting and supported (or at least did not oppose) the political project of Malik Dinar. This is one of the reasons that caused the Atabeg of Fars to stay out of the conflict. And for that reason Qizil Arslan, even had he not been at war with Tughril III, would almost certainly have refused to send troops to this unwinnable war. The meeting Muhammad b. Bahramshah wanted never took place. Bardasir fell at the end of summer. Muhammad b. Bahramshah, now a king without kingdom, pitifully returned to Kirman, and stayed for a while at Bam, until eventually the governor asked him to leave. He finished his days at the Ghurid court. But while the concrete impact of this letter was zero, it is of interest to the historian. First, as far as diplomacy is concerned, it provides us with a rare example of a letter of the istighātha (‘request for help’) type for the Seljuq period. It is also, to my knowledge, the only document issued by the chancery of the Seljuqs of Kirman. Many elements are common to the diplomatic practices of the time (for example, the choice of laqabs, the register of language, the importance of the messenger to deliver an oral explanation); but, because of the conditions in which the letter was written, the formulation is much more explicit than that observed in other contemporary diplomatic correspondence. Finally, this letter also gives us a rare opportunity to illuminate an inshā’ document with information provided by the — 75 —

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chronicles – the two types of source usually do not overlap (exceptions being, for example, the chronicles of ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani and Bayhaqi). In this case, the interest is even greater since almost all our knowledge of the history of Kirman during these troubled times is based on the writings of Afdal al-Din Kirmani, a de facto opponent of the Seljuqs. The letter sheds light on the action of the last sultan of Kirman, ready to bow to the authority of a distant atabeg rather than negotiate with a nomad leader.

Chaghri g1

Alp Arslan (d.465/1073)

g2

Malikshah

g3

g4

g5

Qawurt (d.466/1074)

Muhammad Sanjar (d.511/1118) (d.552/1157) Tughril II Ildegüz ∞ +o ∞ (d.529/1134) (d.571/1175) Pahlawan Qizil Arslan (d.581/1186) (d.587/1191)

g6

Arslan (d.571/1176)

Tughrilshah (d.565/1170)

Tughril III (d.590/1194)

Bahramshah Arslanshah Turanshah (d.571/1175–6) (d.572/1177) (d.579/1183) Muhammad



FIG. 9.1

Partial genealogical tree of the Great Seljuqs, the Seljuqs of Iraq, the Seljuqs of Kirman and the Ildegüzids (G: generation).

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Notes









1 See Afdal al-Din Kirmani, Kitab ‘Iqd al-‘ula li-l-mawqif al-a‘la’, ed. ‘A.-M. ‘Amiri-Na’ini (Tehran, 1311/1932), p. 43; Muhammad b. Ibrahim, Saljuqiyan wa Ghuzz dar Kirman, ed. M. Bastani-Parizi (Tehran 1343/1964–5), pp. 152–3 and pp. 154–5 (on the links between Afdal and Muhammad b. Ibrahim, see Mahdi Bayani’s introduction to his reconstruction of Afdal’s Bada’i‘ alazman fi waqa’i‘ Kirman (Tehran, 1326/1947)). See also for secondary literature, T. Houtsma, ‘Zur Geschichte der Selgúqen von Kermân’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenlänsischen Gesellschaft 39 (1885), pp. 362–410, 391; C.E. Bosworth, ‘The political and dynastic history of the Iranian world (ad1000–1217)’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 5, ed. J.A. Boyle. The Saljuq and Mongol Periods (Cambridge, 1968), p. 174; E. Merçil, Kirmân Selçuklurarı (Ankara, 1989), pp. 134–5. 2 Iraj Afshar and Gh. Tahir (eds), Mukhtarat min al-rasa’il (Tehran, 1378/1999–2000), pp. 182–3. The higher degree of authenticity of the documents found in the Mukhtarat is in a way ‘guaranteed’ by the fact that the compiler, who worked one century after their redaction, had no known interest in fabricating them. 3 I am indebted to Prof. Azartash Azarnoush for clearing up many difficulties in the Persian text. My thanks also go to Jürgen Paul, who has read my translation. As in my previous translations based on the Mukhtarat (see D. Durand-Guédy, ‘Diplomatic practice in Salğūq Iran: a preliminary study based on nine letters about Saladin’s campaign in Mesopotamia’, Oriente Moderno 87, no 2 (2008), pp.271–96; idem, Iranian Elites and Turkish Rulers: A History of Is.fahān in the Saljūq Period (London, 2010, index of sources)), I have favoured the meaning and reformulated the sentence when I could not stick to the original phrasing. 4 The last form can be read as a dual, but the religious meaning it conveys (‘the Two Worlds’) makes it improbable. 5 ‘Irāq refers to the Iranian province of Jibal, and in this letter more generally to the territories controlled by the Atabeg. 6 ‘Khadamāt’ is an ambiguous term which conveys at the same time the letter itself and the presents sent with it. 7 For an introduction to the diplomatic practices in Seljuq Iran, see my article ‘Diplomatic practice’ with reference to the existing scholarship (see esp. notes 1, 3, 5 and 41). 8 See Abu Hamid’s continuation of the Saljuqnama in Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. A. Ateş (Ankara, 1960), pp. 183–96. 9 See Durand-Guédy, ‘Diplomatic practice’, pp. 89–90. 10 At almost the same time that the letter was written, Tughril III did not hesitate to ally himself with Türkmens of the Western Zagros to shake the authority of the Atabegs. On this subject see D. Durand-Guédy, ‘Goodbye to the Türkmens? The military role of nomads after the Saljūk conquest’, in K. Franz and W. Holzwarth (eds), Nomadic Military Power, Iran and Adjacent Areas in the Islamic Period (Wiesbaden, forthcoming). 11 See Muhammad b. Ibrahim, Saljuqiyan wa Ghuzz, p. 137. 12 Ibid., pp.90, 100, 141. 13 Ibid., pp.65–6. 14 Ibid., p.154. 15 Ibid., p.108. 16 See Durand-Guédy, ‘Diplomatic practice’, p. 279. 17 Qizil Arslan’s presence in the campaigns against the Georgians in 571/1175 and 572–3/1176–8 is not mentioned in the Muslim or Georgian sources, but is nevertheless probable. The laqab ‘vanquisher of the unbelievers and polytheists’ also hints at it. The reference to the ‘heretics’, that is to say the Ismailis, may be only out of protocol, since I am not aware of any action taken by Qizil Arslan against them. 18 In the eleventh and twelfth centuries the adjective ‘makhdhūl’ frequently qualifies Ghuzz or Türkmen, see Dihkhuda’s Lughatnama and also Abu Bakr Ibn al-Zaki, Rawdat al-kuttab, ed. A. Sevim (Ankara, 1972), p. 57 (Persian text), line 13 (for the Türkmens of Anatolia/Rum). 19 Assessing the exact degree of adherence of the Türkmen nomads to Islam and its standards is always difficult given the state of our sources. But Afdal al-Din Kirmani, although in his time a staunch supporter of the Ghuzz leader Malik Dinar, drew in his chronicle a very black picture of the outrages committed by the Ghuzz against Islam.  20 Husayni, Akhbar al-dawla al-saljuqiyya, ed. M. Iqbal (Lahore, 1933), p. 169 (this figure concerns the troops of Pahlawan against a rebel prince in 571/1176). 21 Muhammad b. Ibrahim, Saljuqiyan wa Ghuzz, p. 126. 22 Ibid., p.164. 23 The most emblematic of these Iranian supporters of Malik Dinar was his vizier, Qiwam al-Din Mas‘ud, who was from a renowned family of secretaries who had served several Seljuq sultans. 24 In Khabis an army sent from Bardasir to repel Malik Dinar chose not to fight despite an overwhelming numerical advantage, Muhammad b. Ibrahim, Saljuqiyan wa Ghuzz, p. 161.

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10 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani’s Nusrat al-fatra, Seljuq politics and Ayyubid origins A.C.S. Peacock

T

he study of Islamic historiography, which Charles Melville has done so much to advance, nonetheless remains in its infancy. In particular, the ‘rhetorical’ style of historical writing that first emerged in Arabic in the eleventh century has had a bad press. Histories written in this manner, which spread to Persian in the late twelfth century, are characterised by the use of a sophisticated vocabulary, rhyming prose (saj‘ ) and verbal tricks. While modern historians have often regarded this ‘bombastic’ or ‘pretentious’ style as an inconvenient obstacle to extracting the historical ‘facts’, its use in historiography has attracted little attention from literature specialists.1 As a result, such rhetorical histories remain little studied and little understood. One of the most egregious examples of this neglect is the Nusrat al-fatra, composed by the famous littérateur and secretary to Saladin, ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani (519/1125–597/1201).2 Completed in the Ayyubid domains in the final years of the sixth/twelfth century, the Nusrat al-fatra treats the Seljuq period in Iran and Iraq in a sophisticated rhetorical style that draws on chancery prose (inshā’) and even the maqāma genre.3 Although the Nusrat al-fatra is one of our principal sources for an era which is notably poor in extant chronicles, the full text remains unpublished, preserved in a unique manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale in Paris (MS arabe 2145). The work is generally cited through the abridgement entitled the Zubdat alnusra, made in 623/1226 by al-Bundari – also known as the Arabic translator of the Shahnameh – and published by Houtsma in 1889 as the second volume of his collection of sources for Seljuq history, the Recueil de Textes relatifs à l’Histoire des Seldjoucides.4 — 78 —

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Important research by David Durand-Guédy has shed light on the relationship of Bundari’s abridgement to ‘Imad al-Din’s original text and the latter’s nature.5 Yet few other scholars have regarded the work as anything other than a source of raw historical data, and much about the Nusrat al-fatra remains mysterious, above all the question of why it was written in the first place. ‘Imad al-Din’s other extant prose works, al-Barq al-shami and al-Fath al-qussi, deal with the career of his patron Saladin, although al-Barq al-shami actually focuses more on the author’s role as secretary to Saladin,6 and was seen by other medieval authors as autobiography as much as anything else.7 Whether one views the hero of al-Barq al-shami as ‘Imad al-Din or Saladin, such works would have held an obvious relevance to a contemporary audience who would have known the personalities involved. Yet the appeal of a work dealing with Seljuq history to an Ayyubid audience is rather less obvious, and deserves to be explained. The Nusrat al-fatra’s composition is especially interesting, given that, as we shall see, its focus is less the deeds of famous sultans than the plotting of long-vanished bureaucrats, and it offers few tales of exemplary conduct with which to edify its audience, one of the principal functions of pre-modern Islamic historiography. In this essay, I consider what ‘Imad al-Din was trying to achieve in the Nusrat al-fatra and to what audience it was destined, which, it is hoped, will lead to a fuller appreciation of this complex and important text. The contents of the Nusrat al-fatra

‘Imad al-Din states his aim clearly at the beginning of the Nusrat al-fatra: ‘I desire to compose a book on the viziers of the Seljuq kings and the leading men of the state who had high responsibilities.’8 The oft-repeated description of the work as a ‘history of the Seljuqs’ given by Houtsma to his edition is thus somewhat misleading, and ‘Imad al-Din never actually refers to the Nusrat alfatra as a history at all.9 ‘Imad al-Din’s interest is, as this statement indicates, less in the dynasty itself than in its servants – the class of kātibs to which the author himself, his father, grandfather and uncle had all belonged. ‘Imad al-Din then describes how he read the Persian memoirs of the Seljuq bureaucrat Anushirvan b. Khalid (d. 532/1137–8 or 533/1138–9)10 and was disgusted with their inaccuracy and the author’s attacks on his colleagues (‘he sought vengeance and revenge and slandered their noble reputation’).11 Nonetheless, he was ordered by an unnamed acquaintance to translate the work into Arabic and ‘confirm what was true and accurate in it’ (sāmani […] an u‘arriba lahu al-kitāb wa-a‘tamida fīhi al-s.idq wa-l-s.awāb) (fol. 2a). This acquaintance, it has been suggested, was another famous secretary to Saladin, al-Qadi al-Fadil.12 He is certainly the obvious candidate, but the oblique manner in which ‘Imad al-Din refers to him suggests that even if his old friend al-Qadi al-Fadil did encourage him to ‘translate’ the text, he was not in any conventional sense a patron from whom the author might expect a reward. The original text of Anushirvan’s memoirs (the Nafthat al-masdur) is lost to us, but there is every reason to be sceptical about the claim that the Nusrat al-fatra represents a translation of the Persian original. Substantial sections are, by ‘Imad al-Din’s own admission, derived from other sources.13 Even in the parts where the Nafthat al-masdur was used – amounting to less than half of the work – ‘Imad al-Din has no intention of presenting us with an Arabic version of Anushirvan’s text with the offensive parts cut out. Rather, as we shall see, he quotes – doubtless — 79 —

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selectively, and with what fidelity we cannot know for sure – what he claims Anushirvan wrote, and then proceeds to add his own comments, often refuting his source’s point of view, frequently condemning or satirising prominent Seljuq officials. Why does ‘Imad al-Din make such a play of basing his work on Anushirvan when in fact it represents a source for a rather small part of the narrative, one which he frequently goes out of his way to contradict? It has been suggested that the Nafthat al-masdur was one of the few sources available that treated ‘Imad al-Din’s central interest, the history of Seljuq bureaucrats; that Anushirvan shared with ‘Imad al-Din a moralising style that sought to highlight the good and the bad among these bureaucrats; and that both shared a similar, embittered view of the Seljuq state, where ultimately the careers of both men had floundered, ending in exile.14 ‘Imad al-Din’s emphasis on Anushirvan’s unreliability may, it has been argued, have been intended to excuse any errors he himself made.15 However, ‘Imad al-Din’s own words make it clear that he saw little good in Anushirvan’s work, and he frequently intervenes to ‘correct’ what he claims he is reporting from the Persian. ‘Imad al-Din’s explicit interventions occur above all in the sections of the text dealing with episodes in which his own family or their allies were involved, in particular during the reign of Sultan Mahmud, when his own uncle ‘Aziz al-Din held a senior post in the bureaucracy as mustawfi, or chief financial officer. As Ibn Khallikan remarks, ‘Imad al-Din was fiercely proud of his uncle’s memory,16 and ‘Aziz al-Din features prominently in not just the Nusrat al-fatra, but also as a recipient of praise poems in ‘Imad al-Din’s great poetry anthology, the Kharidat al-qasr wa-jaridat al-‘asr. Indeed, the anthology was written at least in part explicitly to preserve these panegyrics addressed to ‘Aziz al-Din and to commemorate their authors.17 ‘Imad al-Din’s own father, Safi al-Din, is mentioned very rarely in comparison, only fleetingly appearing in the Nusrat al-fatra. ‘Aziz al-Din had died in 526/1132 when ‘Imad al-Din was a child of six or seven, but the latter strove to identify himself with his illustrious relative, and was known as Ibn Akhi al-‘Aziz, ‘Aziz’s nephew.18 ‘Imad al-Din himself tells us that the caliph ‘used to describe me as ‘Aziz which had been my uncle’s honorific’19 – he had started his career in the service of the caliphal vizier Ibn Hubayra. ‘Imad al-Din’s interventions in the text of Anushirvan – ‘Aziz alDin’s contemporary and a fellow bureaucrat – aimed to promote his uncle’s reputation, which as we will see was rather more controversial than he admits. Anushirvan b. Khalid, Abu ’l-Qasim Darguzini and the fall of ‘Aziz al-Din

The key to understanding ‘Imad al-Din’s use of the Nafthat al-masdur lies in appreciating the relationship between his family – above all ‘Aziz al-Din – and their fellow bureaucrats. Two figures feature particularly prominently among ‘Aziz al-Din’s enemies: Anushirvan himself, and the vizier Abu ’l-Qasim Darguzini, a former ally of ‘Aziz al-Din. Both these characters are implicated in ‘Aziz al-Din’s death.20 Anushirvan had served Muhammad Tapar b. Malikshah (r.1105–18) in various capacities, taking charge of the treasury, and later serving as deputy vizier. Anushirvan emphasises his own closeness to the Sultan.21 The beginning of the reign of Muhammad’s successor, Mahmud (r. 1119–31), is portrayed as a disaster, with the Sultan leading an ill-conceived campaign against — 80 —

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his suzerain, Sanjar, which ended in his humiliation.22 ‘Imad al-Din only interjects occasionally, specifically to denounce his family’s arch-enemy, Abu ’l-Qasim Darguzini, who is held responsible for the plot against Sanjar,23 but it seems unlikely this exactly reflects Anushirvan’s portrayal of the period. It is not clear exactly what position Anushirvan held, but he seems to have wielded substantial influence at this point. ‘Imad al-Din claims – on the authority of acquaintances of his father, Safi al-Din – that as Muhammad lay dying, Anushirvan had headed the plotting courtiers who sought to ensure their control remain unthreatened by appointing an outsider from Baghdad as vizier, one Rabib al-Dawla, who would not understand their tricks.24 Just before the now inevitable clash between Sanjar and Mahmud, Rabib al-Dawla was replaced as vizier by a man to whom ‘Imad al-Din is much better disposed, Kamal al-Mulk al-Sumayrami. Kamal al-Mulk had served in the reign of Muhammad too, acting as deputy vizier to the sultan’s wife Gawhar Khatun, in which capacity he had appointed ‘Aziz al-Din as his own deputy, and subsequently becoming mushrif al-dīwān.25 After the clash between Sanjar and Mahmud, the victorious Sanjar issued both Darguzini and Kamal al-Mulk with investitures (manshūr) to act as vizier for Mahmud.26 Meanwhile, ‘Aziz al-Din, Kamal al-Mulk’s protégé, was serving as a deputy in the dīwān al-istīfā’. At this juncture, the sharp difference between ‘Imad al-Din and Anushirvan’s approaches becomes evident. Anushirvan was deeply hostile to Kamal al-Mulk, presumably because with the removal of Rabib al-Dawla he lost influence. ‘Imad alDin, however, saw the new vizier as his family’s ally, even quoting the view of his father, Safi al-Din, that Kamal al-Mulk was ‘the best of Seljuq viziers’.27 ‘Imad al-Din starts to litter his text with interpolations, quoting Anushirvan’s allegations only to refute them. Anushirvan claims that on receiving his manshūr for the vizierate, Kamal al-Mulk’s first act was to arrange the assassination of his enemies, including Darguzini. ‘Imad al-Din explains, however, that at this point Darguzini was still a friend of his family, and Safi al-Din used his influence with ‘Aziz al-Din to secure Darguzini’s release, even though ten years later Darguzini would requite this by having ‘Aziz al-Din killed. ‘Imad al-Din also justifies Kamal al-Mulk’s plan to have Darguzini killed, remarking that the vizier wanted only to save the people from Darguzini’s notorious bloodthirstiness.28 ‘Imad al-Din pointedly denies Anushirvan’s claim that Kamal al-Mulk had been involved in large-scale confiscations (mus.ādara)29 – although Anushirvan’s allegations were apparently found credible by later historians, and charges of tyranny and confiscation are levelled against Kamal al-Mulk by Ibn al-Athir.30 While Anushirvan claims that the sultanate had been strong under Muhammad (that is, when he was in power) but weakened under Mahmud (when his influence diminished), ‘Imad al-Din claims that Kamal al-Mulk successfully ‘restored the glory of the sultanate of Iraq’ (a‘āda rawnaq salt.anat al-‘Irāq ghad.d.an).31 Anushirvan is similarly self-congratulatory about the success of the financial administration under Muhammad and disparaging about its operation under Mahmud: ‘the dīwān did nothing but take easy money.’32 Particularly controversial was Anushirvan’s treatment of the vizierate of Shams al-Mulk b. Nizam al-Mulk, who succeeded Kamal al-Mulk after the latter’s brutal murder, attributed by ‘Imad al-Din to the Ismailis.33 ‘Aziz al-Din was promoted to having charge of the dīwān alistīfā’, while Darguzini was appointed over the dīwān al-‘ard. with Anushirvan as his deputy.34 Anushirvan – according to what is claimed to be his own account – was obliged to remain in Baghdad to look after the dīwān al-‘ard. there, and, in his absence from the sultanic court, — 81 —

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unnamed people plotted against him and the Sultan issued an order for him to be kept under house arrest. The man who drew up this order was none other than ‘Aziz al-Din, and Anushirvan held him personally responsible for his fall.35 ‘Imad al-Din does not, however, immediately interrupt, but allows the report of Shams al-Mulk’s vizierate to continue. Judging by the switch to the use of the third person for Anushirvan, much of this must in fact be ‘Imad al-Din’s own composition. Shams al-Mulk ‘did not roll up the carpet of oppression and confiscation’ and was widely hated, while his deputy, al-Kamil b. al-Kafi, was equally bad.36 The Sultan led a campaign in the Caucasus against the tributary state of Shirwan that resulted in great destruction; only a victory over the Georgians somewhat mitigated what was otherwise a public relations disaster. Shams al-Mulk paid the price: ‘A whole year of his vizierate had gone by without any work worth mentioning having been done except imprisoning Anushirvan and ruining Shirwan; when the sultan saw that things had gone badly wrong, he got angry with the vizier Shams al-Mulk and killed him when he was in captivity at Baylaqan at the end of Rabi‘ I 517 [May 1123].’37 ‘Imad al-Din then interjects that the reason for Shams al-Mulk’s killing was that Darguzini, who was acting as ambassador to Sanjar, had blamed the vizier for the end of the glory of the dynasty (adhhaba al-hayba) and the dispersal of its army. As a result Sanjar sent a letter to Mahmud demanding he hand over Shams al-Mulk. Fearing that the latter would give away his secrets if sent, and not daring to disobey Sanjar, Mahmud decided to execute him and send Sanjar the vizier’s head. It may seem strange that ‘Imad al-Din should devote such space to Shams al-Mulk’s failures when his uncle – of whose reputation he is usually so solicitous – held high office in this time, and indeed he makes no effort to disguise ‘Aziz al-Din’s involvement in Anushirvan’s arrest. Evidence from another source helps elucidate ‘Imad al-Din’s intentions. According to Ibn al-Athir, ‘Aziz al-Din was in fact himself responsible for Shams al-Mulk’s death. In this version of events, Shams al-Mulk’s enemy Abu Tahir al-Qummi became vizier to Sanjar and persuaded his master to order Mahmud, the junior sultan, to have Shams al-Mulk arrested. Fearing the consequences of Shams al-Mulk falling into Sanjar’s hands, ‘Aziz al-Din persuaded Mahmud to pre-empt this by killing the vizier, with whom he was anyway at odds (wa-kāna baynahuma ‘adāwa). ‘Aziz alDin’s own end a few years later is seen by Ibn al-Athir at least (or his source) as a richly deserved punishment for his role in the demise of Shams al-Mulk: ‘As for al-‘Aziz the mustawfī, his days did not last long until he was killed, as we shall mention, in recompense for his efforts to kill the vizier’ (jazā’an li-say‘ihi fī qatl al-wazīr).38 ‘Imad al-Din’s extensive treatment of Shams al-Mulk’s vizierate thus serves to refute this interpretation of events – which Ibn al-Athir must have derived from an earlier source – by suggesting that Shams al-Mulk’s tyrannical behaviour meant he was entirely deserving of being executed. By blaming Darguzini, Sanjar and Mahmud, ‘Imad al-Din aims to exculpate his uncle of responsibility for the vizier’s death. According to ‘Imad al-Din, on Shams al-Mulk’s death, ‘Aziz al-Din was offered promotion from the office of mustawfī to the vizierate, and although he carried out its functions, he modestly declined the title, saying instead his old friend Darguzini should hold the office – ‘for he did not realise that his friendship would be returned as hostility’.39 Anushirvan is then allowed to resume his narrative, recounting how he was released, partly through the intervention of ‘Aziz al-Din, and restored to favour at court. One must wonder if this passage may also be intended to exculpate ‘Aziz al-Din from responsibility for Anushirvan’s earlier arrest by suggesting that as — 82 —

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soon as ‘Aziz al-Din had power, Anushirvan was released; his arrest, therefore, was just one more of Shams al-Mulk’s crimes. A bleak description of Darguzini’s bloodthirsty vizierate follows, apparently entirely by ‘Imad al-Din’s pen.40 Darguzini’s rule started with the killing of one of ‘Aziz al-Din’s supporters, the Qadi Zayn al-Islam Abu Sa‘d Muhammad b. Nasr al-Harawi by Darguzini’s allies, the Ismailis. Darguzini is also accused of being behind the Ismaili murder in Mosul of Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi, a senior Seljuq commander noted for his anti-Ismaili efforts. ‘Aziz al-Din distanced himself from these actions by going on the hajj, and on his return sought to resign his office, telling the Sultan of Darguzini’s misdeeds. Mahmud ordered Darguzini to be replaced by Anushirvan, who proved to be hopelessly ineffective as vizier (kānat fī Anūshirwān rakāka z.āhira). Although he was meant to be keeping Darguzini under arrest, ‘he put up a tent for [Darguzini] in his palace and let all of his friends come and meet him; and every day [Anushirvan] would come and sit in front of him and say to him, “Oh master you are more suitable for this position that the Sultan has given me than I am.”’41 After a year Darguzini replaced him as vizier. With the reader’s opinion by now thoroughly turned against Anushirvan, ‘Imad al-Din provides what purports to be the former’s own account of his vizierate for Mahmud in 521/1127– 522/1128. Anushirvan recounts how he was summoned from Baghdad to take up the position, but the officials already in post, al-Shihab As‘ad the t.ughrā’ī, al-Safi Abu ’l-Qasim the mustawfī and the chief h.ājib, were resolved to continue to run affairs in the manner to which they were accustomed and prevented him from achieving anything. After a year Anushirvan resigned and was replaced by Darguzini, who started to persecute his predecessor, seizing his possessions and his house in Baghdad.42 What appears as Anushirvan’s side of the story in fact supports the basic tenor of ‘Imad al-Din’s allegations: that Anushirvan was useless in office and Darguzini’s greed and cruelty were boundless. Another fact also suggests ‘Imad al-Din’s intervention in what he presents as Anushirvan’s narrative: the continuation of the Nafthat al-masdur by Najm alDin Qummi (composed c. 584/1188–9) has a much less hostile view of Darguzini than appears in the Nusrat al-fatra.43 The author of the continuation had himself a personal connection to Anushirvan, for he was a cousin of Umayra b. Dara Qummi, nā’ib in the dīwān al-istīfā’ during Anushirvan’s vizierate for Mas‘ud b. Muhammad (529/1135–530/1136).44 Such appointments were decided largely through patronage and personal ties, suggesting that Qummi’s treatment may have been influenced by Anushirvan’s favour to his cousin; and the impression of a link between the two men is reinforced by Qummi’s decision to brand his work a continuation of Anushirvan’s. Qummi’s attitude towards Anushirvan is certainly quite different to ‘Imad alDin’s, for he is full of praise for dazzling abilities, describing the Vizier as ‘a pearl in the oyster of the age’ (durrī būd dar .sadaf-i rūzgār).45 Thus in the treatment of Anushirvan and Darguzini, the heavy editorial hand of ‘Imad al-Din may be detected in putting into Anushirvan’s mouth words very different from the ones he originally expressed. This is doubtless true of other places in the text too. The story of Anushirvan’s vizierate for Mahmud is the last occasion on which the Nafthat al-masdur is cited by ‘Imad al-Din. Yet we know from ‘Imad al-Din’s own account and that of Najm al-Din Qummi that the Nafthat al-masdur was rather more extensive and continued up to the end of the reign of Tughril in 527/1133.46 ‘Imad al-Din probably decided not to use it all from this point onwards because Anushirvan’s version of events was totally unsuitable for — 83 —

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his purposes. He deals next with a crucial part of his narrative, the circumstances leading to the death of ‘Aziz al-Din in 526/1132.47 His uncle’s death is blamed squarely on the evil Abu ’l-Qasim Darguzini. According to ‘Imad al-Din, in 525/1130–1, a missive came from Sanjar, asking for the inheritance of his daughters, who had both been married to Sultan Mahmud before dying. The request for the inheritance was not well received by Mahmud, and Darguzini convinced him that ‘Aziz al-Din was in league with Sanjar, and should be imprisoned to prevent him having further contact. ‘Aziz was sent to prison in Tikrit, and, even though the Sultan soon saw through Darguzini’s lies, ‘Imad al-Din’s father Safi al-Din and the latter’s brother Diya’ al-Din were also arrested. Mahmud wrote to the imprisoned ‘Aziz al-Din in Tikrit promising he would soon be rescued and Darguzini would himself be arrested, but in Shawwal 525/August–September 1031 Mahmud himself died, allegedly poisoned by the vizier. Darguzini then ingratiated himself with Sanjar, persuading the latter not just to appoint him as vizier to Tughril, Mahmud’s successor (after the inevitable succession struggle) but also to issue him with his seal (‘alāma), allowing him to promulgate orders in the name of the senior sultan. He immediately used this to order ‘Aziz al-Din’s killing.48 These events were in all likelihood covered by Anushirvan’s memoirs and ‘Imad al-Din probably does not cite them because he found their treatment of his uncle’s death unsatisfactory. The nature of Anushirvan’s treatment is suggested by another independent source, Ibn Khallikan, who says that ‘Aziz al-Din was executed on Sultan Mahmud’s orders. When Sanjar’s demand for the inheritance came, Mahmud refused, but was afraid of ‘Aziz al-Din because as the senior financial official in the realm he knew exactly how much money had been sent with his master’s late wife. The Sultan therefore decided to have ‘Aziz al-Din executed.49 The Nafthat al-masdur may well be the ultimate source of Ibn Khallikan’s version; very possibly it is behind Ibn alAthir’s claim that ‘Aziz al-Din ordered Shams al-Mulk’s killing. Thus ‘Imad al-Din’s emphasis in his introduction on the Nafthat al-masdur’s failings was far from being an excuse for his own inadequacies. His aim is precisely to demolish Anushirvan’s work and its author’s reputation. Sometimes this was done by turning Anushirvan’s own words against him, to portray him a negative light, as with the account of his vizierate in 521–2; sometimes by intervening in the narrative to correct or supplement Anushirvan’s account; and sometimes by suppressing Anushirvan’s account and completely replacing it, as with the passages dealing with ‘Aziz al-Din’s death. The rest of the Nusrat al-fatra seems to be ‘Imad alDin’s own composition, with no identifiable debt to Anushirvan (although, lacking the text of the Persian, we cannot be sure where there may have been parallels), but ‘Imad al-Din does not miss an opportunity to promote his family’s reputation and denigrate their enemies. Darguzini comes to a predictably bad end: Sultan Tughril orders him to be crucified, but in a touch of grotesque absurdity worthy of the maqāma, the rope breaks under the strain of the vizier’s enormous obesity and a slave has to finish off the job by cutting off his head and throwing his body to the dogs.50 Tughril, we are told, had not yet heard of ‘Aziz al-Din’s fate and wished to appointment him as vizier – clearly another attempt by ‘Imad al-Din to add lustre to his uncle’s reputation.51 Slightly later, Anushirvan ended up on the opposite side to ‘Aziz al-Din’s brothers in one of the interminable Seljuq power struggles, serving as vizier to Tughril’s rival as sultan, Mas‘ud.52 On Tughril’s death, the evil-natured Mas‘ud was not left to enjoy his domains in peace, but the Seljuq pretender Da’ud b. Sultan Mahmud and the Caliph al-Rashid billah joined forces — 84 —

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in a revolt that collapsed at Isfahan in 532/1137. ‘Imad al-Din’s uncle Baha’ al-Din served Da’ud in the dīwān al-istīfā’,53 while his father Safi al-Din was vizier to al-Rashid billah.54 However, Anushirvan did not reap many benefits from serving the winning side: we are told that Mas‘ud blamed him for things going badly, and owing to his old age and softness Anushirvan was unable to do anything. In any event Mas‘ud mistrusted him and sacked him.55 Thus Anushirvan’s second vizierate for the Seljuq dynasty is depicted as being as unsuccessful as the first – in great contrast to Qummi’s treatment.56 The Nusrat al-fatra thus resounds with the sound of various axes being ground. Occasional glimpses afforded us by other sources for this poorly documented period of Seljuq history can be suggestive of the extent to which ‘Imad al-Din’s work may have been shaped by this personal agenda. Darguzini, depicted as the very embodiment of evil because of the killing of ‘Aziz alDin, emerges from the letters of the contemporary Sana’i as a pious man seeking to honour this famous Sufi poet.57 Of course, plenty of impious viziers patronised Sufis too, but Sana’i does at least present a very different image from that of the Nusrat al-fatra, as too does the continuation of Anushirvan’s work by Qummi. As noted above, Kamal al-Mulk al-Sumayrami also appears in a much more negative light in Ibn al-Athir than he does in the Nusrat al-fatra. ‘Imad al-Din’s accounts thus need to be approached with a good deal of circumspection by historians. Yet if the Nusrat al-fatra was a project motivated by the desire to bolster the reputation of the author’s family and their allies while denigrating their enemies, why would anyone have been interested in the very different circumstances of the Ayyubid state a good half century later? Whom did the work address? In the final part of this essay, I shall turn to examine these questions. Seljuq networks in the Ayyubid state

‘Aziz al-Din’s importance to ‘Imad al-Din was not merely a question of his family’s reputation. The author’s uncle is portrayed as the patron of a subsequent generation of bureaucrats, many of whom were employed in Zangid or Ayyubid service. After the death of Zangi b. Aqsunqur in 541/1146, for instance, Jamal al-Din al-Jawwad al-Isfahani (d.559/1163–4) played a crucial role in maintaining the Zangid state, agreeing that Nur al-Din and Shirkuh should go to Syria to secure its borders while he himself became vizier to Zangi’s son Alp Arslan and took control of Mosul.58 Jamal al-Din was a close friend of Najm al-Din Ayyub and Shirkuh,59 but he was also a relative of ‘Imad al-Din and a protégé of ‘Aziz al-Din. Jamal al-Din’s father, al-Kamil, had married off one of his daughters to one of ‘Aziz al-Din’s sons, while ‘Aziz al-Din had secured Jamal al-Din a position in Sultan Mahmud’s dīwān al-‘ard.. Subsequently, ‘Aziz al-Din arranged for his protégé to be appointed vizier to the young amir Khassbeg b. Kundughdi, whose mother had remarried to Zangi, under whom he eventually rose to the senior financial office of ishrāf al-dīwān.60 Thus Jamal al-Din ultimately owed his career in Zangid service to the patronage of ‘Imad al-Din’s uncle. ‘Imad al-Din himself met Jamal al-Din when he visited Mosul in 542/1147–8, shortly after Jamal al-Din had secured Zangid rule there and, as he relates, it was this family acquaintance that secured him advancement. ‘Jamal al-Din was generous to me despite my youth and advanced me above my elders […] he promoted me because of the debt he owed to my uncle ‘Aziz and because of the nobility [najāba] he perceived in me.’61 On this visit he probably also encountered a man who would subsequently play a key role in his career, the Qadi Kamal al-Din al-Shahrazuri, — 85 —

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a senior figure in the politics of Mosul whom the Zangids often employed as ambassador to the Seljuq sultanate and the Caliph in Baghdad.62 Qadi Kamal al-Din later moved to Ayyubid service, and was ‘Imad al-Din’s first patron in Syria. The Qadi secured him an introduction to Najm al-Din Ayyub, who had also known ‘Aziz al-Din, and on account of this acquaintance singled ‘Imad al-Din out for favour (fa-ba‘athathu ma‘rifat al-‘amm al-‘Azīz ‘alā l-ta‘arruf bī).63 Through these connections, ‘Imad al-Din eventually rose to his post as secretary first to Najm al-Din, then to Saladin. Kamal al-Din al-Shahrazuri had a prior acquaintance with ‘Imad al-Din and his family. He was himself married to a daughter of ‘Aziz al-Din,64 and his son, Kamal al-Din Abu Hamid Muhammad, was a contemporary of ‘Imad al-Din at the Nizamiya and his close friend. Kamal al-Din Abu Hamid Muhammad subsequently became qadi of Aleppo and also was instrumental in helping ‘Imad al-Din when he arrived in Syria.65 It was probably this family relationship that had drawn ‘Imad al-Din’s father to Mosul. After the fall of al-Rashid and Da’ud, Safi al-Din had initially moved from Isfahan to Baghdad, but he must subsequently have gone on to Mosul, for the purpose of ‘Imad al-Din’s visit in 542/1147–8 was to visit his father.66 ‘Aziz al-Din’s memory clearly still burned bright in Mosul – on this visit ‘Imad al-Din also encountered a certain Abu ’l-Hasan ‘Isa b. al-Fadl al-Nasrani, who showed him the letters he had received from ‘Aziz al-Din, presumably because of their exemplary style.67 Another likely acquaintance, although ‘Imad alDin does not specifically mention meeting him, was Marwan b. ‘Ali b. Salama b. Marwan, who had served as vizier for Zangi and had also been a friend of ‘Aziz al-Din.68 Thus Mosul provided ‘Imad al-Din – and his father – with a network of acquaintances, friends and admirers, to whom they were linked by ‘Aziz al-Din’s patronage. It was the connections provided by this Mosuli elite, who moved from Seljuq to Zangid, and ultimately Ayyubid service, that allowed ‘Imad al-Din to relaunch his career in Syria. Ayyubid Syria was also home to a wider circle of émigrés from Mosul and the Seljuq lands than those to whom ‘Imad al-Din directly refers, as a few examples will suffice to show. The doctor Abu ’l-Hakam al-Maghribi, who had owed his position as physician to the Seljuq army to ‘Aziz alDin’s patronage, fled to Syria, where he settled after the execution of his patron.69 ‘Alam al-Din al-Shattani, a native of Mosul who later worked for Nur al-Din and Saladin in the bureaucracy, received favours in his youth from ‘Aziz al-Din and met ‘Imad al-Din when the latter was in Ibn Hubayra’s service.70 Another Mosuli in Ayyubid service was Ibn Shaddad – himself the author of a rather less self-referential biography of Saladin than ‘Imad al-Din’s effort – who had been educated at the Nizamiyya in Baghdad,71 like al-Shattani and his friend and elder ‘Imad al-Din.72 Rather later, Bundari, ‘Imad al-Din’s abridger, was another of these easterners who joined Ayyubid service.73 Easterners furnished part of the religious elite too. One such was the Shafi‘i qadi Najm al-Din al-Khabushani, from the vicinity of Nishapur, who was close to Saladin and died in Egypt in 587/1191. Born in 510/1116, he would have grown up in the Seljuq east.74 However, not all these easterners would have been sympathetic to ‘Imad al-Din. For instance, Nizam al-Din, vizier of the Ayyubid ruler of Aleppo, al-Malik al-Zahir (r.582/1186–613/1216), was himself the great-grandson of Mu’ayyid al-Din al-Tughra’i, the vizier to the Seljuq malik Mas‘ud (later sultan) who was blamed for inciting the latter to rebel against Sultan Mahmud in 514/1120. Tughra’i was executed as a heretic for his role in the revolt by Kamal al-Din al-Sumayrami, ‘Aziz al-Din’s patron and ally.75 That Mu’ayyid al-Din’s reputation remained controversial in the late — 86 —

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twelfth century is demonstrated by Qummi, who singles him out for praise and expresses his disagreement with Anushirvan’s treatment of him in the Nafthat al-masdur;76 perhaps this was one of the occasions when Anushirvan’s agenda and ‘Imad al-Din’s coincided. The Ayyubid elite was thus full of men whose roots lay in the Seljuq sultanate. Membership of the class of kātibs tended to be handed down from generation to generation, and, as Qummi’s discussion of Mu’ayyid al-Din confirms, the reputation of the older generation of kātibs remained hotly debated. This was probably true outside the Seljuq lands too, as the Nusrat al-fatra suggests. Interestingly, the sole extant manuscript of Qummi’s work is held in Cairo, suggesting a comparable interest in Egypt in the long defunct Seljuq bureaucracy. Further research would doubtless bring to light deeper links between the Ayyubid and Seljuq elites than it has been possible to examine here. Such connections were not restricted to the religious and bureaucratic classes. The Ayyubids themselves had first come to prominence in the Seljuq lands. Shadhi b. Ayyub, the founder of the dynasty, had served as governor of Tikrit, a position inherited by his sons Najm al-Din Ayyub and Asad al-Din Shirkuh. Mosul played an important role in Ayyubid fortunes too, for its Seljuq muqta‘, Zangi, welcomed Ayyub and Shirkuh after they were forced to flee Tikrit in 532/1138, before launching their careers in his service and in alliance with Zangi’s son Nur al-Din. The Zangids emphasised their links with the Seljuqs, so when the Zangid al-Malik al-Salih ascended the throne on Nur al-Din’s death in 569/1174, he was seated on the throne of Tutush, Seljuq ruler of Syria.77 The link with the Seljuqs was crucial to the Ayyubid understanding of their own place in history. The major Ayyubid histories of Ibn Wasil and Abu Shama both start with passages designed to show that the Ayyubids were the legitimate successors to the Seljuqs.78 ‘Imad al-Din explicitly links his family to the Ayyubid dynasty through the killing of ‘Aziz al-Din. When ‘Aziz al-Din was imprisoned by Darguzini in Tikrit the governor was Najm alDin Ayyub. ‘Imad al-Din’s account superficially exculpates the Ayyubids. He writes that Shirkuh attempted to dissuade Najm al-Din from handing over ‘Aziz to his death, for, according to ‘Imad al-Din, he was a close associate of ‘Aziz al-Din. ‘Imad al-Din then relates how – after he himself had entered Ayyubid service – he heard Shirkuh say, ‘I was praying with ‘Aziz when I heard a voice cry out, ja‘alaka ‘azīzan kamā h.amayta ‘al-azīz (may God make you mighty as you have protected ‘Aziz); and it was this alone that enticed me to Egypt.’79 ‘Imad al-Din continues, ‘And it was as he said: he took over Egypt and became its minister (‘azīz); but one can hardly be surprised that one whose actions won him paradise won too the kingdom of Egypt.’ So ‘Imad al-Din stakes his family’s claim to be, in a sense, the inspiration behind the establishment of Ayyubid rule in Egypt. Yet there is also an underlying current of criticism. In reality, the Ayyubids had afforded ‘Aziz no protection. ‘Aziz was killed by an agent of Darguzini, praying ‘when he realised he was to be handed over’ (lammā ‘arafa al-‘azīz annahu qad uslima). Note the use of the passive: ‘Imad al-Din avoids attributing agency, but from the context there is no doubt but that it was Saladin’s father and uncle who handed over ‘Aziz to his death. As ‘Imad al-Din goes on to add: fī dhālika ‘ibratun li-man ya‘tabir – a lesson for him who will consider well.80 ‘Imad al-Din’s interest in the fate of his late uncle was thus not purely a matter of restoring the family reputation; it provided him with his case for receiving patronage by reminding the Ayyubids of their debt to ‘Aziz al-Din’s family. Extravagant though the claim to this family — 87 —

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connection to the foundation of the Ayyubid empire may seem, the theme also occurs in alBarq al-shami, where ‘Imad al-Din claimed that on his first meeting with Najm al-Din Ayyub, he presented him with a qas.īda foretelling the conquest of Egypt by Shirkuh and Saladin.81 The poem, like the Nusrat al-fatra and al-Barq al-shami, was intended to bring ‘Imad al-Din patronage by linking the author’s fortunes to those of the dynasty. As we shall now explain, at the time of these works’ composition, ‘Imad al-Din had every need of renewed Ayyubid patronage. The composition of the Nusrat al-fatra

Although ‘Imad al-Din mentions the date 579/1183–4 as ‘the present day’ (ilā al-yawm min sanat 579),82 this cannot have been the final date when the Nusrat al-fatra was finished, for the concluding paragraphs refer to the death of the last Seljuq, Tughril b. Arslan, in 589/1194.83 The work in its present form must therefore have been completed some time after this date; internal textual evidence suggests medieval historians often revised their works substantially, although only rarely have the earlier drafts come down to us.84 The year 589 was not, however, significant for the demise of the last Seljuq alone, but also for the death of Saladin. Ibn Khallikan records that ‘Imad al-Din’s career went into sharp decline with the loss of his patron: ‘Secretary ‘Imad maintained his position and his high status until Saladin died. Then his situation deteriorated, his [court] connections ceased and he found no doors open for him. He kept to his house and devoted himself to his compositions.’85 Despite allies like al-Qadi al-Fadil and the Shahrazuri clan, ‘Imad al-Din had plenty of enemies. On the death of his first Ayyubid patron, Najm al-Din Ayyub, the biographer Yaqut tells us that, ‘A group that were jealous of ‘Imad and hated him turned [Najm al-Din’s successor] al-Salih Isma‘il against him. He feared for himself and left Damascus.’86 In a passage from a lost part of al-Barq al-shami transmitted by Abu Shama, ‘Imad al-Din refers to ‘the envious ones’ (h.ussādī) who had him removed from office.87 The leader of these enemies seems to have been one Abu Salih b. al-‘Ajami of Aleppo, who on Nur al-Din’s death took up the reins of power as vizier to al-Malik al-Salih, and is viciously denounced in the Kharidat al-qasr.88 ‘Imad al-Din headed east, stopping at Mosul en route, where he fell ill. With Saladin’s occupation of Syria he was able to return and was favoured by the new ruler, but after his patron’s death his enemies apparently got the upper hand, although Ibn al-‘Ajami was dead by this point, assassinated by an Ismaili knife in 573/1177–8. The exact identity of those who plotted against him after Saladin’s death is not clear; ‘Imad al-Din is quoted by Abu Shama as complaining that while al-‘Aziz ‘Uthman had employed his father’s officials, al-Kamil had appointed ‘foreigners’ – mainly in fact Mosulis like Ibn al-Athir.89 ‘Imad al-Din himself mentions his disappointment at not being given a suitable position by any of Saladin’s heirs, despite his long and valued service to the late sultan, and he turned to writing letters and qas.īdas bemoaning his fate (shakwā al-h.āl ).90 It can hardly be coincidental that it was in this period, shortly after Saladin’s death, that ‘Imad al-Din completed the Nusrat alfatra, replete with tales of the dangers of untrustworthy bureaucrats and examples of the Ayyubid debt to the author’s family. He also finished his great work on the Ayyubids, al-Barq al-shami, around this time, no later than 595/1198.91 The latter is explicitly intended to be not so much a history of the dynasty, but of ‘Imad al-Din’s relationship with Saladin: ‘I present in this book an — 88 —

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account of my situation with the sultan [Saladin]; then I begin by recounting my acquaintance with him and my service to him, and I describe the beginnings of his reign until he came to Syria when I joined his service.’92 This outburst of activity in the wake of Saladin’s death strongly suggests that ‘Imad al-Din’s ‘historical’ works were in fact composed above all with the author’s own career in mind. By reminding Saladin’s successors of his and his family’s loyal service to the dynasty, he hoped to obtain the preferment that was withheld from him. Conclusion

The question of the audience of the Nusrat al-fatra is thus rather complex, as we are dealing with a text that has existed in at least one earlier redaction, and it is unknown to what extent subsequent alterations may have shaped it into its current form. Nonetheless, certain features are clear. On one level, ‘Imad al-Din clearly aspires to the restoration of his lost favour by a member of the Ayyubid dynasty, to which end he pointedly seeks to remind the Ayyubids of their duty towards him. At the same time, the sophistication of style seems designed to impress ‘Imad alDin’s fellow bureaucrats. The work’s concentration on the careers of the kātib class confirms this impression. The Nusrat al-fatra was also intended to settle old scores. The work of Najm al-Din Qummi, composed a few years before the surviving redaction, around 584/1188–9, attests the enduring interest in Anushirvan’s Nafthat al-masdur and earlier generations of bureaucrats in this period, and the large number of easterners in Ayyubid service, from Mosul, Iraq and Iran, meant there would have been a ready audience for a work dealing with their ancestors in Seljuq service. The Nafthat al-masdur was far from being merely a handy primary source, but was probably a potent weapon in the hands of ‘Imad al-Din’s many enemies. One may suspect that the sores left by the infighting of the kātibs of the Seljuq empire remained evident decades later, as is suggested by the need felt by Qummi to justify the behaviour of Mu’ayyid al-Din al-Tughra’i, and ‘Imad al-Din to exculpate his ancestor ‘Aziz al-Din.

Notes

1 See A.C.S. Peacock, ‘‘Utbī’s al-Yamīnī: patronage, composition and reception’, Arabica 54, no 4 (2007), p. 500; for a similar view of ‘Imad al-Din, see Claude Cahen, ‘The historiography of the Seljuqid period’, in Bernard Lewis and P.M. Holt (eds), Historians of the Middle East (London, 1962), p. 68. 2 For a survey of ‘Imad al-Din’s career and the relevant literature, see Donald S. Richards, ‘Emād al-Din Kāteb’, EIr; Lutz RichterBernburg, Der Syrische Blitz: Saladins Sekretär zwischen Selbstdarstellung und Geschichtsschreibung (Beirut, 1998) provides the most detailed overview of ‘Imad al-Din’s career, family, and literary activities to date. 3 Richter-Bernburg, Der Syrische Blitz, pp. 140–1, 191, 216, 223. 4 Histoire des Seldjoucides de l’Irâq par al-Bondârî d’après Imâd ad-dîn al-Kâtib al-Isfahânî, ed. M.T. Houtsma (Recueil de Textes rélatifs à l’histoire des Seldjoucides, vol.2) (Leiden, 1889) (henceforth, Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra). As the published text, unsatisfactory though it is, is much more easily available than the manuscript, reference is here made whenever possible to the former. 5 David Durand-Guédy, ‘Un fragment inédit de la chronique des Salğuqides de ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Is.fahānī: le chapitre sur Tāğ alMulk’, Annales Islamologiques 39 (2005), pp. 205–22; idem, ‘Mémoires d’exilés: lecture de la chronique des Saljūqides de ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Isfahānī’, Studia Iranica 35 (2006), pp. 181–202. 6 Dwight D. Reynolds (ed.), Interpreting the Self: Autobiography in the Arabic Literary Tradition (Berkeley, 2001), pp. 1, 55. 7 See the discussion by Nasser Rabat, ‘My life with S.alāh. al-Dīn: the memoirs of ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Kātib al-Is.fahānī’, Edebiyat 7 (1997), pp.267–87 in addition to Richter-Bernburg, Der Syrische Blitz. 8 Isfahani, Nusrat al-Fatra, Bibliothèque nationale, Paris, MS arabe 2145, fol. 1b: fa-innī kuntu u’aththir an ajma‘a kitāban fi wuzarā’ al-mulūk al-saljuqiyya wa-akābir dawlatihā dhawī al-himam al-‘aliyya; cf. Durand-Guédy, ‘Mémoires d’exilés’, p. 183 (not present in the Zubdat al-nusra).

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9 Richter-Bernburg, Der Syrische Blitz, p. 178. 10 For these dates and a summary of his career see C.E. Bosworth, ‘Anušervān b. K - āled b. Moh.ammad Kāšāni’, EIr. 11 qas.ada l-tashaffī wa l-intiqām wa-thalaba bi-thulam a‘rād. ihā al-kirām (Isfahani, Nusrat al-fatra, fol. 1b). See the full translation of the passage in Durand-Guédy, ‘Mémoires d’exilés’, pp. 187–8. 12 Richter-Bernburg, Der Syrische Blitz, p. 181. 13 See Durand-Guédy, ‘Mémoires d’exilés’, p. 188; Isfahani, Nus.rat al-Fatra, fol. 2a: thumma dhayyaltuhu bi-mā ‘ayāntuhu fī ‘as.rī min h.adīth al-a‘yān fī h.adīth al-zamān. 14 Durand-Guédy, ‘Mémoires d’exilés’, pp. 189–93. 15 Richter-Berburg, Der Syrische Blitz, p. 178. 16 Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan wa-anba’ abna’ al-zaman, ed. Yusuf ‘Ali Tawil and Mariam Qasim Tawil (Beirut, 1998), vol. 1, p.197. 17 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, Kharidat al-qasr wa jaridat al-‘asr: al-qism al-‘Iraqi, ed. Muhammad Bahjat al-Athari (Baghdad, 1955– 1976), vol.4/i, p. 408. 18 Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan, vol. 4, p. 382. 19 Isfahani, Kharidat al-qasr: al-qism al-‘Iraqi, vol. 1, p. 7. 20 Some of these relationships were briefly studied by Richter-Bernburg, Der Syrische Blitz, esp. pp. 30–4 and pp. 182–4, who was the first to note the rivalry between ‘Imad al-Din’s family and Darguzini. 21 Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, pp. 90, 97, 108. 22 Ibid., pp.120–5. 23 Darguzini and the plot against Sanjar: ibid., p. 120; the denunciation of Darguzini: ibid., pp. 118, 124. 24 Ibid., pp.114–16. 25 Ibid., pp.110, 113. 26 Ibid., p.129. 27 Ibid., p.129. 28 Ibid., p.131. 29 Ibid., pp.110, 132, 134. 30 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil fi ’l-ta’rikh, ed. C. Tornberg (Beirut, 1965–7), vol. 10, pp. 601–2. 31 Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, p. 133 32 Ibid., pp.134–5. 33 Ibid., pp.135–6. 34 Ibid., pp.136–7. 35 Ibid., pp.137–8. 36 Ibid., p.138. 37 Ibid., pp.140–41. Anushirvan is allowed to interject at this point that he had been imprisoned and robbed on Shams al-Mulk’s instructions exactly a year before, at the end of Rabi‘ I 516/June 1122. 38 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 10, pp. 614–15. 39 Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, pp. 141–2. 40 Ibid., pp.144–9. 41 Ibid., p.149. 42 Ibid., pp.150–2. 43 Najm al-Din Qummi, Dhayl-i nafthat al-masdur, ed. Husayn Mudarrisi Tabataba’i (Tehran, 2010), pp. 22–53; cf. Kenneth Allin Luther, ‘A new source for the history of the Iraq Seljuqs: The Tārīkh al-Vuzarā’,’ Der Islam 45 (1969), p. 122, see ibid., pp. 119–20 for the date of the work. 44 Qummi, Dhayl-i nafthat-i masdur, p. 96. 45 Ibid., p.77. 46 Ibid., p.22; Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, p. 4; Durand-Guédy, ‘Memoires d’exilés’, p. 184, n. 12. 47 Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, p. 152. 48 Ibid., pp.152–67. 49 Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan, vol. 1, pp. 197–8. ‘Aziz al-Din’s imprisonment in Tikrit and killing is also mentioned briefly by Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 10, pp. 614, 669–70; there is a brief account too in Qummi, Dhayl-i nafthat al-masdur, pp. 46–7, in which Darguzini is portrayed as arranging ‘Aziz al-Din’s death because he feared his superior competence. 50 Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, p. 169. 51 Ibid., p.171. 52 Ibid., pp.174–5. 53 Ibid., p.181. 54 Isfahani, Kharidat al-qasr: al-qism al-‘Iraqi, vol. 1, p. 33; cf. Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, p. 181, where ‘Imad al-Din refers only obliquely to Safi al-Din’s service, saying that he had sworn not to serve another ruler after what had happened to ‘Aziz al-Din, and suggests he refused al-Rashid’s offer. 55 Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, pp. 181–2. 56 See Qummi, Dhayl-i nafthat al-masdur, pp. 77–120 for Anushirvan’s vizierate to Mas‘ud. 57 Omid Safi, The Politics of Knowledge in Premodern Islam: Negotiating Ideology and Religious Inquiry (Chapel Hill, 2006), pp.193–4. 58 Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, p. 204; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 11, pp. 112–13, 448. For a study of elite migrations from Iraq to Syria and Egypt in the ninth to early eleventh centuries see Eliyahu Ashtor, ‘Un mouvement migratoire au haut Moyen Âge: migrations de l’Irak vers les pays méditerranéens’, Annales: Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations 27 no 1 (1972), pp. 185–214. Evidently, these migrations continued or resumed in the twelfth century. 59 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 11, pp. 307–8.

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60 Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, p. 211. 61 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, Kharidat al-qasr wa jaridat al-‘asr: qism shu‘ara’ al-Sham, ed. Shukri Faysal (Damascus, 1955–9), vol. 2, p.542; cf. ibid., vol. 2, p. 271; Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, p. 213. 62 Kamal al-Din was sent from Mosul to Baghdad as ambassador to the caliph in 530 and 568 (Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 11, pp.44, 392, 395) and as ambassador to Sultan Mas‘ud in 532 and possibly another occasion (ibid., vol. 11, pp. 58, 161). 63 Bundari, Sana al-Barq al-Shami, p. 18. 64 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, al-Barq al-shami: al-juz’ al-khamis, ed. Falih Salih Husayn (Amman, 1987), p. 164: kānat baynī wabayna shaykh al-shuyūkh qarāba qarība […] fa-innahu ittas..sala ilā ibnat ‘ammī al-s.adr al-shahīd ‘Azīz al-Dīn. I take ittas..sala here to mean ‘conjoined in marriage’. 65 Isfahani, Kharidat al-qasr: qism shu‘ara’ al-Sham, vol. 2, pp. 330–1. 66 Ibid., vol.2, p.349: wa lammā qas.adtu wālidī bi-l-Maws.il fī sanat ithnayn wa-arba‘īn. 67 Ibid., vol.2, p.349. Abu ’l-Hasan al-Nasarani is given the title al-ra’īs, so perhaps it was in that capacity that he received ‘Aziz al-Din’s letters (mukātabāt); but his father had also been a vizier to the Marwanids of Diyar Bakr so it is likely that he had a background in the bureaucracy. 68 Ibid., vol.2, p.307. Marwan b. ‘Ali died in 550, so he would still have been alive at the time of ‘Imad al-Din’s visit. 69 Ibn al-Qifti, Ta’rikh al-Hukama’, ed. J. Lippert (Leipzig, 1903), p. 405; Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan, vol. 3, p. 103. 70 Isfahani, Kharidat al-qasr: qism shu‘ara’ al-Sham, vol. 2, pp. 360–84, esp. pp. 362–6. 71 See the biography of Ibn Shaddad in Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan, vol. 5, pp. 442–59. 72 Ibid., vol.4, p.382: tafaqqaha bi-l-madrasa al-niz.āmiyya zamānan. Richter-Bernburg, Der Syrische Blitz, p. 39; they would not, however, have been contemporaries. 73 The EI2 entry on Bundari by Houtsma and Cahen states that very little is known of Bundari’s life. However, we can infer from his translation of the Shahnameh that he knew Persian, indicating an eastern connection. 74 Abu Shama, Kitab al-rawdatayn fi akhbar al-dawlatayn, ed. Ibrahim Shams al-Din (Beirut, 2002), vol. 4, p. 172; Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan, vol. 4, pp. 75–6. 75 Sibt b. al-Jawzi, Mir’at al-Zaman fi ta’rikh al-a‘yan (Hyderabad, 1951–2), vol. 8, p. 92; cf. Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, pp.132–3; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 10, pp. 562–3. 76 Qummi, Dhayl-i Nafthat al-masdur, pp. 290–1. 77 Abu Shama, Kitab al-rawdatayn, vol. 2, p. 208. 78 For the Seljuq influences in the Ayyubid state, see R. Stephen Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols: The Ayyubids of Damascus, 1193–1260 (Albany, NY, 1977), pp. 69–75; idem, ‘Ayyubids’, EIr. 79 Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, p. 167. 80 Ibid., p.168. 81 Bundari, Sana al-Barq al-Shami 562/1166–583/1189, ed. Fatiha Nabarawi (Cairo, 1979), pp. 18–19. 82 Isfahani/Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra, p. 136. 83 Ibid., p.303; cf. Richter-Bernburg, Der Syrische Blitz, p. 181. 84 See Peacock, ‘‘Utbi’s al-Yamīnī’, pp. 519–20. 85 Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan, vol. 4, p.386. 86 Yaqut, Irshad al-arib ila ma‘rifat al-adib, ed. D.S. Margoliouth (Leiden, 1907–27), vol. 7, p. 83. 87 Abu Shama, Kitab al-rawdatayn, vol. 2, p. 210. 88 See Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 11, p. 445. 89 Abu Shama, Kitab al-rawdatayn, vol. 4, p. 245. 90 Isfahani/Bundari, Sana al-Barq al-Shami, pp. 14–15. 91 Richter-Bernburg, Der Syrische Blitz, p. 133. 92 Isfahani/Bundari, Sana al-Barq al-Shami, p. 14.

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11 The rise and fall of a tyrant in Seljuq Anatolia: Sa‘d al-Din Köpek’s reign of terror, 1237–8 Sara Nur Yıldız

W

hen Ghiyath al-Din Kaykhusraw II (r.1237–46) ascended the throne following the sudden death of his father ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad I (r.1220–37) in the summer of 634/1237, the Anatolian Seljuq empire was at its territorial, political and military peak. After decades of swallowing principalities, absorbing neighbouring territories, and subjecting kingdoms to tributary status, the Seljuq sultanate controlled most of the Anatolian peninsula. The wealth of the realm was legendary, and its influence extended far beyond its borders. Kaykhusraw II’s reign, however, provides a stark contrast to that of his father, Kayqubad, the sultan associated with the so-called golden age of Seljuq Anatolia. Indeed, according to Seljuq sources, Seljuq imperial glory came to an abrupt end with Kaykhusraw II’s ascension to the throne. His reign ushered in a time of troubles, as the Seljuq historian, Ibn Bibi remarks, writing in the latter half of the thirteenth century: ‘ever since then, sedition and affliction have taken a grip of the lands of Anatolia and Syria, continuing until the present day.’1 This paper offers a glimpse into the first year of Kaykhusraw II’s reign, examining how the young sultan briefly fell under the control of the amir Sa‘d al-Din Köpek (d.635/1238), who, according to Ibn Bibi, harboured heinous plans to murder the young Sultan and usurp the throne. An examination of the first year of the reign of Kaykhusraw II, a minor sultan with little propensity for rule, provides a unique glimpse of Seljuq political culture. It illustrates the Seljuq elite’s response to danger confronting dynastic rule, with the threat of usurpation by a non-dynastic member from among the ruling echelons. With Kaykhusraw II firmly under his control, the amir Köpek concentrated power in his hands by embarking on a murderous — 92 —

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rampage, removing rivals from among the administrative corps and military commandership. Although he himself was soon eliminated, Köpek’s purges of 634/1237–635/1238 had farreaching consequences. With the loss of experienced military commanders and the alienation of the Khwarazmian troops, who formed a key element of its armed forces, the Seljuq state was hard pressed to maintain political stability within its realm as well as defend its borders on the eve of the Mongol invasions. Seljuq succession politics and political culture

Without the benefit of a regent or regency counsel taking his interests into consideration, the minor sultan Kaykhusraw II faced great difficulties in maintaining even the semblance of political control. The phenomenon of Sa‘d al-Din Köpek provides a case study of the danger presented by the ascension of a minor ruler to the throne. The greatest challenge facing the young sultan was the delicate task of balancing power, for the proper functioning of the Seljuq political system was based on the sultan’s capacity to balance and disperse power judiciously among his amirs and administrative functionaries. Indeed, the Seljuq sultan was not an absolute ruler, nor did the Seljuq dynasty rule over a centralised state with durable institutions. Rather, the Seljuq polity may be characterised as a relatively cohesive group of shareholders of power. The amirs, or commanders, wielded great power in the service of the sultan, to whom they were attached through ties of personal loyalty. Power was dispersed and partitioned among the amirs by the sultan, who maintained a balance between various competing groups. Seljuq imperial authority was in turn asserted and upheld by the sultan’s retinue of amirs, that is, commanders, and their forces. The amir system’s strength lay in its flexibility in containing power holders from the periphery by incorporating them into the Seljuq system and integrating them into the sultan’s central core of agents. Yet, since power was based on personal relations, it was often volatile, unpredictable and fleeting. Like other political phenomena at the Seljuq court, succession to the Seljuq throne was a collective decision and process directed by the state’s amirs and officials. It was not uncommon for the members of the Seljuq court and dīwān deliberately to disregard the previous sultan’s choice of heir, as we see with the case of Kaykhusraw II. In fact, it was a coalition of powerful amirs, led by Kaykhusraw II’s atabeg, imperial guardian, and lāla, or imperial tutor, that brought about Kaykhusraw II’s enthronement despite his father’s designation of his brother as heir apparent. New power configurations at the helm of the state accompanied successions and had the potential to unleash tensions among the top echelons of rival political and military elites. The succession to the throne of an underaged and inexperienced sultan such as Kaykhusraw II was likely further to exacerbate political instability. Elite conflict took the form of factional struggles at court, which were sometimes solved on the battlefield. Kaykhusraw II’s ascension to power, however, presented a different scenario. Rather than the intensification of the feuding of court factions, this period witnessed the usurpation of state power by a single amir, Sa‘d al-Din Köpek, under whose sway the impressionable young Kaykhusraw II unwittingly fell. By concentrating power in his hands through the manipulation of the boy sultan, and eliminating all rivals, Köpek effectively eliminated factional politics, and hence briefly set himself up as tyrant. — 93 —

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Kaykhusraw II’s enthronement

In 1237, following a lavish banquet, Kayqubad I died of poison in his private quarters at his palace in the outskirts of Kayseri, and, contrary to his wishes, Kaykhusraw II was proclaimed sultan rather than his heir apparent, his youngest son ‘Izz al-Din Qilij Arslan III. The amirs supporting Kaykhusraw II’s candidacy immediately whisked the young Sultan away from the nearby countryside pleasure palace, Kayqubadiyya, where the Sultan and his court had been earlier engaged in festivities, and brought him to the palace (sarā-yi salt. anat) in Kayseri for the accession ceremonies. Taking the lead were the Seljuq generals, Shams al-Din Altun-aba chashnigīr, Kaykhusraw II’s atabeg, and Jamal al-Din Farrukh ustāddār, his lāla.2 Thus, just two days after Kayqubad I’s death, Kaykhusraw II succeeded to power.3 Ibn Bibi provides us a detailed account of the enthronement ceremony. In accordance with TurcoMongol protocol, the Prince was lifted onto the throne by the generals, with the atabeg Altunaba holding his right arm and the lāla Jamal al-Din Farrukh holding his left one. After kissing the Sultan’s hand, the older men broke imperial protocol by affectionately ruffling the young boy’s hair, revealing an avuncular attitude to the new sultan, who was no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, and possibly younger.4 Opposition to Kaykhusraw II’s enthronement by the supporters of the Sultan’s designated successor, ‘Izz al-Din Qilij Arslan III, never materialised. The leader of this faction, Kamal alDin Kamyar, ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad’s most trusted and highest-ranking amir, made no move, even though his clients, the Khwarazmian commanders, urged him into action, pointing out that, with their superior forces, they could easily reverse the situation. Kamyar nevertheless refused to put up a fight, claiming it was too risky now that a majority of the court had already sworn oaths of loyalty to Kaykhusraw II. Kaykhusraw II’s supporters, in effect, had trumped their rivals with superior organisation. Their swift action following the sudden death of the Sultan suggests prior planning, and points suspiciously to their hand in the Sultan’s death. Ibn Bibi presents Kamyar, on the other hand, as an almost saintly figure refusing to engage in factional court politics and upset the stability of the realm. One wonders, however, if Kamyar had actually adopted the strategy of reconciliation in hopes of retaining power under the new regime. Indeed, Kamyar was rewarded for his loyalty by being appointed nā’ib, or vicegerent or deputy of the sultan. With factional strife averted, and harmony reigning in the court, the funeral for the Sultan was held with a three-day mourning period, followed by festivities celebrating Kaykhusraw II’s succession.5

Köpek’s rise to power and the purging of the Khwarazmians

Although Kaykhusraw II succeeded to the throne without violence, all was not well in the realm. As business resumed at court as normal, a disturbing development was underway, which for the most part went unnoticed. The young and impressionable Sultan quickly fell under the influence of a palace and court official, the amir Sa‘d al-Din Köpek. A prominent member of Kaykhusraw II’s faction at the time of Kayqubad’s death, Köpek held the court post of tarjuman (‘translator’), like Ibn Bibi’s father, Majd al-Din. Köpek’s influence over the young Sultan seemed innocent enough at first. Köpek took on the role of protector to the vulnerable young man, who was still — 94 —

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fearful that his rule could be overturned at any moment by the opposition. In this way, he may be seen as a regent, yet one whose authority lacked legitimacy among the Seljuq elite. Perhaps aware of his lack of legitimacy, and fearful of rivals among the Seljuq elite, Köpek manipulated the adolescent Sultan’s insecurities, and convinced him that his enemies needed to be hunted out and destroyed, beginning with the Khwarazmshah chief, Kır (or, Kayır) Khan, who commanded a powerful force and thus presented the greatest threat.6 The Khwarazmian amirs and their troops were newcomers to Anatolia, recruited into Seljuq service by ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad after the death of their leader, Jalal al-Din Khwarazmshah, in 628/1231. Kayqubad employed them as reinforcements under the command of Kamal al-Din Kamyar for military operations in the Jazira. The Khwarazmians were instrumental in the Seljuq conquest of the border town of Harput on the upper Euphrates in 1234, and they likewise accompanied Kamal al-Din Kamyar in the march against the region of Diyar Mudar, attacking the towns of Harran and Urfa. Upon Köpek’s advice, the Sultan ordered Kır (Kayır) Khan to be thrown in the dungeons. Köpek assumed that with their leader imprisoned, the rest of the Khwarazmians would not dare rise up against the new sultan. While in detention, however, the Khwarazmian leader fell ill and died. Köpek miscalculated the reaction of the other Khwarazmian chiefs and their troops. Rather than being cowed by the loss of their leader, they turned to violence. Believing they were to be Köpek’s next victims, the Khwarazmians went on a rampage through Anatolia en masse with their herds and families. They headed for the Jazira, destroying everything in their path.7 They took up residence in the region of Diyar Mudar, where they joined their compatriots already established in the cities of Harran and al-Raqqa under the rule of the Ayyubid prince al-Salih Ayyub. Kamyar went after the Khwarazmians as they fled to the Jazira, hoping to convince them to return to the service of the Sultan. He was loath to lose the Khwarazmian armies on which he had relied so heavily for his campaigns in the Jazira. Kamyar failed in his mission, however, and the Khwarazmians routed the Seljuq army.8 Köpek’s reign of terror, 1237–8

Following his purge of the Khwarazmians, Köpek continued to tighten his psychological hold over the Sultan as he reconfigured the power structures of the realm. He restricted access to the Sultan, effectively isolating him from the influence of other officials and amirs. He was the only court official to accompany the Sultan and his imperial entourage on the annual migration south to Antalya for the winter. In this way Köpek passed much of the autumn and winter of 1237–8 with the Sultan, not allowing any other general or official to have access to him. Court was held in Antalya later that winter, with the prominent amirs and administrative officials in attendance.9 While at court in Antalya, the atabeg Altun-aba noticed the disturbing influence Köpek had on the young Sultan; he was likewise alarmed by Kaykhusraw II’s binge drinking. He pointed this out to Kamyar and Husam al-Din Qaymari, the beglerbegi, or commander-in-chief, based in Konya, warning them that if they did not take measures against Köpek, he would in turn destroy them. Kamyar, however, not only refused to engage in conspiracies, but he even informed Köpek that he faced opposition from Altun-aba. Köpek responded by making up falsehoods about the atabeg, and convinced the Sultan to have the atabeg killed. Thus, while court was still being — 95 —

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held at Antalya, Altun-aba was dragged by his white beard from the meeting being held at the imperial dīwān and murdered in the countryside by one of the Sultan’s imperial guards. After this, fear reigned at the Seljuq court, and no one attempted to stop Köpek.10 In the spring of 1238, after the imperial entourage left Antalya and migrated northwards, Köpek continued his killing spree. He had ‘Ismat al-Din Malika Khatun al-‘Adiliyya, the daughter of al-‘Adil I, the sultan of Cairo and the Jazira, and mother of the young princes ‘Izz al-Din Qilij Arslan III and Rukn al-Din III, strangled to death at a palace in Ankara. The young princes, now more vulnerable than ever without the protection of their mother, were removed from Kayseri to be detained at the fortress of Burghulu (Uluborlu) close to the western frontier of the realm. They were to be held there until their executions upon the birth of Kaykhusraw II’s first son.11 In his conspiracies against the amirs, Köpek relied upon the support of Taj al-Din, the parvāna, the official responsible for issuing the sultan’s orders (farmāns), as well as land grants (iqt. ā‘s) in the name of the sultan. Köpek was now eager to be rid of his erstwhile ally, who, in turn, might later possibly prove to be a threat. Feeling that he too was in danger, Taj al-Din took refuge at his iqt.ā‘ estates in Ankara, far from the turmoil at court. His safety from the conspiracies of Köpek, however, was to prove illusory.12 As he passed through Akşehir on his return eastwards from Burghulu, Köpek heard of a scandal involving Taj al-Din and a slave girl from the household of the Mengujukid prince: he had allegedly engaged in illicit relations (zinā’) with her. Jumping at this opportunity to remove Taj al-Din, Köpek obtained a fatwa that recommended the shari‘a-prescribed punishment of stoning fornicators to death. Köpek had no trouble convincing the perpetually drunk Sultan that Taj al-Din should be punished accordingly, pointing out that if the Sultan overlooked this transgression, he was in danger of losing authority over his officials. After having Taj al-Din’s vast property confiscated and delivered to the coffers of the state treasury, Köpek ordered that he be stoned to death while half buried in sand.13 Thus, almost within the first year of Kaykhusraw II’s reign, Köpek had succeeded in ridding the realm of the powerful Khwarazmian commander and his troops, the Sultan’s atabeg, the designated heir apparent’s mother, as well as his own accomplice in crime, the parvāna Taj al-Din. No one, including Kamal al-Din Kamyar, took measures to stop Köpek from his murderous spree. It was around this time, as he was approaching the height of his power, that Köpek, according to Ibn Bibi, began circulating rumours that he was actually the son of Ghiyath al-Din Kaykhusraw I (r. 1192–6; 1205–11), thus the half-brother of ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad I, and the uncle of Kaykhusraw II. As the story goes, Köpek’s mother, Shahnaz Khatun, the daughter of a respectable notable of Konya, became the object of Kaykhusraw I’s secret amorous adventures, and became pregnant with Köpek by the Sultan. Shahnaz was married off to someone else and her son Köpek was passed off as the legitimate son of her husband. Claiming that he was actually the son of a Seljuq sultan, Köpek then conspired to remove Kaykhusraw II from the throne. In an ingenious scheme intended to destroy the young Sultan’s relations with the ‘Abbasid caliph, Köpek convinced the naive Sultan to change the colour of the imperial parasol (chatr) to blue from its traditional black, which, in imitation of the ‘Abbasid black banners, acknowledged ‘Abbasid authority. Little did the unsuspecting Sultan realise that this change of colour of the imperial parasol made him appear rebellious against the spiritual authority of the ‘Abbasid caliphate. Needless to say, the ‘Abbasids were alarmed, as Köpek had intended. According to his plans, Köpek’s next step was to depose the — 96 —

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Sultan on the pretence of rebellion against the caliph. Köpek would then place himself on the throne as the legitimate Seljuq sultan, and, in a conspicuous display of loyalty to the ‘Abbasids, he would reinstate the black imperial parasol.14 Thus, if we are to believe Ibn Bibi, all of Köpek’s actions, from destroying the power of the amirs to making the young Sultan appear rebellious against the ‘Abbasids, were all part of a grand scheme to seize the throne for himself and pose as a legitimate descendent of the Seljuq dynasty. With the approval of the caliphate, he would take the throne as sultan, and would continue ruling unopposed as tyrant. Indeed, Köpek had already begun to rule as a tyrant. Köpek was not only merciless to his enemies or suspected enemies; he likewise displayed ostentatious generosity to his henchmen and loyal followers. Employing a strategy typical of tyrants with the aim of destroying all opposition from among the powerful elite, Köpek made a show of administering justice impartially throughout the realm, protecting the weak from the powerful. Fearing Köpek’s watchful eye, no Seljuq subject, high or low, dared to commit even the most petty crime. Indeed, during Köpek’s reign of terror, possessors of iqt.ā‘s would not consider taxing one penny more than was legal. By the late summer of 1238, Köpek had gained total control of the Seljuq palace, court and the realm’s internal affairs. Jaziran affairs and the fall of Köpek

At the peak of his power and in control of the state apparatus, Köpek turned his attention to affairs in the Jazira, which up until then had been under the direction of Kamal al-Din Kamyar. Seljuq–Jaziran affairs were a particularly volatile sphere, where rivalry among the most powerful, of the Seljuq realm was played out. Indeed, military and diplomatic gains against the Ayyubids in the Jazira was the Seljuq elites’ most assured way of gaining power, wealth and fame. Booty acquired from Jaziran fortresses and cities filled with the riches of merchants travelling along the busy trade routes formed the basis of the personal fortunes of many amirs. The locus of power struggles among the most ambitious amirs of the realm thus coincided with the Seljuq enterprise of imposing hegemony over the Ayyubid-dominated Jazira. The struggle over the Jazira had reached a new peak of intensity just as Kaykhusraw II came to power. Although Kayqubad’s Jaziran campaign in the summer of 1237 was cancelled following his sudden death, Seljuq involvement in the region continued uninterrupted under the direction of Kamyar. Seljuq policy thus did not waver from its previous goal of gaining control of two key frontier fortresses, Sumaysat (Samosata, Samsat) and Amid (Amida, Diyarbakır). The Seljuqs likewise continued their involvement in Ayyubid internal rivalries, taking the side of the Ayyubid coalition of Jaziran princes who opposed interference in their affairs by the Ayyubid sultan in Cairo. In return for Seljuq support, the Jaziran Ayyubid princes promised to hand over Sumaysat15 and Amid. Stability in the Jazira was upset not only by Ayyubid and inter-regional power struggles, but also by the introduction of a new element in the region, the Khwarazmians. Since the death of the Khwarazmshah, a group of these had been established in the Jazira, where they made a living from violence and plunder. The remnants of the Khwarazmian army, accompanied by their families and flocks, had carved out a domain of their own in the region in competition with the Ayyubid princes, extending their control over the urban centres and enriching themselves by — 97 —

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plundering the wealth of passing caravans. In 1237 the Jaziran Khwarazmians were reinforced by their compatriots fleeing Köpek’s persecution in the Seljuq domains. Around this time the Khwarazmians seized Harran and al-Raqqa from the Ayyubids. In order to pacify these unwelcome intruders, the Ayyubid prince officially granted them the cities they had seized in hopes of gaining their cooperation. Meanwhile the Seljuqs were busy establishing an alliance with the Ayyubids of Aleppo as a way to further their control over the Jazira. The Aleppans likewise needed Seljuq support to remain autonomous and prevent their more powerful kinsmen from swallowing up their principality. Thus, under the direction of Kamyar, Kaykhusraw II was married to the Aleppan princess, Ghaziyya Khatun, the sister of the current ruler, al-Nasir Yusuf, and daughter of the late Aleppan prince al-‘Aziz Muhammad (d.634/1236) by a concubine. The ruler of Aleppo in turn married Malika Khatun, Kaykhusraw II’s sister, and the daughter of ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad through his Ayyubid wife, ‘Ismat al-Din Malika Khatun al-‘Adiliyya, later that summer in 1238.16 In seeking out new spheres over which to extend his authority, Köpek turned his attention to Jaziran affairs. His aspirations for imperial sovereignty, Ibn Bibi tells us, needed to be bolstered by a military triumph and the aura of being a conqueror. He thus set his sights on Sumaysat, the fortress promised in the past to the Seljuqs several times by various Ayyubid princes. With these ambitions, Köpek inevitably began to encroach on Kamyar’s domain and power base. Indeed, Köpek appears to have sabotaged Kamyar’s diplomatic dealings with the Ayyubids of Aleppo by refusing to accept their offer of recognising Seljuq sovereignty. Köpek assumed control of the Seljuq armies and marched against Sumaysat in order to claim the city by force rather than through diplomatic negotiations.17 The fortified town of Sumaysat lay just beyond Adıyaman, Kahta, and Çemişgezek, the cluster of fortresses forming the Seljuq line of defence along the border. The closest urban centre of importance was the Ayyubid city of Urfa (Edessa, al-Ruha), 54km to the south. Thus, lying between Urfa and the Seljuq border, Sumaysat was the next point from which Seljuq hegemony could be extended in the Jazira. Its location on the western bank of the Euphrates gave it control of the crossing of the river at an important junction along the route from Anatolia to northern Syria. Its hinterland, the Karababa basin, was a highly fertile valley, the surplus of which supplied the needs of nearby Urfa.18 Thus, control of Sumaysat would not only solidify the Seljuq hold of the Euphrates River corridor to Syria, but would also enrich the Seljuq domains with the diversion of its surplus and the tax revenue. The conquest of Sumaysat, undertaken by Köpek with impeccable timing, proved to be a relatively simple matter; the Seljuq army merely marched before the fortress. The governor of Sumaysat had no intention of opposing the Seljuq army, and, in July 1238, peacefully handed it over to the Seljuqs along with a few other fortresses. The other Ayyubid princes, occupied with fighting over succession in Damascus, hardly seem to have noticed the Seljuq takeover. With this easy victory, the Seljuq sultanate imposed its hegemony over northern Syria and the Jazira through the distribution of iqt. ā‘ land grants to Ayyubid princes who recognised Seljuq sovereignty.19 Upon his triumphant return from his first military victory in the Jazira, an achievement which Kamyar seemed to have failed to attain through diplomatic means, Köpek was now ready to move against Kamyar and his associate Husam al-Din Qaymari, the Seljuq commander-in— 98 —

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chief, or beglerbeg. Köpek first imprisoned Qaymari in Malatya on a trumped-up charge, and confiscated his considerable wealth. Then, arriving at Konya, he had Kamal al-Din Kamyar seized and thrown into the dungeons at the Gevele fortress outside of Konya, where he had him executed. Kamyar’s corpse was then brought to the citadel of Konya and put on public display in a hanging cage.20 After having murdered so many of the realm’s commanders and officials, Köpek’s own power now seemed limitless. His boldness grew to such exaggerated proportions that he no longer felt a need to hide any ill intent from the Sultan. Kaykhusraw II in turn began to fear Köpek. Köpek would saunter majestically before his presence with his sword dangling at his hip, in clear violation of royal protocol. It was the execution of Kamal al-Din Kamyar, however, that jolted Kaykhusraw II into perceiving Köpek’s aspirations to the sultanate. While still in Konya, just before setting off on the annual migration south, Kaykhusraw II sent one of his household slaves to Husam al-Din Qaraja, the commander of Sivas. Significantly, before being promoted to his commandership, Qaraja had held the post of amīr-i jāndār, the head of the imperial guards, the cavalrymen of slave origins whose primary duty was to protect the sultan. Informed that the Sultan was a prisoner in his own household, the Commander immediately set out to deal with Köpek. Joining the imperial entourage outside Konya, and accompanying it as it journeyed south-westwards, Qaraja ingratiated himself with Köpek, and gained his confidence with deferential behaviour, flattery and valuable gifts. One night during a drinking session, Qaraja and a household servant made their move to liberate the Sultan and stabbed Köpek to death. Köpek’s body was taken back to Konya, where it was gibbeted in place of Kamyar’s rotting corpse.21 I date the death of Köpek sometime in the early autumn of 1238, the season indicated by the migrational pattern of the imperial entourage setting out to Antalya from Konya. While Cahen dates the death of Köpek at 1240 in his 1968 survey of the Seljuqs, he gives the more vague date of 637/1240–1 in his later French version.22 An alternative story regarding the death of Köpek was recorded by Plano di Carpini, an account that presumably was in general circulation when the Franciscan papal envoy passed through the Seljuq realm in 1245 on his way to the Mongol court. According to this story, the sultan was saved just in time by his Christian uncle Kyr Kadid as Köpek was about to strangle him. Kyr Kadid then killed Köpek on the spot.23 Conclusion

Following his liberation from Köpek, Kaykhusraw II recalled to service his father’s loyal servants and officials, including Jalal al-Din Qaratay, the palace treasurer and t.ashtdar, or imperial ‘basin holder’,24 and his close associate, Ibn Bibi’s father, Majd al-Din Muhammad al-Ja‘fari, the tarjuman, or imperial translator. After a year and a half of Köpek’s terror-filled regime, balance was restored to the realm, and the conquests in the Jazira continued. Brief as it was, however, Köpek’s hold over the realm in the years 1237–8 had weakened the empire’s military resources and destroyed a cadre of experienced statesmen at a time when their military and political leadership would be needed with the looming threat of the Mongols. Notwithstanding the biases, silences and contradictions of this highly literary rendering of events, Ibn Bibi’s account of the rise and fall of the nefarious Sa‘d al-Din Köpek reveals how the — 99 —

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Seljuq elite were able to successfully remove from power a tyrannical usurper. Indeed, Ibn Bibi likens Köpek’s character to that of Zahhak, the mythical demon-king of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, the usurper of the Iranian kingship held by the Pishdadi dynasty and tyrant who ruled for a thousand years.25 Ibn Bibi casts Köpek in the role of the classic tyrant, who, after destroying the potential for opposition by the ruling elite, imposed absolute rule over the realm. And just as Köpek decimated the power holders of the realm with unjust tactics, he likewise attempted to win the approval of commoners through a show of unwavering justice and generosity. Köpek instilled such fear in elite and commoner alike that no one dared to disturb public order and bring attention to himself or herself by committing the slightest infraction. Tyranny, as Ibn Bibi’s account warns us, threatened the very essence of the Seljuq political system. Having no limits in either violence or justice, tyranny revels in excess; it allows for no partners in rule or the sharing of power. By using the negative example of Köpek, Ibn Bibi demonstrates the danger of allowing illegitimately gained power to concentrate in the hands of one individual. His story of the horrors of Köpek anticipates that of Mu‘in al-Din Sulayman, commonly known as the Parvana. Like Köpek, the Parvana ruled as a tyrant until he too was executed. The Parvana, however, came to power under Mongol rule, when the Seljuq sultanate was devoid of power and its amir system had been dismantled. While Köpek was stopped by one of the Sultan’s amirs before he killed the Sultan, the Mongols, not understanding the necessity of dispersing power in many hands, made no move to prevent the Parvana from killing the Seljuq sultan and concentrating power in his hands. In the end it took a massive rebellion in 1277 to bring an end to the Parvana’s hold over the Seljuq realm. Indeed, it was in the aftermath of the trauma of the Parvana’s misrule and the subsequent rebellion that Ibn Bibi was commissioned to write his history of the Seljuq dynasty of Anatolia. It is thus not surprising that his rendering of Seljuq history was framed by the questions of tyrannous rule as witnessed in his own time as well as on the eve of the Mongol invasions, in opposition to good government, exemplified by the reign of ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad. Ibn Bibi’s framing of the final stage of Köpek’s ascent to power within the context of Seljuq policy in the Jazira indicates the importance of the frontier. As the result of the brisk transit trade passing through the region between important trade emporia such as Baghdad and Damascus, the Jazira was a great source of booty and wealth for ambitious amirs engaged in campaigns in the region. It was here that careers were made or broken, as we also see in the case of Kamal al-Din Kamyar. Yet, at the same time, by expending most of their energy in trying to incorporate this region into their empire, their military resources became seriously taxed, as seen in the difficult siege against Amid in 1239–40. The difficulty the Seljuqs had in suppressing the Baba’i rebellion later that year likewise indicates how the Seljuq military resources were stretched beyond their capacity, leaving them less than prepared to deal with other threats confronting the realm. The Seljuq loss of the Khwarazmian troops due to Köpek’s purges constituted a great blow at a time when Seljuq military capabilities were proving to be insufficient. By purging the elite, Köpek brought an end to court factionalism. Köpek’s brutal purges, however, in the end weakened Seljuq military might, with devastating consequences. Internal instability in turn eroded Seljuq military and political power at a time when it was most needed.

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Notes









1 Ibn Bibi, al-Awamir al-‘ala’iyya fi’l-umur al-‘ala’iyya, facsimile ed. Adnan Erzi, El-Evāmirü’l-‘Alā’iyya fī’l-Umūri’l-‘Alā’iyya (Ankara, 1956), p.463. 2 Ibid., p.465. Ibn Bibi specifically refers to Farrukh as lāla, which is assumed to be an alternative term for atabeg. In this context, however, there may be a subtle difference of rank between atabeg and lāla, with the atabeg ranking above the lāla, as we see in the case of Altun-aba and Farrukh. 3 Ibid., p.464. 4 Ibid., pp.464–5. Osman Turan surmises that the Sultan could have been no more than sixteen and a half years old by estimating the earliest possible date of birth as nine months soon after the marriage of ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad and Mahpari Khatun, following the defeat of her father, the lord of Kalonoros (Candelore, ‘Ala’iyya, Alanya) in 1221 and the conquest of that city. Of course he may have been born later (Osman Turan, Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye: Siyasi Tarih Alp Arslan’dan Osman Gazi’ye, 1071–1318 (Istanbul, 1993), pp. 403–4). 5 Ibn Bibi, al-Awamir al-‘ala’iyya, p. 465. 6 Ibid., p.468. 7 Ibid. 8 Ibid., pp.468–70. 9 Ibid., p.470. 10 Ibid., pp.470–1. 11 Ibid., pp.471–2. The detaining of the brothers of a sultan had become established Seljuq practice as a way to prevent them from making a bid for the throne. Kaykhusraw II later ordered his son’s atabeg, Mubariz al-Din Armaghanshah, to murder the princes incarcerated in Burghulu. Although it was his duty as atabeg to protect his young charges against potential rivals, Armaghanshah did not have the stomach to murder Seljuq princes. Instead the amir killed two ghulams, or household slaves, and passed them off as the sultan’s younger brothers in order to placate him. 12 Ibid., p.471. 13 Ibid., pp.473–4. 14 Ibid., p.475. 15 The Seljuqs had first set their sights on Sumaysat in 1218 when ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad’s father, ‘Izz al-Din Kayka’us I, joined his vassal, the Ayyubid prince of Sumaysat, al-Afdal (d. 1225), in an alliance against the Ayyubid sultan al-‘Adil. According to their agreement, after installing al-Afdal in Aleppo, Kayka’us I would put Sumaysat under his direct rule. The operation failed, however, with neither Aleppo being taken nor Sumaysat handed over to the Seljuqs. See al-Maqrizi, A History of the Ayyubid Sultans of Egypt, trans. R.J.C. Broadhurst (Boston, c. 1980), p. 178; Turan, Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye, pp. 252, 277; Stephen Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols: The Ayyubids of Damascus, 1193–1260 (Albany, 1977), p. 159; Anne-Marie Eddé, La Principauté Ayyoubide d’Alep, 579/1183–658/1260 (Stuttgart, 1999), p. 90. 16 Turan, Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye, p. 406; Eddé, La pincipauté Ayyoubide d’Alep, p. 115; Emine Uyumaz, ‘Türkiye Selçuklu Devleti Eyyubi Münasebetleri’, in Hasan Celal, Kemal Çiçek and Salim Koca (eds), Türkler (Ankara, 2002), vol. 5, p. 93. For a recent study on the Ayyubids’ relationship with the Anatolian Seljuqs, see Önder Kaya, Anadolu’da Eyyubiler: Selahaddin Sonrası Dönemde (Istanbul, 2007). 17 Ibn Bibi, al-Awamir al-‘ala’iyya, p. 476. 18 Scott Redford, The Archaeology of the Frontier in the Medieval Near East: Excavations at Gritille, Turkey (Philadelphia, 1998), p. 7; C.-P. Haase, ‘Sumaysāt.’, EI2. 19 Ibn Bibi, al-Awamir al-‘ala’iyya, p. 476; Humphreys, The Ayyubids of Damascus, pp. 238, 240 ff.; Eddé, La principauté Ayyoubide d’Alep, p.117. 20 Ibn Bibi, al-Awamir al-‘ala’iyya, pp. 478–9, 482. 21 Ibid., pp.480–2. 22 Claude Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: A General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and History, c. 1071–1330, trans. J. Jones-Williams (London, 1968), p. 134; idem, La Turquie pré-ottomane (Istanbul, 1988), p. 67; idem, The Formation of Turkey: The Seljuqid Sultanate of Rūm: Eleventh to Fourteenth Century, trans. and ed. P.M. Holt. (Harlow, 2001), p. 92. 23 Osman Turan, ‘Keyhusrev II’, Islam Ansiklopedisi (Istanbul, 1977), vol. 6, p. 621. Assuming that Kyr Kadid (Kedid?) was the son of Kyr Vard, the father of Kaykhusraw II’s mother Mahpari Khatun, he must have been the sultan’s uncle rather than his brotherin-law, as Turan assumes. 24 The t.ashtdâr was in charge of all aspects of the sultan’s personal hygiene, including holding the water jug and basin for the sultan as he washed, as well as making sure his clothes were cleaned (İsmail Hakkı Uzunçarşılı, Osmanlı Devleti Teşkilâtına Medhal (Ankara, 1941), pp. 32, 36). 25 Ibn Bibi, al-Awamir al-‘ala’iyya, p. 477. For more on Zahhak’s role in Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, see J.S. Meisami, ‘The past in service of the present: two views of history in medieval Persia’, Poetics Today 14, no 2 (1993), pp. 247–75, especially pp. 252–3. For the wider context of Zahhak in Iranian literature, see the articles by P.O. Skjærvø, Dj. Khaleghi-Motlagh and J.R. Russell under ‘Aždahā’ in EIr.

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12 ‘It is as if their aim were the extermination of the species’: the Mongol devastation in Western Asia in the first half of the thirteenth century1 Peter Jackson

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arious impulses have been adduced to explain the slaughter conducted by the armies of Chinggis Khan (d.1227) during their invasion of Muslim territories – Transoxiana, Khwarazm, present-day Afghanistan, northern Persia and Transcaucasia – in 1218–23:2 ‘blind unreasoning fear and hatred of urban civilisation’;3 punishment for disobeying the Mandate of Heaven conferred on Chinggis Khan;4 the desire to deter further opposition.5 Petrushevskii is, to my knowledge, the only scholar who has attempted to analyse the differential treatment meted out to cities that offered resistance.6 In this paper I want to look afresh at the primary sources that report the carnage, in order to arrive at more nuanced conclusions about the Mongols’ conduct. I should stress that it is not my intention to exonerate the Mongols or to depict them as in any way beneficent conquerors. The principal sources

Our capacity to understand the conquerors’ motives is not aided by the tendency of the primary sources to generalise about widespread massacre. The most commonly quoted, Ibn al-Athir (d. 630/1233), for instance, asserts that there had been no disaster since the Creation like the irruption of the Mongols, and that perhaps no comparable cataclysm would occur before the end of time, not excluding the advent of Gog and Magog (Ya’juj wa-Ma’juj).7 Vivid and recurring anecdotes recount the slaughter perpetrated by Mongol troops while their Muslim victims exhibited only passive acceptance of their fate.8 — 105 —

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Of the Mongols’ operations in Khurasan, the scholar and traveller ‘Abd al-Latif al-Baghdadi, known as Ibn al-Labbad (d. 629/1231–2), wrote: ‘It is as if their aim were the extermination of the species […]; they do not seek territory or wealth, but only the destruction of the world that it may become a wasteland.’9 He transmits anecdotes about Mongol atrocities: their drinking the blood of those whose throats they had cut; the gradual dismemberment of captives as a form of recreation; the ravishing of comely women for several days prior to their murder10 – stories that later find striking echoes in Western European chronicles recounting the Mongol assault on Poland and Hungary (1237–42).11 Shihab al-Din Muhammad b. Ahmad al-Nasawi, who composed his biography of the last Khwarazmshah, Jalal al-Din, in c. 639/1241–2 and who had bought off the Mongols when they appeared before his ancestral stronghold of Khurandiz, near Nasa, claims that this fortress alone in Khurasan was spared.12 Having described the destruction of Nishapur (which, as we shall see below, was singled out for especially harsh treatment), he denies any need to detail the fate of other cities in Khurasan, Khwarazm, Iraq, Mazandaran, Azerbaijan, Ghur, Bamiyan and Sijistan ‘as far as the frontiers of India’, since the foregoing account furnishes a precise idea of what transpired elsewhere; it would be necessary only to change the names of the besiegers (that is, the besieging commander) and the besieged.13 It is a moot point how far we can trust the impressions of authors writing in the first shock of a major infidel invasion of Islamic territory. Yet their statements are echoed by others who lived through these experiences but recounted them many years later, such as the Sufi Najm al-Din Razi ‘Daya’ (d.654/1256), who describes ‘the confusion and ruin, the killing and seizure of captives, the destruction and burning that were enacted by those accursed creatures’ as unprecedented and as resembling only ‘the catastrophes that shall ensue at the end of time’;14 or Minhaj al-Din Juzjani, writing as a refugee in the safety of independent Delhi in 658/1260, who gives the impression that the great majority of the populations of the Muslim cities of Transoxiana, Farghana and Turkistan – notably Balasaghun (where the inhabitants were in fact left unharmed), Bukhara and Samarqand – were martyred and only a small number survived as captives.15 Nor did this grim picture of pitiless slaughter fade with the passage of several decades and the emergence in Iran of the stable government of the Ilkhans. ‘Wherever there was a king, or a provincial ruler, or the governor of a city that offered resistance,’ says Juvayni, writing in c.658/1260 under the first Ilkhan, Hülegü, ‘him they annihilated together with his people and his followers, and native and alien, to the extent that where there had been a population of 100,000 there remained, without exaggeration, not one hundred persons.’16 At the beginning of the fourteenth century Rashid al-Din (d.718/1318) conceded that Chinggis Khan and his dynasty had killed more people than anybody before them. Of the cities he lists where ‘scarcely anybody survived’ the slaughter, those taken during Chinggis Khan’s own invasion comprise Balkh, Shaburghan, Taliqan, Marv, Sarakhs, Herat, Turkistan, Rayy, Hamadan, Qumm, Maragha and Ardabil.17 The treatment of conquered cities

These verdicts combine to create the impression of wholesale and indiscriminate carnage throughout the urban world of the Islamic East. As an act of vengeance for the murder of his envoys at Utrar, we might expect Chinggis Khan’s assault upon the Khwarazmian empire — 106 —

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to have been accompanied by a good deal of bloodshed.18 Piecing together the material from our sources, however, reveals that the authors often contradict their own general claims and enables us to distinguish a variety of responses towards vanquished populations on the part of the invaders. Only Juzjani expressly indicates that the entire population of Utrar was put to the sword;19 but the fact that a forced levy (h.ashar) from Utrar later participated in the Mongol attack on Khujand20 might suggest that he exaggerated. Certainly failure to respect the inviolability of their envoys brought down the Mongols’ wrath upon other strongholds also. The principal example is Sighnaq, where the conqueror’s eldest son Jochi conducted a wholesale massacre in retaliation for the killing of Hasan Hajji, a long-time associate of Chinggis Khan’s who had been sent to negotiate.21 The lesson may have proved salutary, since we know of no other such episodes north of the Oxus. By contrast, at Jand, where an agreement was reached for the town’s capitulation, only some of the leaders were executed for having insulted the Mongol envoy, Chin Temür, during the negotiations.22 This is possibly the earliest hint of some kind of ‘tariff’ of unacceptable behaviour on the part of the Mongols’ enemies. As is well known, prompt submission was rewarded, after a fashion. The first Muslim town we know to have surrendered without a struggle was Balasaghun, which the Mongols appreciatively renamed Quz-baligh (‘Lucky City’).23 Özkend and Barchinlighkent likewise avoided a massacre by putting up no great resistance.24 According to Juvayni, during Chinggis Khan’s advance from Bukhara to Samarqand he refrained from molesting townships that yielded, but left troops to besiege those, like Sar-i Pul and Dabusiya, that resisted.25 Earlier, the same author specifies that the regions neighbouring Bukhara and Samarqand escaped slaughter because they yielded to the conquerors.26 Usually, the price of this indulgence was the supply of a levy (h.ashar) to assist the Mongols in operations elsewhere. Thus when the people of Zarnuq submitted, Chinggis Khan spared their lives, but made a levy of young men (javānān) to participate in the attack on Bukhara.27 Similarly, although the inhabitants of certain towns in eastern Khurasan – Zuzan, Andkhud, Maymand (Maymana) and Qariyat – were unharmed, they were obliged to provide auxiliaries to assist the Mongols in their future campaigns.28 Bukhara and Samarqand fell into a slightly different category, inasmuch as the merchants of both cities had obtained the goods seized by the Khwarazmshah’s agents from Chinggis Khan’s murdered merchant-envoys at Utrar.29 At one juncture Juvayni seems to indicate that the populations had reason to be grateful, as the Mongols perpetrated slaughter and looting here only once.30 But the more detailed account that he supplies a little later, like that of Ibn al-Athir, suggests that an example was made of the two cities. The people of Bukhara, who had sent their qadi to ask for terms, were initially unharmed, though their property was treated as forfeit to the conquerors and they were compelled to serve as cannon-fodder in the attack on the citadel. Once the citadel had fallen, they were ordered out of the city, divided up and deported, while the place was given over to plunder; the women were systematically violated, and anybody found within Bukhara was put to death. The district became a wasteland.31 The deportees were incorporated into the Mongols’ forces and used in order to intimidate Samarqand. Here, following the surrender, the population (as opposed to the Turkish Qangli garrison forces, who were massacred) was treated in the same fashion as that of Bukhara.32 Juvayni says that levies from the city were despatched to both Khurasan and Khwarazm; and in their assault on the — 107 —

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citadel of Khujand, we are told, the Mongols employed not only the young men of that town but also forced levies from Utrar, Bukhara and Samarqand.33 The Mongols conducted a general massacre, by contrast, for any of three reasons. The first was to vent their spleen on those strongpoints that had mounted too vigorous or too prolonged a resistance. Examples are Tirmid, stormed after operations lasting 11 days;34 the citadel at Talaqan, called Nusrat-kuh, invested by Chinggis Khan in person but captured some time later with the aid of reinforcements under his son Tolui;35 Sabzawar, which was taken after three days’ fighting by a division of Toghachar’s army;36 and Shahr-i Sistan (Nimruz), in 619/1223 (as later, following a siege of 19 months, in 632/1235).37 At Gurganj – ‘the city of Khwarazm’, as Ibn al-Athir calls it, and described by Yaqut only a year or two earlier as the richest and largest of the cities he had visited38 – the entire population perished. This was partly in reprisal for their desperate resistance, lasting (according to Juzjani) four months, but also because the Mongols took the city by breaking the dam that held back the waters of the Oxus, so that those who might otherwise have survived in hiding were drowned; though Juvayni speaks only of an unsuccessful attempt to divert the river.39 In some cases the invaders offered terms, only to break them once a place had surrendered and the commander and garrison were in their power; and it seems this was a ruse they deployed specifically in response to strenuous opposition, as at Fanakat, where all the military were put to death.40 The Mongols exacted an especially grim penalty, secondly, when a siege claimed the life of an imperial prince or a prominent commander. In 618/1221–2 at the fall of Bamiyan, where Chinggis Khan’s favourite grandson, Mö’etügen, had been killed during the siege, he ordered his troops to kill every living creature.41 The Mongol general Toghachar, a son-in-law of Chinggis Khan, was killed before Nishapur, which had revolted after earlier submitting to Jebe and Sübe’etei. At its capture following a siege of five days, a bloodbath took place over which Toghachar’s widow presided, and from which even cats and dogs were not excluded; only 400 craftsmen were spared and removed to Turkestan.42 When a lesser commander fell in a skirmish with the people of Nasa, the Mongols took the town after a 15-day siege and slaughtered the population.43 Harsh treatment awaited those cities that capitulated but subsequently repudiated the conquerors’ authority and killed the khan’s representatives. As the news spread that the Khwarazmshah’s son Jalal al-Din had defeated the Mongols near Parvan, several towns in Khurasan that had previously yielded rose in revolt.44 Nishapur has already been mentioned. Balkh had surrendered in 617/1220–1 and suffered no pillage or slaughter, and the Mongols merely installed a representative (shih.na) there; some of its population were later employed in the assault on Marv.45 When Jalal al-Din’s victory inspired fresh resistance, however, the inhabitants were driven out onto the plain and massacred;46 the Taoist Chang-ch’un, who passed by Balkh shortly afterwards, suggests that the site was populated only by dogs.47 Herat had been granted terms after an investment lasting ten days, and the populace spared, with some exceptions. But again, when the people rose and put to death Mengütei, the shih.na appointed over them, the Mongols returned, took it after an eight-month siege, killed everybody – except some of the women, who were enslaved – and burned the city.48 For events in Marv prior to its fall, we are indebted to the detailed account supplied by Juvayni. A group including the shaykh al-islām had sent an envoy to Jebe and Sübe’etei with an offer of submission; but before the Mongols could react, the city was taken over by other elements, who opted for resistance, killed the shaykh — 108 —

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al-islām and despatched a force to foment rebellion in Sarakhs (of whose fate at Mongol hands we are told nothing). Clearly it was for these reasons that when Marv later fell to a division of Tolui’s forces the entire population, apart from the artisans and craftsmen, was annihilated.49 The varying accounts of Ghazna’s fall can doubtless be explained in similar fashion. According to Ibn al-Athir, the town fell easily, since it lacked adequate garrison forces, and the inhabitants were killed, other than women who were enslaved.50 But Juvayni again furnishes a more complete picture, telling us at one point that it submitted and the Mongols appointed a basqaq (the Turkish equivalent of shih.na); it must be to this earlier attack that we should ascribe Juvayni’s own description of the conquerors’ unexpected arrival, the killing in the streets and the setting on fire of the Friday mosque, since this is placed prior to the same contingent’s discomfiture at Parvan.51 Subsequently, Ögedei, whom Chinggis Khan had sent back to Ghazna immediately following Jalal al-Din’s defeat on the Indus, butchered the inhabitants, the artisans excepted;52 this is confirmed in outline by Juzjani,53 and Ibn al-Athir’s sparse details, too, are expressly dated to the aftermath of the Indus engagement. So far we have been concerned with the activities of Chinggis Khan’s main forces. Since the primary task of Jebe and Sübe’etei, on the other hand, was to apprehend the fleeing Khwarazmshah Muhammad, the need for haste had a distorting effect on their conduct. At one point, in the context of Mongol operations in Khurasan and eastern Iraq, Ibn al-Athir makes the rather suspect generalisation that they did not spare a single city, destroying, burning and sacking ‘everything they passed by’.54 Yet when describing the onset of the pursuit, he admits that the Mongols did not engage in acts of plunder or killing but pressed on at the Khwarazmshah’s heels.55 Juzjani even believed that they had orders from Chinggis Khan not to harm any of the cities of Khurasan.56 Generally speaking, nevertheless, the same range of reactions is visible in the operations of Jebe and Sübe’etei as we have noticed elsewhere. One of their staff having fallen before ‘Tuy of Bushanj’, near Herat, they put its entire population to the sword.57 The inhabitants of Maragha, which the Mongols stormed early in 618/1221, were massacred, though the womenfolk were enslaved; those citizens who had hidden were lured out by a stratagem and killed too.58 Ardabil held out against the invaders in the course of two successive attacks, but was taken by force on the third occasion, when the Mongols conducted a wholesale slaughter of its population.59 A massacre occurred at Qazvin, whose populace had mounted a fierce resistance to the point of hand-to-hand fighting in the streets; the later historian Hamdallah Mustawfi, a native of the city, describes the slaughter in his Zafarnama (composed c.1334).60 Here the garbled report that reached the Fifth Crusade in Egypt in 1221, known as the Relatio de Davide Rege (‘The Account of King David’), comes to our assistance, stating that Qazvin had submitted and received a governor, but had later risen in revolt and killed him and many of his suite.61 Rayy had submitted to Jebe and Sübe’etei, but at a subsequent juncture in 617/1220 it was sacked and its people massacred.62 These are evidently the two episodes referred to by Ibn al-Athir, who first tells us that the inhabitants had been taken by surprise and that the women and children were enslaved,63 but later describes how fresh Mongol forces arrived at the onset of 621/1224 and killed those of the inhabitants who had returned in the interval and had begun to rebuild the city (that is, presumably to refortify it).64 The people of Baylaqan, in Arran, committed the unforgivable offence of killing a Mongol envoy sent, at their own request, to arrange terms. When the Mongols stormed the town, they slew everyone within regardless of age or sex, allegedly even ripping out the foetuses from their mothers’ wombs.65 — 109 —

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Regarding other towns lying in the path of Jebe and Sübe’etei, our information is often vague; we are given no details of the fate of Mongol envoys sent to require their submission, the vigour of their resistance or the duration of any siege. There was much killing at Khabushan, owing to what Juvayni terms, with tantalising imprecision, the ‘heedlessness’ (‘adam-i iltifāt) of its people.66 We cannot explain the general massacres at Amul and Isfarayin or that in the city of Jurjan (Gurgan), mentioned only by a fourteenth-century author.67 Nor do we know why, according to Yaqut, a contemporary, the invaders left nobody alive at Sawa,68 or why the fresh division that crushed Rayy in 621/1224 went on to destroy Qumm and Qashan, which lay off the route of the earlier campaign, and to slaughter their populations.69 Although Juvayni says explicitly that after leaving Nishapur Jebe and Sübe’etei spared those who submitted and destroyed those who resisted,70 the evidence to corroborate this comes primarily from northwestern Iran. Thus no attack was launched against Tabriz, because its Ildegüzid ruler, the indolent and pusillanimous Özbek, bribed the Mongols to go away with horses, clothing and money.71 When Mongol forces approached the city a second time and Özbek took flight, preparations were made to resist, but the invaders withdrew once their demands for further offerings of money and clothing were met.72 Gifts of money and clothing similarly secured a reprieve for Ganja.73 Earlier, the headman of Hamadan had emerged with money, clothes and horses and sought terms, with the result that the city was spared and the Mongols passed on; they appointed a shih.na at this juncture to gather more wealth on their behalf.74 It was only subsequently that the inhabitants, rendered desperate by their inability to raise any further sums and fortified by the joint leadership of the headman and a lawyer, slew the shih.na; and then, in 618/1221, Hamadan was subjected to a punitive siege, its people slaughtered, and the city set on fire.75 Settlements between Rayy and Hamadan, according to Ibn al-Athir, fared worse than either city at the hands of Jebe and Sübe’etei: the Mongols ‘burned, destroyed and put men, women and children to the sword; they spared nothing’.76 The same tactics were employed in the villages on the way from Hamadan to Azerbaijan,77 and in the towns and villages lying between Sarab and Baylaqan.78 Conclusion

The Mongols exhibited, then, a range of reactions to the problem of urban and other sedentary populations. At one extreme, when they had encountered strong resistance or when a city had yielded but subsequently revolted, the entire populace might be put to the sword; and on those few occasions when an especially prominent Mongol had been killed during the siege, the slaughter extended to every living creature – although even in this case skilled elements might be spared and enslaved. Slightly less drastic expedients were the killing of all adult males (though the skilled craftsmen and artisans were usually preserved and deported) and the enslavement of the women and children. In some towns, only the military, or perhaps just their leaders, were killed. Urban populations that yielded would be spared, but elements would frequently be conscripted for operations against a neighbouring town. And at the other extreme, in response to rapid submission or when haste was an imperative, the Mongols might accept provisions and money, and pass on; such precautions, of course, were no guarantee against the conquerors’ return at a later date in order to demand goods and services on a more burdensome scale. But — 110 —

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had the Mongols really been as eager to remove all potential resistance as has been supposed, they would surely not have given so many major strongholds a second chance. The question that remains is whether the conduct of Mongol forces towards enemy urban populations in these early stages differed significantly from that of contemporary armies. Amid all this, there seems to be a significant body of evidence that in general the Mongols observed something like the laws of war, whereby a city that surrendered was spared, while one taken by force was subjected to a general massacre, at least of the menfolk, while the females were enslaved. We might cite the massacre conducted by the First Crusade in Jerusalem in 1099 (where by c.1200 received wisdom was that the infidel had killed 70,000 or so Muslims)79 or by the Qara-Khitan forces in Balasaghun in 1209.80 It is important to bear in mind that Muslim princes too had perpetrated carnage – including, in recent decades, the Khwarazmshahs. Take, for instance, the excesses committed by the army of the Khwarazmshah Tekish in Persian Iraq in the 1190s, which Rawandi expressly claims surpassed those of the Georgians, the Qara-Khitai and the Syrian Franks; or his son Muhammad’s treatment of Samarqand in c.609/1212–13 after the populace had massacred all the Khwarazmians in the city and resisted his army.81 In the context of Mongol massacres, admittedly, there are many towns for which the sources provide only skeletal information. But where we have detailed evidence, the conquerors seem to have reacted in a more consistent manner to armed resistance than has often been supposed; they may even have recognised a gradation of offences on the part of their enemies. What distinguished them, in fact, from other conquering armies of the era may have been not so much blind antipathy towards urban civilisation as a far greater degree of success in reducing a large number of fortified places – within a remarkably short interval – than any of their precursors or contemporaries. The destruction they wrought was perhaps less a function of ideology or of some nomadic mindset than of unprecedented striking power.

Notes





1 A much fuller version of this paper was read at the symposium on ‘The Mongol Empire and its World’ at Madison, Wisconsin, in April 2010. I am grateful to the convenor, Professor David Morgan, and to other colleagues in the audience for their questions and comments. 2 For the figures, see David Morgan, The Mongols (Oxford, 1986), pp. 74–82, and 2nd edition (Oxford, 2007), pp. 65–72; Ann K.S. Lambton, Continuity and Change in Medieval Persia: Aspects of Administrative, Economic and Social History, 11th–14th Century (London, 1988), pp. 19–20. 3 J.J. Saunders, ‘The nomad as empire-builder’, in his Muslims and Mongols: Essays on Medieval Asia, ed. G.W. Rice (Christchurch, 1977), p.48. 4 Thomas T. Allsen, ‘The rise of the Mongolian empire and Mongolian rule in north China’, in The Cambridge History of China, vol.6, Herbert Franke and Denis Twitchett (eds), Alien Regimes and Border States, 907–1368 (Cambridge, 1994), p. 348. As Allsen notes, however, the earliest evidence for belief in such a mandate dates from no earlier than the reign of Ögedei: see further David Morgan, ‘The Mongols and the eastern Mediterranean’, in Benjamin Arbel et al. (eds), Latins and Greeks in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204 (London, 1989 = Mediterranean Historical Review 4, no 1), p. 200; Peter Jackson, The Mongols and the West, 1221–1410 (Harlow, 2005), pp. 45–7. 5 I.P. Petrushevskii, ‘The socio-economic condition of Iran under the Īl-Khāns’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 5, J.A. Boyle (ed.), The Saljuq and Mongol Periods (Cambridge, 1968), pp. 484–8. Thomas J. Barfield, The Perilous Frontier: Nomadic Empires and China (Oxford, 1989), pp. 201–4. John Masson Smith, Jr, ‘Demographic considerations in Mongol siege warfare’, Archivum Ottomanicum 13 (1993–4), p. 330. 6 I.P. Petrushevskii, ‘Pokhod mongol´skikh voisk v Sredniuiu Aziiu v 1219–1224 gg. i ego posledstviia’, in S.L. Tikhvinskii (ed.), Tataro-Mongoly v Azii i Evrope: Sbornik statei (Moscow, 1977), pp. 121–2. 7 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil fi ’l-ta’rikh, ed. C.J. Tornberg (Beirut, 1965–7), vol. 12, pp. 358–9; partial trans. by D.S. Richards, The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athīr for the Crusading Period (Aldershot, 2006–8), vol. 3, p. 202. 8 Ibid., vol.12, 378, 383, 500–1; trans. Richards, vol. 3, pp. 217, 220, 307–8.

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9 Dhahabi, Ta’rikh al-Islam, ed. ‘Umar ‘Abd al-Salam Tadmuri (Beirut, 1417/1997), 601–610 H, p.27; text also in Claude Cahen, ‘‘Abdallat.īf al-Baghdādī, portraitiste et historien de son temps. Extraits inédits de ses Mémoires’, Bulletin d’Études Orientales de l’Institut Français de Damas 23 (1970), p.125. On the author, see S.M. Stern, ‘‘Abd al-Lat.īf al-Baghdādī’, EI2. His narrative would make a profound impression on Dhahabi, Ta’rikh al-Islam, 601–610 H, p.50 (Cahen, ‘‘Abdallat.īf al-Baghdādī, portraitiste’, p.127). 10 Dhahabi, Ta’rikh al-Islam, 601–610 H, p. 50 (Cahen, ‘‘Abdallat.īf al-Baghdādī, portraitiste’, p. 127). 11 Details in Gian Andri Bezzola, Die Mongolen im abendländischer Sicht (1220–1270). Ein Beitrag zur Frage der Völkerbegegnungen (Berne, 1974), pp. 68–74. 12 Nasawi, Sirat al-Sultan Jalal al-Din, ed. and trans. Octave Houdas, Histoire du Sultan Djelal ed-din Mankobirti (Paris, 1891–5), text pp.58–9 (trans. pp. 99–100); ed. Z.M. Buniiatov, Sirat al-Sultan Dzhalal ad-din Mankburny (Moscow, 1996), pp. 72–3. See P. Jackson, ‘al-Nasawī’, EI2. 13 Nasawi, Sirat, ed. Houdas, p. 54; trans. pp. 92–3; ed. Buniiatov, p. 67. This beguiled Petrushevskii, ‘Pokhod’, p. 127, into abandoning any intention of conducting a more detailed survey of the capture of the various cities, apart from Khujand. 14 Najm al-Din Abu Bakr ‘Abd-Allah b. Muhammad Razi, Mirsad al-‘ibad min al-mabda’ ila l-ma‘ad, ed. Husayn al-Husaynī Ni‘matallahi (Tehran, 1312/1933), pp. 8–9, and trans. Hamid Algar, The Path of God’s Bondsmen from Origin to Return (Delmar, NY, 1982), pp. 39–40. On the author, see Algar’s introduction, pp. 8–14; also idem, ‘Nadjm al-Dīn Rāzī Dāya’, EI2. 15 Minhaj al-Din Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, ed. ‘Abd al-Hayy Habibi (Kabul, 1342–3/1963–4), vol. 2, pp. 106–7; trans. H.G. Raverty, T.abakāt-i Nās.irī: A History of the Muhammadan Dynasties of Asia (London, 1873–81), vol. 2, pp. 978, 980. 16 Ala’ al-Din ‘Ata Malik Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, ed. M. Qazvini (Leiden and London, 1912–37), vol. 1, p. 17; trans. J.A. Boyle as ‘Ata Malik Juvaini, History of the World-Conqueror (Manchester, 1958), vol. 1, p. 25 (modified). 17 Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Muhammad Rawshan and Mustafa Musavi (Tehran, 1373/1994), vol. 1, pp. 1526, 1527; trans. Wheeler M. Thackston, The Compendium of Chronicles (Cambridge, MA, 1998–9), vol. 3, pp. 755–6. 18 For the role of vengeance in Mongol steppe society, see Larry V. Clark, ‘The theme of revenge in the Secret History of the Mongols’, in Clark and Paul Alexander Draghi (eds), Aspects of Altaic Civilization II. Proceedings of the XVIII PIAC, Bloomington, June 29–July 5, 1975 (Bloomington and Louvain, 1978), pp. 33–57. 19 Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 2, p. 105 (trans. Raverty, vol. 2, pp. 970–1). Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 66 (trans. Boyle, vol.1, p.85), only hints at the slaughter and talks of common people and artisans who had escaped it being carried off. 20 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 71; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 92. 21 Ibid., vol.1, p. 67; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 87. 22 Ibid., vol.1, p. 69; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 89–90. 23 Ibid., vol.1, p. 43, and vol. 2, p. 87; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 58, 355; W. Barthold, Turkestan down to the Mongol Invasion, trans. T. Minorsky and ed. C.E. Bosworth (London, 1968), p. 402. 24 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, pp. 67–8; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 87. 25 Ibid., vol. 1, p. 92; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 117. 26 Ibid., vol.1, p. 75; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 96. 27 Ibid., vol.1, p. 77; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 99–100. 28 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, p. 390; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 225. 29 Ibid., vol.12, pp. 366–7; trans. Richards, vol. 3, pp. 208–9; for the distribution of the merchandise, see ibid., vol. 12, p. 362; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 205. 30 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 75; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 96. 31 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, pp. 365–7; trans. Richards, vol. 3, pp. 207–9; cf. also Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, pp. 81– 3; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 105–7. 32 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, pp. 367–8; trans. Richards, vol. 3, pp. 209–10; cf. also Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, pp. 94– 6; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 120–2. 33 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 71; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 92. 34 Ibid., vol.1, p.102; trans. Boyle, vol.1, p.129. See also Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol.2, p.112; trans. Raverty, vol.2, pp.1004–5. 35 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, pp. 104–5; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 132. Cf. Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 2, pp. 114–16; trans. Raverty, vol. 2, pp. 1008–12. 36 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 138; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 175, 176. 37 Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 1, pp. 283–4, 285; trans. Raverty, vol. 1, pp. 198, 199, 201–2. For the latter occasion, see also Malik al-Shu‘ara Bahar (ed.), Ta’rikh-i Sistan (Tehran, 1314/1935–6), pp. 395–6; and for the date, C.E. Bosworth, The History of the Saffarids of Sistan and the Maliks of Nimruz (247/861 to 949/1542–3) (Costa Mesa, CA, 1994), p. 410. 38 Yaqut al-Hamawi, Mu‘jam al-buldan, ed. Ferdinand Wüstenfeld (Leipzig, 1866–73), vol.2, pp.54, 486; Barthold, Turkestan, p.147. 39 Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kamil, vol. 12, pp. 394–5; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 228. Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 2, p. 149; trans. Raverty, vol.2, pp.1097–1100. Barthold, Turkestan, pp. 436–7, doubted that the flooding was intentional. Cf. Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahangusha, vol.1, p. 100; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 127. 40 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 70; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 91–2. 41 Ibid., vol.1, p. 105; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 132–3. 42 Ibid., vol.1, pp. 137–40; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 174–8. Yaqut, Mu‘jam, vol. 4, pp. 858–9; trans. in C. Barbier de Meynard, Dictionnaire géographique, historique et littéraire de la Perse et des contrées adjacentes (Paris, 1861), pp. 580–1. Ibn al-Athir (alKamil, vol.12, p. 393; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 227), is briefer, but gives the duration of the siege. The still more laconic account in Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 2, pp. 120–1 (trans. Raverty, vol. 2, pp. 1028–34), mentions the death of Chinggis Khan’s sonin-law but erroneously puts Tolui in charge of the investment. Ibn al-Labbad has the length of the siege as 24 days: see Dhahabi, Ta’rikh al-Islam, 611–620 H, p. 49 (Cahen, ‘‘Abdallat.īf al-Baghdādī, portraitiste’, p. 127). 43 Nasawi, Sirat, ed. Houdas, pp. 51–2; trans. pp. 87–8; ed. Buniiatov, pp. 63–4; thirteenth-century Persian translation, ed. Mujtaba Minuwi (Tehran, 1344/1965), pp. 76–7. 44 Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 2, p. 125; trans. Raverty, vol. 2, p. 1042.

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45 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol.12, p.390; trans. Richards, vol.3, p.225; cf. also Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol.1, p.113; trans. Boyle, vol.1, p.144; and for men from Balkh in the operations at Marv, Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol.12, p.391; trans. Richards, vol.3, p.226. 46 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, pp. 103–4; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 130–1, clearly dovetailing the two distinct episodes and nowhere expressly mentioning that the city rebelled. 47 Li Chih-ch’ang, Hsi-yu chi, trans. Arthur Waley, The Travels of an Alchemist: The Journey of the Taoist, Ch’ang-Ch’un, from China to the Hindu Kush at the Summons of Chingiz Khan (London, 1931), p. 93. 48 The fullest account is given by Sayf b. Muhammad al-Harawi (Sayfi), Tarikhnama-i Harat, ed. Muhammad Zubayr al-Siddiqi (Calcutta, 1944), pp. 66–80: see pp. 75–6 for the killing of the shih.na Mengütei and his associate, Malik Abu Bakr Marjaqi. Cf. also Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, pp. 393, 395–6; trans. Richards, vol. 3, pp. 227, 229. Juzjani (Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 2, p. 121; trans. Raverty, vol. 2, p. 1038), describes the Mongols’ vengeance on the city, though the details (ibid., vol. 2, pp. 121, 128; trans. Raverty, vol.2, pp. 1035–7, 1048–51) seemingly refer to its first capture. 49 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, pp. 120–7; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 154–62; the role of rebels at Marv in the rising at Sarakhs can be inferred from ibid., vol. 1, pp. 121–2, 128–9 (trans. vol.1, pp. 155–7, 164). Ibn al-Athir (al-Kamil, vol. 12, pp. 392–3; trans. Richards, vol. 3, pp. 226–7), says only that the troops at Marv had capitulated, but that they and the inhabitants in general were massacred. Juzjani (Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 2, p. 120; trans. Raverty, vol. 2, p. 1027), mentions briefly that the populace was martyred. For the entire sequence of events at Marv, see Barthold, Turkestan, pp. 447–9. 50 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, p. 397; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 230. 51 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 106 and vol. 2, p. 196; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 133–4 and vol. 2, p. 463, respectively. 52 Ibid., vol.1, p.108; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 135. As Barthold, Turkestan, pp. 444–5, points out, there is no evidence that the inhabitants had rebelled. 53 Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 2, p. 126; trans. Raverty, vol. 2, pp. 1042–3. 54 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, pp. 376–7; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 216. 55 Ibid., vol.12, p. 370 (trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 211. 56 Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 2, p. 108; trans. Raverty, vol. 2, pp. 989–91. Paul Ratchnevsky, Činggis-Khan: Sein Leben und Wirken (Wiesbaden, 1983), p. 118, n. 149, and trans. Thomas Nivison Haining, Genghis Khan: His Life and Legacy (Oxford, 1991), p.131, misrepresents this passage. 57 Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, vol. 2, p. 108; trans. Raverty, vol. 2, pp. 991–2. 58 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, pp. 377–8; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 216, saying that they killed everyone; see ibid., vol. 12, p. 404; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 235, however, for the women and the slaughter of ‘most of its people’. Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol.1, p.116; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 148, is very brief. 59 Yaqut, Mu ‘jam al-Buldan, vol. 1, p. 198; trans. Barbier de Meynard, p. 22. Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, p. 382; trans. Richards, vol.3, p.219, mentions only one attempt on the city, as does Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 116; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p.147. For the massacre, see also Petrushevskii, ‘Socio-economic condition of Iran’, p. 484. 60 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, p. 374; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 214. Hamdallah Mustawfi Qazvini, Zafarnama, facsimile edition by Nasrollah Pourjavadi and Nosratollah Rastegar (Tehran and Vienna, 1377/1999), vol. 2, pp. 1024–5; part of the relevant passage is also ed. and trans. in Edward G. Browne, A History of Persian Literature under Tartar Dominion (A.D. 1265–1502) (Cambridge, 1920), pp. 96–8. 61 Jacques de Vitry, ‘Epistola VII’, in R.B.C. Huygens (ed.), Lettres de Jacques de Vitry (1160/1170–1240) évêque de Saint-Jeand’Acre. Edition critique (Leiden, 1960), pp. 147–8. 62 Juwanyi, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 115 and vol. 2, p. 114; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 147 and vol. 2, p. 384; for the date of the sack, see ibid., vol. 2, p. 112; trans. vol. 2, p. 381. 63 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, p. 373; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 213; later, ibid., vol. 12, p. 399; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 231, he alleges that the Mongols killed everyone there. 64 Ibid., vol.12, p. 419; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 246. 65 Ibid., vol.12, p. 383; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 220. 66 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 115; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 146. 67 Ibid., vol.1, p.115; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 146. Hamdallah Mustawfi Qazvini, Nuzhat al-qulub, ed. and trans. Guy Le Strange, The Geographical Part of the Nuzhat al-Qulūb (Leiden and London, 1915–19), text p. 159, trans. p. 156. 68 Yaqut, Mu‘jam al-Buldan, vol. 3, p. 24; trans. Barbier de Meynard, p. 299. 69 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, p. 419; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 246. 70 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, pp. 114–15, 117; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 145, 150. 71 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, pp. 374, 377; trans. Richards, vol. 3, pp. 214, 216. 72 Ibid., vol.12, p. 382; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 220. 73 Ibid., vol.12, p. 383; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 220. 74 Ibid., vol.12, p. 374; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 214; for the shih.na, see Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 115; trans. Boyle, vol.1, p.147. 75 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, pp. 380–1; trans. Richards, vol. 3, pp. 218–19; more briefly in Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p.116; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 148. 76 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, p. 373; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 213. 77 Ibid., vol.12, p. 374, trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 214. 78 Ibid., vol.12, pp. 382–3; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 220. 79 See Carole Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives (Edinburgh, 1999), pp. 63–6. 80 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 2, 92; trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 360. 81 Tekish: Rawandi, Rahat al-sudur wa-ayat al-surur, ed. Muhammad Iqbál (Leiden and London, 1921), p. 398 (Barthold, Turkestan, p.348, misinterpreting ‘the Turks of Khita’ as the Mongols). Muhammad in Samarqand: Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, vol. 12, p. 269; trans. Richards, vol. 3, p. 133; Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan Gusha, vol. 2, p. 125; trans. Boyle, vol. 2, p. 395.

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13 Juvayni’s historical consciousness Beatrice Forbes Manz

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e owe much of our narrative of Mongol conquest and early rule in Iran to one historian, ‘Ala’ al-Din ‘Ata Malik Juvayni (1226–83). Nonetheless, Juvayni’s Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha has been much more often mined than analysed. Where it has been discussed, the primary issue has been Juvayni’s attitude towards the Mongols; how could a member of the Persian elite praise the people who ravaged his homeland? Juvayni’s sympathetic portrayal of the last Khwarazmshah is considered to show his true feelings, while to explain his praise of the Mongols some scholars have suggested that he wrote at two levels, offering his more sophisticated readers a hidden message in which he blamed the oppressors.1 However, as Charles Melville has pointed out, Juvayni’s identity as a bureaucrat made his attitude towards the new rulers inevitable – when the Mongols took over Khurasan, the Juvaynis went into their employ, as they had earlier gone into that of the victorious Khwarazmshahs.2 Juvayni and his father were both in Mongol service and his family’s standing was thus tied to Chinggisid success. On the other hand, to condemn the family’s former employers would belittle the achievements of earlier generations. In this paper I shall follow Charles Melville’s lead and examine how Juvayni’s historical consciousness reflects his identity as member of a bureaucratic family that served under successive dynasties in exceptionally turbulent times. Such a position engendered not just ambivalent loyalties, but multiple ones. Like most histories, the Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha was written for the victor, but the vanquished are remarkably well represented. Juvayni interrupts his narrative of Mongol conquests to give the history of three defeated powers: the Uyghurs, Khwarazmshahs, — 114 —

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and Nizari Ismailis. These dynasties occupy almost half of the history. Their encounters with the Mongols are described twice, once as part of Mongol conquests, and once within their own histories, each time with a different emphasis.3 Sections of the Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha devoted to the Mongols show a similar pattern. Juvayni includes numerous short narratives and biographies in which the same story may be told several times from competing perspectives. It is accepted that Juvayni, writing during Möngke’s reign, favoured the Toluid branch of the Chinggisids and that he wrote with a bias towards his employer Arghun Agha, the early governor of Iran, still alive when Juvayni wrote his history.4 Had he written only from his own observation, Juvayni might have written exclusively from one political viewpoint. However, when he began this history he was working alongside his father, who undoubtedly provided much of his information on earlier Mongol rule in Iran. Just as the Juvayni family had worked for several dynasties, ‘Ata Malik’s father, Baha’ al-Din, served in turn under four governors, most of whom came to power at the expense of the ones before. Juvayni’s text mirrors his father’s loyalty to earlier masters, just as the history as a whole reflects the experience of previous generations. Juvayni gives the history of each governorship separately and follows with a defamatory chapter on the vizier Sharaf al-Din Khwarazmi, apparently an enemy of Juvayni’s father.5 To illustrate Juvayni’s technique, I will analyse his biographies of the Mongol governors, focusing on his portrayal of the second two, Körgüz and Arghun. We find that Juvayni’s moral judgement of these men varies subtly from one place to another. Two issues emerge as touchstones: contests over the governorship and the two men’s relationship to the evil vizier Sharaf al-Din Khwarazmi. Since Juvayni’s attitude was influenced by his father’s experience, it is useful to follow Baha’ al-Din’s career. He first appears about 630/1232–3 as the first governor of Iran, Chin-Temür, was pacifying Khurasan, and he was soon appointed .sāh.ib dīwān.6 When Chin-Temür died in 633/1235–6, Ögedei replaced him with the ancient Mongol amir Nosal and reappointed Baha’ al-Din as .sāh.ib dīwān. Nosal retained his formal position until his death in 637/1239–40, but his ambitious subordinate Körgüz soon began to gain power at his expense.7 From Nosal, Juvayni quickly turns to Körgüz, whose life is recounted from his childhood on. While Juvayni’s portrayal of Körgüz’s personality is quite consistent, his moral judgement seems to change back and forth within the biography. Some of this variation can probably be traced to Baha’ al-Din; at any given point the person who officially held power – thus Baha’ al-Din’s employer – is usually considered in the right. The account of Körgüz’s childhood is laudatory but the description of his bid for power is much more critical. Baha’ al-Din appears to have had cordial relations with Körgüz. However, as head of the administration, he was serving Nosal and there is no attempt to gloss over Körgüz’s scheming and aggression. From the beginning of Nosal’s governorship he travelled to and from the central court, to the dismay of Nosal and his associate Kül-Bolad. Leaving for a visit to court a year or two after Chin-Temür’s death, Körgüz told Baha’ al-Din he hoped to seize his fortune.8 Juvayni gives two slightly different descriptions of what Körgüz obtained from Ögedei on this visit. In Nosal’s biography he writes that Körgüz was given full administrative authority and Nosal retained only his army position. In Körgüz’s biography, however, Juvayni states that Ögedei appointed Körgüz to compute tax arrears and conduct a census, and he was to have — 115 —

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authority for those tasks. If he performed well, he would be given further powers. Having gained his yarligh, Körgüz flew back like a bird of prey, brought bureaucrats into his employ by force (bi ilzām wa taklīf ) and cowed the aged Nosal. When Nosal’s more competent associate Kül-Bolad objected, Körgüz shoved the yarligh into his face and told him not to interfere.9 Körgüz was successful, and when Juvayni describes his administration of Khurasan he abruptly changes tone and gives a brief but fulsome description of security and justice. However, although Körgüz controlled the dīwān, his position was apparently still unconfirmed and he was soon threatened by a faction promoting the governorship of Chin-Temür’s son Edigü-Temür. One member of this faction was Sharaf al-Din Khwarazmi, whose authority was diminished under Körgüz and who therefore pushed Edigü-Temür to assert his claim before Körgüz became fully entrenched.10 It was at this point that Arghun Agha appeared in Iran. When Edigü-Temür’s party sent messengers to the central court to complain about Körgüz, Arghun and two other messengers were sent to investigate. Learning of this, Körgüz set off for court, but met them on the way. When he refused to turn around, Sharaf al-Din’s envoy fought him and knocked out his teeth. Körgüz then gave in, but sent his bloody nightshirt to Ögedei to plead his case for him.11 The biography provides a vivid account of the contest between Körgüz and the court emissaries, who supported Edigü-Temür’s party. Despite his connection to Arghun, Juvayni’s account of the encounter favours Körgüz; on the other hand, he avoids highlighting Arghun’s role. After the account of their appointment, Arghun and his colleagues are mentioned only as ‘the messengers’. When the court party arrived, Kül-Bolad, Edigü-Temür and Nosal took clubs and drove the government officials out of Körgüz’s quarters into their own, where the investigation began. In the meantime, however, Körgüz’s bloodstained nightshirt had done its job, and a furious Ögedei ordered that all parties proceed to the central court. Now Körgüz pushed the officials out of Edigü-Temür’s encampment, at which Edigü-Temür’s party drove them back again. If officials sided with Körgüz, they were attacked by the messengers, while if they favoured the court emissaries, they risked retaliation by Körgüz. The investigation moved to Ögedei’s court, ending with the triumph of Körgüz, who returned to Iran as a fully accredited governor. Sharaf al-Din Khwarazmi, though disgraced, remained in his employ. Throughout his account Juvayni describes Körgüz’s enemies as foolish and scheming men, while people siding with Körgüz were men of intelligence and good judgement.12 As Körgüz’s biography nears its conclusion, Juvayni seems once again to distance himself. Körgüz soon imprisoned Sharaf al-Din, hoping to destroy him completely. He now displayed his fatal flaw – a hasty and uncontrolled temper. On his way to court to press his case, he was angered by a Chaghatayid amir and spoke to him in terms which offended the Chaghatayid court. In the biography, this display of temper is presented as the beginning of Körgüz’s downfall. Unfortunately for him, the episode coincided with Ögedei’s death and the end of his favour at court. The news of Körgüz’s rudeness reached the Chaghatayid court at the same time as a messenger from Sharaf al-Din asking for help. The Chaghatayids appointed Arghun and his earlier associates to release Sharaf al-Din and arrest Körgüz. Once again, Juvayni sides with Körgüz but avoids putting Arghun at the centre. On arriving in Khurasan, he writes, the envoys sought help from local Mongol commanders, and these Mongols play the most prominent part in the account of Körgüz’s capture.13 — 116 —

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Körgüz was tried at the court of Ögedei’s widow Töregene, regent of the empire. Töregene disliked Körgüz, and her powerful servitor, Fatima Khatun, was the person who had brought Sharaf al-Din to prominence. Moreover Körgüz’s sharp tongue continued to cause him trouble. As a result Töregene had him killed and appointed Arghun in his place.14 Although Juvayni’s portrait of Körgüz is not uniformly positive, it is on the whole sympathetic. Körgüz has elements of the classic tragic hero; he was a worthy administrator but his harsh temper and hasty tongue brought him to ruin. The next two chapters chronicle the career of Arghun Agha, Baha’ al-Din’s last employer and ‘Ala’ al-Din’s first. Juvayni clearly intends a complementary biography; he further downplays Arghun’s role in the downfall of Körgüz and gives a different slant to several events. Describing Arghun’s first mission to investigate Körgüz, Juvayni completely omits the conflict in Khurasan, stating only that Arghun and the other amirs were appointed to look into the affair and, after beginning the investigation, brought all parties to the central court where Arghun supported Körgüz. If this last statement is true, it is likely that Arghun played a very minor role since he is not mentioned in fuller descriptions.15 The next statement in Arghun’s biography is new. We are told that when Körgüz was sent back to Iran, Arghun was appointed basqaq and nöker, and Körgüz was instructed to consult him in all affairs. However, Körgüz ignored Arghun, who therefore headed for court, passing through the Chaghatayid court, where he was charged with arresting Körgüz.16 This statement implies that Körgüz disobeyed orders, and serves to justify Arghun’s involvement in Körgüz’s fall. The story receives some support from the history of Sayfi Harawi, which identifies Arghun as the representative of the central court in Khurasan during Körgüz’s governorship and implies that he and Körgüz represented competing interests.17 In Arghun’s biography his mission to Khurasan on Ögedei’s death and Körgüz’s downfall are abbreviated, with no mention of Töregene’s grudge against Körgüz, whose arrest is attributed solely to his hasty speech. Töregene gave the governorship to Arghun, and appointed Sharaf al-Din with him as ulugh bitikchi.18 The next sensitive issue for Juvayni is Arghun’s relationship with Sharaf al-Din Khwarazmi. Like the conflict with Körgüz, this is played down. Arghun’s early rule in Iran is positively described; he brought the region into order and protected the population. Meanwhile, Sharaf al-Din travelled to the court of Batu to foil a plot against him, then returned and began to extort back taxes from the population. Juvayni states that Arghun attempted to stop him, thus gaining the affection of the population, but Sharaf al-Din persisted. Juvayni gives only a brief description of Sharaf al-Din’s actions, followed immediately by the account of his death. After he died Arghun did not return the taxes that Sharaf al-Din had already collected but did abolish his new illegal levies. This statement leads directly into the account of Arghun’s confiscation of illegal drafts issued by amirs and princes during the interregnum.19 In the governors’ biographies Juvayni gives relatively favourable portraits, usually presenting conflicts from the side of the person currently in power. At the same time he takes pains to avoid putting Arghun in a bad light. When we turn to two other biographies that cover some of the same material – those of Töregene and Sharaf al-Din Khwarazmi – we find a significant difference. Here the tone is critical and events are more baldly presented. The biography of Töregene revolves around her faulty rule, in particular the grudges she harboured and the illegitimate power held by her advisor Fatima. In the biography of Sharaf al-Din Khwarazmi, Juvayni presents the portrait of — 117 —

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a vizier described as the incarnation of evil: ‘a two-faced tale-bearer sunk in shame and ignominy; a bringer of ill-fortune to any master; a reprobate devoid of all good qualities.’20 He paints a lurid picture of Sharaf al-Din’s extortionary practices under Chin-Temür and Arghun, which contrasts with the favourable description of local administration in their biographies.21 In the biographies of Töregene and Sharaf al-Din the narrative is shaped to fit the major theme, and Juvayni seems less concerned to protect Arghun from responsibility. In the history of Töregene, Körgüz’s execution is attributed directly to her grudge against him. Juvayni does not omit Arghun’s role in the arrest of Körgüz, though the account is brief.22 While in Töregene’s biography Körgüz appears as an incidental victim, in Sharaf al-Din’s he plays a positive, almost heroic role and Arghun’s record is questionable at best. Sharaf al-Din entered Mongol service under Chin-Temür, who did not prevent his exactions from the population. When Körgüz took power this changed. Renowned for his shrewdness, Körgüz effectively blocked Sharaf al-Din’s actions; Sharaf al-Din then promoted the governorship of Edigü-Temür in hopes of regaining influence. His action brought in Arghun, and in this account Arghun appears as leader of the delegation.23 As for Arghun’s mission to release Sharaf al-Din and arrest Körgüz, it is presented as a catastrophe: ‘However the floodwater of the tribulation of the people of Khorasan had not yet passed and one draught of the wine of adversity was still left in their cup, and before that benefit [the destruction of Sharaf al-Din and an ally] could be effected there came news of the arrival of the messengers.’24 Sharaf al-Din was freed from his imprisonment and immediately began to oppress the population. In this account, Töregene’s favour towards Arghun is emphasised and contrasted directly with her unjust treatment of Körgüz. Arghun in his turn promoted Sharaf al-Din, who returned to Khurasan charged with the administration of finance. When Sharaf al-Din was attacked by enemies at Batu’s court, Arghun saved him. After he heard of Körgüz’s death Sharaf al-Din knew he could set out without fear to torment the population, and a vivid account of his oppression follows; what was given two sentences in Arghun’s biography here fills almost six pages. All Arghun did was to use his own funds to return the property of some widows and orphans who petitioned him, and to abolish Sharaf al-Din’s new taxes after his death.25 Körgüz was the one administrator who prevented Sharaf al-Din’s excesses, while Arghun acted as protector and enabler, only feebly attempting to mitigate the results. Juvayni has portrayed the same dramas four times, from different standpoints. Each time he tells the story praise and blame are liberally bestowed, but they do not always fall on the same people. Juvayni certainly presented a case for the Mongols as a whole, for the Toluid branch, and for his own employer Arghun, but these loyalties do not overpower all other viewpoints. The service of earlier generations of his family influences him, and his presentation also varies according to the purpose of each section of the history. Thus the need to present a favourable view of Arghun prevails in his biography, but does not prevent Juvayni from considering Körgüz in the right against Edigü-Temür, or from presenting him as the stronger and more principled governor in relation to Sharaf al-Din al-Khwarazmi. Juvayni’s varied judgements represent the views of a bureaucratic family that witnessed several dynasties and numerous ambitious men gaining power and losing it, one after the other.

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Notes

1 David Morgan, ‘Persian historians and the Mongols’, in David Morgan (ed.), Medieval Historical Writing in the Christian and Islamic Worlds (London, 1982), pp. 114–15; Claude-Claire Kappler, ‘Regards sur les mongols au XIIIe siècle: Joveyni, Rubrouck’, in Ilana Zinguer (ed.), Miroirs de l‘altérité et voyages au proche-orient (Geneva, 1991), pp. 45–8. 2 Charles Melville, review of ‘Ata-Malik Juvaini, Genghis Khan. The History of the World-Conqueror, trans. J.A. Boyle, with an introduction by David O. Morgan (Manchester, 1997), Iranian Studies 32, no 3 (1999), pp. 435–6. 3 ‘Ata-Malik Juvayni, The History of the World-Conqueror, trans. J.A. Boyle (Manchester, 1958). For the Uyghur idi-qut see ibid., pp.48–53, 589–90; the Khwarazmshahs, pp. 77–81, 133–6, 142–50, 367–9, 396–468; the Ismailis, pp. 618–34, 707–23. 4 Melville, review of Genghis Khan, p. 436; George Lane, ‘Arghun Aqa: Mongol bureaucrat’, Iranian Studies 32, no 4 (1999), pp.463–4. 5 The venom of Juvayni’s portrait suggests personal enmity. Sharaf al-Din and Baha’al-Din served in high dīwān positions over much the same period and were often on different sides of conflicts. 6 ‘Ala’ al-Din ‘Ata Malik Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, ed. M. Qazvini (Leiden and London, 1912–37), vol. 2, pp. 219–23; trans. Boyle, pp.483–7. 7 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 2, pp. 224–5; trans. Boyle, pp. 488–9. 8 Ibid., vol.2, pp. 225–9; trans. Boyle, pp. 489–92. 9 Ibid., vol.2, pp. 225, 228–9; trans. Boyle, pp. 489, 492–3. 10 Ibid., vol.2, p.230; trans. Boyle, pp. 493–4. 11 Ibid., vol.2, p.231; trans. Boyle, p. 494. 12 Ibid., vol.2, pp. 231–7; trans. Boyle, pp. 494–500. 13 Ibid., vol.2, pp. 238–40; trans. Boyle, pp. 502–3. 14 Ibid., vol.2, pp. 240–2; trans. Boyle, pp. 504–5. 15 Ibid., vol.2, pp. 232–7, 243, 270–1; trans. Boyle, pp. 495–500, 506, 533–4. 16 Ibid., vol.2, p.243; trans. Boyle, pp. 506–7. 17 Sayf b. Muhammad al-Harawi (Sayfi), Tarikh-nama-i Harat, ed. Muhammad Zubayr al-Siddiqi (Calcutta, 1944), pp. 123–36. 18 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 2, p. 243; trans. Boyle, p. 507. 19 Ibid., vol.2, pp. 244–5; trans. Boyle, pp. 507–8. 20 Juvayni, History, trans. Boyle, p. 528. 21 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 2, pp. 223, 269–70; trans. Boyle, pp. 487, 533–34. 22 Ibid., vol.1 pp.198–9; trans. Boyle, p. 243. 23 Ibid., vol.2, pp. 271–3; trans. Boyle, pp. 533–5. 24 Juvayni, History, trans. Boyle, p. 537. 25 Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 2, pp. 273–9; trans. Boyle, pp. 538–43.

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14 Persian and non-Persian historical writing in the Mongol Empire David Morgan

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ne of the principal difficulties that historians of the Mongol Empire have to deal with is the number of languages in which their sources were written. When one considers that, at its greatest extent, the Empire encompassed an uninterrupted swathe of territory stretching from Korea to Hungary, this is hardly surprising. Joe Fletcher of Harvard, who, if he had lived beyond his forties, would certainly have become the leading Central Asian historian of his generation, once admitted to me, slightly guiltily, that he had learnt fifteen languages. That is well beyond the capacity of most of us. For myself, when I first undertook research in Mongol history, almost 40 years ago, I concluded that the most important languages were Persian and Chinese. Mongolian is not so important, except, as we shall see, for the earliest period. I opted to learn Persian, and I have subsequently based my work mainly on sources in that language, being dependent on translations into European languages for material in Chinese. Bearing in mind both the state of the subject at that time, and my own limited linguistic capabilities, that was, I think, a legitimate decision. It is only in more recent years that it has become apparent how important it is to be able to read both the Persian and the Chinese sources, not only so as to obtain information from both bodies of material, but in order to make them illuminate each other, and hence our understanding of the history of the Mongol imperial era. As I have implied, not a great deal of this body of source material was written in Mongolian. The main such source is the fascinating if often perplexing document known as The Secret History of the Mongols.1 The circumstances of its survival in themselves help to explain — 120 —

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why it is virtually unique. Written originally in the Uyghur script that, on Chinggis Khan’s instructions, was adopted for Mongolian, previously an unwritten language, it was, during the period of Mongol rule in China, transcribed into Chinese characters, using those characters for their phonetic value rather than for their meaning. It would therefore have looked like gibberish to any Chinese reader, but, presumably because it seemed to be some form of Chinese document, it was preserved after the Mongols were driven from China in 1368. It is anonymous, and its original version appears to have been substantially written in 1228, immediately after the death of Chinggis Khan (an addition from then to around 1240 was later added, and there were some subsequent tinkerings). Its very uniqueness is what gives it such importance: it is the only substantial Mongolian view of their own society, their history, their early conquests, that we possess. Everything else was written by non-Mongols: their conquered subjects or their unconquered enemies. That, more than as a repository of historical facts as such, is its main value to the historian. For the facts about the early conquests, we have to resort mainly to works in Persian. The Mongol period is the first era of Persian history since the Arab conquest in which the bulk of the indigenous historical sources are written in Persian, not in Arabic. This is perhaps to be explained initially in terms of the patrons for whom historians were likely to be writing: the Mongols. Unlike previous invaders, they arrived as non-Muslims, so for them, Arabic had no special status; and by the time that most of them became at least nominal Muslims, towards the end of the thirteenth century, the position of Persian was perhaps unassailable. Indeed, it was adopted as a kind of lingua franca throughout the Empire – even in China. This does not imply that those who wrote these Persian histories were necessarily themselves ignorant of Arabic: far from it. The greatest of them, Rashid al-Din (d. 718/1318), wrote in both languages, and had all his Persian works translated into Arabic, and vice versa. Another respect in which the historiography differs from that of preceding periods, for example the time of Seljuq rule in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, is that a great deal of it is contemporary or near-contemporary with the events it relates. This is a great advantage, though not perhaps as undiluted a merit as is sometimes supposed. The notion that the nearer a historical account is to the events, the more accurate it is likely to be, should be entertained only with some reservations – what, after all, could be more contemporary than today’s The Sun? There is something to be said in favour of perspective, as well as something against contamination by later concerns and preoccupations. And another characteristic of those Persian historians of the Mongols who wrote from within the Empire is that they were for the most part bureaucrats, working for the Mongol government. Such historians were likely to be well-informed, and the bureaucratic point of view is doubtless a valid and significant one. But it is not the only possible one. However, it turns out that, when we consider the Persian historians, we have not in fact quite finished with the Mongolian tradition. The oldest of the major historians, Juzjani (d. after 664/1265), wrote independently of it; nor was he prone to bureaucratic prejudice. What he wrote about the Mongols was based on bitter personal experience. He had himself been present during the Mongol invasion of the Khwarazmshah’s empire in 1219–23. He did not like what he saw, and he departed to the safe sanctuary of the Delhi Sultanate. There, around 1260, he wrote his Tabaqat-i Nasiri, the last section of which is an extremely hostile though often strikingly fairminded account of the Mongol invasions. — 121 —

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It was in the same year that Juvayni (d.681/1283), who was in the service of the Mongols and who spent the rest of his life as their governor of Baghdad and Iraq, completed his Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, the ‘History of the World-Conqueror’, that is, Chinggis Khan. One of the reasons for having considerable confidence in the general reliability of Juzjani and Juvayni is that, despite their distance from each other in both place and perspective, they are rarely contradictory on matters of fact: and neither can have known the other’s work. Juvayni’s indebtedness to Mongol tradition will have been largely if not entirely oral. There is no indication that he had access to any written material in Mongolian, even in translation. But he did travel twice to Mongolia, so he tells us; and no doubt much of what he relates about the early life and career of Chinggis Khan derives from what he learnt on those journeys. As befitted an official in Mongol service, he takes a relentlessly positive view of their achievements, though, it is important to notice, without in any way attempting to tone down the horrors, the massacre and destruction that the conquerors inflicted on the lands of Islam. In terms of historical explanation, he fell back on that old favourite, the judgement of God on the sins of his people, the Muslims. According to Juvayni, Chinggis Khan preached a sermon in the principal mosque in Bukhara, in which he famously declaimed (in what language?): ‘O people, know that you have committed great sins […] I am the punishment of God. If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you.’2 But the Mongol cloud, for Juvayni, was replete with silver linings. The Mongols, for example, provided justice. Under their rule, Islam had spread far further than ever before. And they had largely wiped out the hated Nizari Ismailis, the Assassins. ‘In truth,’ according to Juvayni, on the last page of his history, ‘that act was the balm of Muslim wounds and the cure to the disorders of the Faith’.3 It was at that point, in 1256, that he concluded his history, or at any rate stopped writing it. That was just as well. Had he continued to 1258, he would have had to give an account of the Mongol sack of Baghdad and their execution of the last ‘Abbasid caliph – an event that would have been a little harder to present as a benefit to Islam. Juvayni was always much respected as a historian, and much emulated. His Persian style is quite elaborate, and it was widely copied. Much more elaborate was his continuator, Wassaf, whose celebrated incomprehensibility did not, unfortunately, prevent him too from becoming a model for later writers. Never really a stylistic model was the greatest of them all, Rashid al-Din, to whom I now turn. Rashid al-Din was the scholar-bureaucrat par excellence. For the last two decades of his life, he was joint chief minister of the Mongol kingdom in Persia, the Ilkhanate; and somehow or other he also found the time to write a massive history, far and away the most important single historical work to survive from the Mongol Empire. Or did he? Much of his work, the Jami‘ altawarikh, ‘Collection of Histories’, is written in a plain and unadorned Persian style that bears little resemblance to Persian as it was written by Juvayni, Wassaf or most of their successors. One reason for this may have been that the way in which the work was assembled made such a simple style necessary if it was to be consistent. For we have gradually come to realise that Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh is indeed a ‘collection’ of histories: it seems to be an early example of history written by a committee – perhaps a kind of thinly disguised proto-Cambridge History of the Mongols. We have plenty of evidence that, at the very least, Rashid al-Din had available to him a number of foreign informants and a staff of ‘research assistants’ who assembled the material — 122 —

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that the great man turned into history during the time he had available for scholarly work – he says it was between morning prayer and sunrise. One aggrieved assistant, Qashani, later himself the author or compiler of a history of Öljeitü (r.1304–16), the penultimate Ilkhan of the line of Hülegü, claimed that he was the true author of the Jami‘ al-tawarikh, and that the villainous Rashid al-Din had cheated him of the rewards, both financial and in terms of prestige4 – rather as though Maurice Ashley or William Deakin had claimed to be the true author of Winston Churchill’s life of Marlborough. But there seems to have been more to it than that. The Jami‘ al-tawarikh is a complex work. It includes the kind of history that would have been expected of a Muslim historian – Muhammad and the caliphs, the major Islamic dynasties before Mongol times – but also, and this, at least in terms of its attempt at comprehensiveness, was without real precedent, histories of the peoples with whom the Mongols had come into contact: Jews, Turks, the Franks (that is, the Europeans), as well China and India. And this is all in addition to the real meat of the book: the history of the Mongol and Turkish tribes, Chinggis Khan and the Mongol conquests; the reigns of Chinggis’s successors; and finally, the history of the Ilkhans, the Mongol rulers of Iran. It is the material in these sections that constitutes Rashid al-Din’s major importance for modern historians. The histories of other peoples and parts of the world are interesting mainly because of what they tell us regarding what educated Persians of Rashid al-Din’s time knew, or could know, about them: no one would now go to his history of China to find out what happened in China. They are interesting historiographically rather than historically. For example, much of the history of the Franks is based on a rather bare chronicle by Martinus Polonus, or Martin of Troppau, bishop of Gnesen (d. 1279). It has been described by Denys Hay as ‘poor and arid’, but it was translated into Czech, German, Italian and French, and it inspired more continuations than any other medieval chronicle.5 Evidently a copy found its way to Tabriz. Thomas Allsen, of whom more shortly, regards the history of the tribes as the most remarkable section of the Jami‘ al-tawarikh. He writes that it ‘is truly a unique work systematically treating the history, geographical distribution, ethnogenesis, and folklore of all the principal nomadic peoples of Inner Asia. No study of similar scope and content precedes it, except for Herodotus’ account of the Scythians of the western steppe, and nothing similar follows it until the nineteenth century.’6 Where did Rashid al-Din get this astonishing information from? Some of it, he tells us, was from documents in Mongolian that were kept in the royal treasury, and some was derived from oral tradition. But there is no indication that he knew Mongolian; and there is every reason to believe that neither he nor any other non-Mongol would have had access to the Mongols’ documentation of their past. The crucial figure was Rashid al-Din’s Mongol intermediary and collaborator, Bolad Chingsang (d. 713/1313). Thanks to Allsen’s work, we now know a good deal about Bolad. This body of work, summed up, so far, in his seminal book Culture and Conquest in Mongol Eurasia of 2001, is the locus classicus for what I suggested earlier: the desirability of being conversant with both the Persian and the Chinese sources for Mongol history. Bolad was a Dörben Mongol who served the Great Khan Qubilai in high office in China. Incidentally, his name appears in Chinese sources as Po-lo: this may underlie some of the false alarms created by those seeking, in vain, for evidence of the presence of Marco Polo in Chinese sources. ‘Chingsang’ is simply a Persianisation of the Chinese term for ‘minister’. After two decades of government service in China, Bolad was despatched — 123 —

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in the 1280s on an embassy to Persia; and there he remained, as a kind of permanent High Commissioner, until his death in 1313. Rashid al-Din makes his indebtedness to Bolad perfectly clear; and this fact has not eluded pre-Allsen scholars – even Morgan. But what Allsen’s research in his unprecedentedly wide range of sources has shown is that Bolad was much more than a convenient intermediary, passing on to Rashid al-Din material that he either could not read or to which he was not allowed access. In reality, we can now see, large parts – and some of the most significant parts – of the Jami‘ al-tawarikh are the result of a scholarly collaboration between Rashid al-Din and Bolad Chingsang. The most conspicuous example of this is Rashid al-Din’s account of the life and career of Chinggis Khan. What is now the standard English translation of the Secret History of the Mongols is that by Igor de Rachewiltz, published in 2004. Of this massive two-volume work of 1,300 pages, only 218 contain the translation of the text. The remainder is annotation and commentary. While de Rachewiltz terms the book ‘an epic chronicle’, he by no means entirely discounts its value as a source of historical facts, even though that, as suggested earlier, is not its main significance. But he points out that, when it comes to facts and chronology, Rashid al-Din is far more reliable than the Secret History, although, in this section of his work, he was writing around a century after the events he relates.7 Why was this? He tells us that his source, the contents of which were conveyed to him by Bolad Chingsang, was a Mongolian work, the Altan Debter, or ‘Golden Book’. This is lost, and we know of its contents only through the use made of it by other historians. The Altan Debter has usually been depicted8 as a Mongolian chronicle, comparable perhaps with the Secret History but more ‘official’ and more reliable. What Allsen shows is that it is likely not to have been quite that, but rather a large and disparate collection of material, not a coherent history. Here he draws interesting parallels with the Chinese tradition of dynastic history-writing. Long-established practice dictated that court diaries were kept, and ‘veritable records’ compiled at the end of each reign. These were used for official consultation, for example in the search for precedents. When the dynasty fell, its successor would mark the transfer of the Mandate of Heaven by commissioning the writing of the official history of the departed dynasty, based on those veritable records. Hence, the Mongol rulers had the histories of the preceding dynasties, the Liao, Chin and Sung, written; and after the Mongols were overthrown in 1368, their Ming successors had the history of the Mongol Yüan dynasty, the Yüan-shih, compiled – in about a year. This may be the explanation of what is sometimes said, that the Mongol dynastic history is one of the least satisfactory to have survived. What we can see is that, at times, the same collection of Mongolian documentary material was drawn on by the author of the Secret History, by Rashid al-Din, and by the author of a Chinese account of Chinggis Khan’s career, The Record of the Personal Campaigns of the Holy Warrior. And similar information derived from the Altan Debter can be detected both in Rashid al-Din’s work and in the Yüan-shih. This all suggests that the Chinese practice of collaborative history exercised a certain influence, under Mongol auspices, in the way history was written in Islamic Persia. Nor was this restricted to Rashid al-Din. His research assistant Qashani’s history of the Ilkhan Öljeitü reads very much as though it was based on a court diary. As his editor remarks, the book ‘has the appearance of a diary or news-letter hastily put together in a roughand-ready manner so that one wonders whether it had its origin in some sort of court-calendar — 124 —

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for which al-Qashani was responsible.’9 As we have seen, the keeping of such a diary was another traditional administrative practice in China. It would seem, then, that the Mongol period not only has a claim, in Professor Lambton’s words, to be ‘regarded as the high point in Persian historical writing’.10 It was also a time when, if briefly, the influence of a quite different historiographical tradition, the Chinese, was felt in the Islamic world. This is a conspicuous example of the cross-cultural exchange that historians in recent years have found to be one of the most notable characteristics of the Mongol century in Eurasian history. Notes

1 See Igor de Rachewiltz, The Secret History of the Mongols: A Mongolian Epic Chronicle of the Thirteenth Century (Leiden, 2004). 2 ‘Ala’ al-Din ‘Ata Malik Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, ed. M. Qazvini (London, 1912–37), vol. 1, p. 81; trans. J.A. Boyle, The History of the World-Conqueror, 2nd edition (Manchester, 1997), p. 105. 3 Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 3, p. 278; trans. Boyle, p. 725. 4 Qashani, Tarikh-i Uljaytu, ed. Mahin Hambly (Tehran, 1969), pp. 54, 240. The late Alexander Morton has argued cogently that there may well have been some justification for Qashani’s complaints about Rashid al-Din: The Saljuqnama of Zahir al-Din Nishapuri, ed. A.H. Morton (Cambridge, 2004), Introduction, pp. 23–5. 5 D. Hay, Annalists and Historians (London, 1977), p. 64. 6 Thomas T. Allsen, Culture and Conquest in Mongol Eurasia (Cambridge, 2001), p. 87. 7 De Rachewiltz, Secret History, vol. 1, xxxviii, lxii. 8 For example, by D.O. Morgan, The Mongols, 2nd edition (Oxford, 2007), p. 11. 9 Qashani, Tarikh-i Uljaytu, Introduction, vi. 10 A.K.S. Lambton, ‘Ta’rīkh’, EI 2.

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15 Ruling from tents: some remarks on women’s ordos in Ilkhanid Iran Bruno De Nicola

T

he word ordo has been widely used by Mongolists for decades to refer to the Mongol royal encampment.1 It is a Turkish term that appears originally to have referred to the group of tents belonging to the elite cavalry of a Turco-Mongol khan in the middle of which stood the yurt of the ruler.2 Medieval Persian chroniclers used it when specifying where the king or other member of the royal family was at a particular time.3 However, this is not to say that its precise meaning always remained constant – sometimes the sources refer to the ordo as a political entity (like the itinerant court of medieval European kingdoms) and at other times as a centre of economic and military importance.4 Atwood has characterised the ordo as ‘the great palace-tents and camps of the Mongol princess, princes and emperors, which served as the nucleus of their power’.5 The ordo functioned not only as the nucleus of family and social life, but also as a centre of economic activity, with horses, cattle and trade being organised around them.6 Probably because they were familiar with this nomadic institution at least from the time of the Seljuqs’ entry into Iran in the eleventh century, Persian historians do not seem to have been particularly struck by the Mongols’ ordos.7 In fact, it appears that ordos had been around in Eurasia for a considerable period by the time the Mongols began to expand. It is possible that the Mongols were influenced in the organisation of their ordos by the Liao dynasty, which established garrisons in Mongolia while it ruled Northern China.8 The lack of descriptive information concerning the ordos in the Persian material obliges us to examine other sources in order to gain a clearer picture of the composition of this nuclear nomadic institution. A disciple travelling with — 126 —

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the Taoist master Chanchun to Central Asia to meet Chinggis Khan depicts the Mongol camp in the following way: ‘We were soon inside the encampment; and here we left our wagons. On the southern bank of the river were drawn up hundreds and thousands of wagons and tents. […] Ordo is the Mongol for temporary palace, and the palanquins, pavilions and other splendours of this camp would certainly have astonished the Khans of the ancient Huns.’9 This Chinese account confirms descriptions offered by modern historians, with not only the spectacular extension of the camp being emphasised, but also the fact that it was the typical dwelling of the nomadic empires of the steppes, be they Hun, Khitan or Mongol. In the thirteenth century, William of Rubruck described his encounter with Batu’s encampment in the following terms: ‘When I saw Batu’s orda [ordo] I was overcome with fear, for his own houses seemed like a great city stretching out a long way and crowded round on every side by people to a distance of three or four leagues.’10 Similarly, Ibn Battuta observed the mobility of the Mongol ordo on his visit to the territories of the Golden Horde in the fourteenth century. He comments that ‘on reaching the encampment they [the Mongols] took the tents off the wagons and set them upon the ground, for they were very light, and they did the same with mosques and shops.’11 So, ordos comprised not only the dwellings of the Mongols but also their places of worship and economic exchange. In Mongol-ruled Iran, the extent of the political and economic power of successive rulers ‘was decided in the Ilkhan’s tent’.12 Because it was at the centre of Ilkhanid political life, it is not surprising that the ordo should have played a fundamental part in economic life too. Members of the royal family and other people of importance each had their own ordo and this practice continued in Iran into the fourteenth century under Öljeitü (r.1304–16).13 Agents and officials proliferated, with the activities of various local elites interacting at court. This phenomenon is illustrated by, for example, the multitude of keshigs (royal guards) in the ordos belonging to members of the Chinggisid family.14 But though the workings of the ordo may have led to a certain unwieldiness in the administration of the realm, the ordo still managed to be a central, yet mobile, institution of economic and political activity. Despite the general references in the sources, specific information about the ownership and structure of Mongol ordos is relatively scarce. There are even fewer details concerning those encampments that belonged to women. With this difficulty in mind, the present article is an attempt to provide an insight into the ordos of the khātūns, the royal and aristocratic women, during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries in Iran.15 It is our aim to show that these queenly camps were rather more than simple assemblies of tents, that they were thriving economic units that women were able to pass on to other women and that they used for their own financial benefit and in order to pursue their own political agendas in the Ilkhanate. *

*

*

Studies of nomadic societies generally indicate that women were in charge of the house while men were preoccupied with hunting and war.16 This state of affairs was observed by travellers who visited the courts of the Mongols in the thirteenth century.17 As Rossabi has noted, Mongolian society was patrilineal; men were the owners of wealth, which was administered at home by women.18 When the Mongols became richer through conquest, the men were in a position to have more wives amongst whom they could continue to distribute their property to — 127 —

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be managed. So this pre-imperial custom flourished, with the main wives of the ruler or male member of the royal family having their own ordo or appanage in which property, cattle and people were accumulated and administered.20 Not all women had an ordo. The sources clearly indicate that some women who were in attendance in the ordos of other women were themselves never granted an ordo to administer.21 Who then had the right to be in charge of an ordo? The answer to this question is complex and would appear to be shaped by the varying circumstances under which women lived at different stages of the empire’s expansion. A woman who was entitled to rule an ordo would be the chief wife of the ruler or of another member of the royal family – by and large, this did not change. What changed was how these women came to be khātūns, or noble ladies. Amongst the Mongols, a woman’s right to property grew stronger as she passed through the stages of life. It has been observed that in Altaic societies in general ‘the status of an unmarried woman is lower than that of a married one and she becomes economically dependant on her family’.22 Once she is married though, a woman acquires control of her marriage dowry and thereby increases her status ‘within the ger’. If she gives birth to a son she is fully entitled to dispose of property and to administer not only her personal wealth but that of her minor sons in the event of her husband’s death.23 During his early life, Chinggis Khan oversaw the capture and subsequent distribution of ever-increasing numbers of people from defeated rival tribes.24 Such captives were apportioned to the various appanages of both male and female members of the royal family.25 Sources differ as to the number of people assigned to Chinggis Khan’s mother (Hö’elün), but there is no doubt that she was included in these allocations and that she received more than Chinggis Khan’s own sons.26 She is even credited with standing in front of the Khan to protest that she had not received enough and with being unwilling to share her portion with one of her sons.27 Chinggis Khan’s wife received 1,000 people who served as her personal guard, whilst two other wives of the Mongol emperor are reported to have received allocations of people into their ordos.28 As the empire grew larger and richer significant numbers of people came under female command and the camp’s structure became more sophisticated. If resources in pre-imperial times were allocated fairly straightforwardly among members of the royal family, the massive accumulation of wealth following military expansion meant that the Mongols had to implement, by the 1230s, a census to organise ‘taxation, military conscription, and the identification of cultural and technical specialists’.29 Despite this abundance though, it seems that a woman had to be married before she could have a personal share in the wealth of her ordo. Travellers from sedentary societies that had not previously been in touch with Altaic pastoral people were impressed by the existence of these female camps and their organisation. In his trip to the court of Güyük (d.1248), Carpini observed a clear division between the ordos of the different women in the camp of a prince: ‘When a Tartar has many wives, each one has her own dwelling and her household, and the husband eats and drinks and sleeps one day with one, and the next with another.’30 It is clear that these ordos belonged to the man’s wives. Concubines or other women would not have had an ordo of their own, but would be in attendance on women of higher status. Rubruck provides us with a fairly clear picture of the construction of these individual queenly ordos in the Mongol court. He mentions that ‘married women’ themselves drive the carts when their dwellings are transported and when the tents are unloaded from the cart they are distributed hierarchically from west to east in the encampment, commencing with the chief 19

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wife and followed by the others ‘according to their ranks’.31 He goes on to describe how the khan spent one night in the ordo of one of his wives and on that day ‘the court is held there, and the gifts which are presented to the master are placed in the treasury of that wife’ – thus shedding some light on the distribution of wealth among these ladies.32 Similar descriptions can be found in the account given by Ibn Battuta of the appanages of Uzbek’s wives in the Golden Horde, with the women driving their own wagons.33 He introduces the notion of the khan having four main khātūns, who were ordered in a hierarchy similar to that observed by Rubruck, and confirms the fact that the ruler divided his nights between the various ordos of his wives.34 Each khātūn had her ordo, and he speaks of visiting them separately, and tells how they each had their own property and subordinates.35 The Persian sources do not name all the owners of ordos among the descendants of Chinggis Khan. For example, both Rashid al-Din and Banakati note that Ögedei (d.1241) had four great khātūns but only name the first two: Boraqchin Khatun, who was the eldest wife, and Töregene Khatun.36 There is no mention of the former having her own ordo, whilst it is clear that the latter had one that facilitated her assumption of the regency of the empire.37 The difference was that Boraqchin did not have any sons by the Khan and was therefore not qualified to administer her own property. Among the concubines, only Erkene is mentioned. Despite the fact that she was the mother of Ögedei’s sixth son, Qadam Oghul, her lower status precluded her from being granted an ordo.38 Interestingly, Rashid al-Din points out that Qadam Oghul was sent to be raised in the ordo of the Khan’s brother Chaghatai (d.1241/2), while sons born of a chief wife (like Güyük) were brought up in their mother’s ordo. A similar hierarchical arrangement came into being among the wives of Chinggis Khan’s second son, Chaghatai. Although Chaghatai had many wives, two of them were more important than the others: Yesülün Khatun and her sister Tögen Khatun.39 However, the eldest son of Chaghatai (Mochi Yebe) was not born of either of these khātūns but of a slave-girl who was ‘in the ordo of Yesülün’ and was assaulted by Chaghatai while his wife was away. The account of this episode not only provides a reference to the existence of Yesülün’s ordo but also marks the status of the son born from this illegitimate union. It is mentioned that Chaghatai ‘did not hold Mochi Yebe of much account and gave him fewer troops and less territory’.40 It would seem then, at least during the early period of the empire, that if a woman was going to acquire an ordo, she needed not only to be a chief wife or the mother of a son but to accomplish both these states at the same time.41 It is generally understood that the Mongol khans had four main wives, who were held to be khātūns, whilst the rest were considered concubines.42 This picture is reinforced by Marco Polo’s descriptions of China.43 Some sources, however, make no mention of four, but instead actually name many wives.44 In the territories of the Ilkhanate in particular, bearing a son was no longer a precondition to being made a khātūn. For example, although Doquz Khatun bore no sons to Hülegü Ilkhan (d. 1265), Rashid al-Din accounts her the latter’s chief wife because ‘she was the wife of his father’.45 She administered an ordo that continued to be run solely by women into the fourteenth century.46 The example set by Doquz seems to have been followed by other women into the second half of the thirteenth century in the Ilkhanate. Despite only having a daughter and no sons by her first husband (Abaqa) and having no children by her second husband (Arghun), Bulughan Khatun ‘Buzurg’ had an ordo of her own.47 We do not — 129 —

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know much about her daughter, just that she was married to Toghan Buqa.48 So why, under these circumstances, was Bulughan given an ordo? There are two possible reasons. Firstly – according to Rashid al-Din – Abaqa loved her so much that she was placed above two of his other wives to whom he was already married.49 So perhaps a khātūn’s personal appeal was enough for her to be granted an ordo.50 Secondly, because she could not have a son, Bulughan was placed in charge of raising the Khan’s grandchild Ghazan as her own child.51 Interestingly, Rashid al‑Din claims that Abaqa decided that, since Bulughan was going to be the ‘mother’ of Ghazan, her ordo would belong to him when she died.52 If we are to believe Rashid al-Din then, being the Khan’s favourite or being appointed the adoptive mother of a member of the royal family might, in the Ilkhanate at least, result in a woman being granted an ordo.53 By about the end of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century, under the last three Ilkhans of Iran, the manner in which women acquired ordos had changed. Earlier, for example, Ghazan Khan (d. 1304) had had seven wives,54 and of these only one is cited as being the possessor of an ordo. The others may have had their own appanages, but they would not have been as important or prestigious as the one that belonged to Doquz Khatun.55 At about the same time, with a high mortality rate among the descendants of the ruling house – quite apart from the paucity of male heirs – the requirement to bear a son seems to have been abandoned. Ghazan, for instance, had only one son, by his fifth wife, and the boy died in childhood.56 The decline in fertility rates among the Mongols in Iran may have had an influence on policies relating to the assignment of ordos to women.57 Upon taking control of the realm, both Öljeitü (d. 1316) and then Abu Sa‘id (d. 1335) sought to readjust the economic balance among the khātūns. We are told that, despite having many wives,58 Öljeitü conferred the ordo of Ghazan Khan’s wife Karamü upon his own wife Qutlughshah Khatun, even though she apparently bore him no sons.59 Neither was the last Ilkhan of Iran able to produce any male descendants from any of his six wives.60 It may be that each and every wife of a Mongol prince or khan was granted an ordo, but we simply do not hear about it from our extant sources. However, what evidence there is suggests a more complex picture than this. Queenly ordos can be traced right across the Mongol Empire during every period of its development. Originally, the ownership of an ordo was generally reserved for the chief wife or wives of a wealthy man if she or they had borne him a son. However, this pattern could not be followed in all circumstances, with exceptions to it occurring when certain conditions obtained – such as the personal favouring of a particular woman, or low fertility rates among the ruling Mongols in the conquered territories. Whatever the reasons that gave rise to any particular female-administered ordo, their existence generally was pivotal in determining the economic involvement of the khātūn in the empire. *

*

*

Those noble women in the Mongol Empire who enjoyed a personal encampment kept their property and subordinates in these camps. Less evident is the organisational structure of the ordos and how the wealth within them was administered.61 The descriptions we have from Christian travellers do not shed much light on those involved in their administration or on the functions — 130 —

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of those who were attached to the khātūns. Occasionally one encounters a reference to such individuals but their role within the structure of the camp is not given. We know that cattle were private property and that when a cattle owner joined an ordo his herds became immediately attached to that camp.62 One may imagine, though, that in these circumstances the herdsman still bore personal responsibility for his animals. Before 1260, when the Empire was still under the direct command of one great khan, women had various amirs in their ordos who were charged with carrying out their commands and administering their properties. For example, when Töregene (r.1241/2–6) was empress, some of her agents were sent to Khurasan to collect taxes in territories that were under the jurisdiction of the powerful Arghun Agha.63 Other agents were sent to the ulus of Batu with the same purpose.64 The wife of Tolui (the youngest son of Chinggis Khan) also had people to administer her revenues. According to Aubin, at least three of them were also under the command of Arghun Agha in Khurasan on behalf of the queen, and when Möngke Khan came to the throne in 1250 they were given charge of different regions in Iran.65 Finally, in Central Asia, those people in attendance on Orghina Khatun in her ordo played an important role in the nomination of her son Mubarakshah for the throne of the ulus on the death of Alghu in 1266.66 The presence of ‘agents’ (nā’ib, pl. nuwwāb) in the ordos of both male and female members of the royal family was noted by Melville a few years ago.67 However, evidence of women having individual responsibility for the administration of these ordos is scarce. As the empire grew, so did the amount of property and numbers of people in the ordos, and some sort of central administration was needed. At the top of the administrative structure, the figure of the amīr-ordo appears several times in the Persian sources.68 Their function is not clear, but it seems that as well as taking part in the administration of wealth they may have been in charge of the soldiers.69 References to these individuals can be found especially in connection with the women of the Ilkhanate. Among the wives of Hülegü, Öljei Khatun had an amīr-ordo called Zangi, the son of Naya Noyan. Also mentioned are other amirs with different ranks, such as amīr-tümen, who was in charge of a military unit comprising 10,000 soldiers, and a weapons amir with obvious military responsibilities.70 Although these two belonged to a male ordo, there is no reason to believe that female camps did not also have amirs with these functions. The rivalries between some of Hülegü’s wives after his death can be seen in the confrontation between Öljei Khatun and the de facto ruler of the Ilkhanate, Qutui Khatun, mother of Ahmad Tegüder.71 The latter had an amīr-ordo called Asiq, who was in command of her properties and dependent soldiers. Like Zangi, he had played a key role in Arghun Ilkhan’s accession to the throne. Rashid al-Din says that in 1282, just before the coronation of Ahmad Tegüder, the son of Abaqa went to Siyah Kuh (‘Black Mountain’ in Hamadan province, north-western Iran) and ‘took over his father’s treasury’ to prevent his about‑to‑be‑crowned uncle taking control of the royal funds. It was in this context that Asiq ordered that Arghun’s .sāh.ib-dīwān be imprisoned, and so he was held in the ordo of Ahmad Tegüder.72 Although their specific duties are not described in the sources,73 the amīr-ordo seems to have acquired considerable status, accumulating substantial wealth into the fourteenth century. This is evident in the marriage of Ilkhan Öljeitü to ‘Adilshah, who is specifically referred to by Qashani as the daughter of Sartaq, the amīr-ordo of Bulughan Khatun ‘Buzurg’.74 This suggests that if a man was the amīr-ordo of a khātūn it conferred sufficient — 131 —

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status upon him in the Mongol court to permit him to marry his daughter – and thereby connect his family – to the Ilkhan. Apart from these chief administrators, a khātūn’s ordo included several other dignitaries, officials and servants. According to Marco Polo, the imperial wives of Qubilai Khan had ‘many pages and eunuchs, and a number of other attendants of both sexes; so that each of these ladies has not less than 10,000 persons attached to her court’.75 It might be argued that Polo’s description only applies to the court of Qubilai, who certainly had access to enough wealth in China to provide his wives with magnificent ordos. However, in his visit to the more ‘pastoral’ territories of the Golden Horde, Ibn Battuta was fascinated with the splendour of the khātūns’ camps. Compared to the Christian travellers who had passed through the region one century earlier, the Maghrebi voyager had greater access to their organisation. According to him, each of these ladies was ‘accompanied by about fifty girls […] [and] twenty elderly women riding on horses between the pages and the wagon’.76 Furthermore, the ordos had a military guard of 200 mounted slave-soldiers (mamlūks) and 100 armed infantry at their disposal.77 So, despite the differences in numbers, there is some resemblance between these ordos and those observed by Marco Polo in China. Ibn Battuta provides some interesting details concerning administration. For example, he observed that at a reception for visitors such as himself, a queen will have one elderly woman on her right side and one younger one on her left. The former is described as an ūlū khātūn, which is translated by the traveller as ‘lady vizier’, while the latter is named a kujuk khātūn – a ‘lady chamberlain’ to the queen.78 From such references it is difficult to derive a clear picture of the duties and functions of these two women; however, the observations of the Moroccan traveller suggest that they had some responsibility for the functioning of the female camp, and maybe for some of its property.79 In a passing reference, Ibn Battuta acknowledges the existence of male officers, who probably did catch the attention of the traveller as much as the female dignitaries. For example, we are told that the daughter of the khan of the Golden Horde, Uzbek Khan (r. 1313–41), was called It Kujujuk, and she summoned male staff and gave orders to them.80 Female camps, like male ordos, were centres of substantial economic activity,81 requiring trained personnel to oversee their operation.82 Especially in the case of women’s ordos, such personnel seem, by and large, to have eluded the historical accounts, but the presence of amīrordos, male and female pages and concubines suggests that the ordos of the khātūns had an internal structure that facilitated their economies.83 The documented administration of justice,84 banquets, receptions and diplomatic gatherings that occurred in these camps might also have required specialised personnel. These encampments became centres for the accumulation of cattle, commodities and personal wealth. The expansion of the Empire led to such enrichment of these treasure stores that if one such store was appropriated by a candidate to the throne, it could be fundamental in deciding the succession – succession disputes being not uncommon among the Mongols.85 As Allsen has noted, although the Emperor of Yüan China had the income provided by his Chinese territories, he also pursued the seizure of rival ordos, and by doing so, he ‘attached servitors, herds, tents, and equipment [that] was surely reckoned as a substantial loss by the grandchildren of Chinggis Khan’.86 * — 132 —

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In sum, then, the role of women in the economy of the Mongol Empire was based around their personal ordos. Such camps had similar characteristics to those which were owned and run by men. The first section in this article has indicated that in order to control these economic units women needed to be married to a male member of the royal family and, ideally, bear a son. The latter requirement was not fixed, however, and occasionally women were allocated ordos in the absence of male offspring, provided they commanded their husbands’ favour. The ordos of the ladies developed their own administrative structure as the empire expanded and the wealth at the disposal of the khātūns grew. The position of amīr-ordo was the peak of the pyramidal structure that administered a khātūn’s resources. It was complemented within the encampment by military commanders, servants, pages and concubines. Economically, ordos functioned both as producers of resources and as centres of consumption. The enormous size of some of them would have been poles of attraction for merchants, generating a constant flow of goods to meet a demand that presumably increased when the Mongols expanded across Eurasia. Women’s access to this wealth allowed them to use these resources to pursue their own political agendas in the development of the empire. The ordo is one of the institutions that helps to explain how the khātūns acquired and managed resources that allowed them to become so famously influential in the Mongol Empire.

Notes



1 My aim in this article is to explore the ordo as an economic entity, so I will not refer to the ongoing debate about the ‘tribal model’ and its connotations. See David Sneath, The Headless State: Aristocratic Orders, Kinship Society, and Misrepresentations of Nomadic Inner Asia (New York, 2007), pp. 118–19. 2 Igor de Rachewiltz, The Secret History of the Mongols: A Mongolian Epic Chronicle of the Thirteenth Century (Leiden, 2004), vol. 1, p.454. On the etymology of the word, and for a description of its meaning, see Paul Pelliot, Notes sur l’Histoire de la Horde d’Or (Paris, 1949), p. 30, n. 1. 3 Carpini sometimes uses the terms ‘orda’ and ‘tent’ as synonyms. See Christopher Dawson, The Mongol Mission: Narratives and Letters of the Franciscan Missionaries in Mongolia and China in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries (London, 1955), p.54. 4 For the seasonal itinerary of Ögedei Khan in Mongolia see ‘Ata Malik Juvaini, History of the World Conqueror, trans. J.A. Boyle (Manchester, 1958), pp. 125–31. Juvayni refers to members of the royal family coming from Central Asia to the election of Güyük as being ‘from the ordu of Chaghatai’. See Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, ed. M. Qazvini (Leiden, 1912–37), vol. 1, pp.204–5; trans. Boyle, p. 249. On another occasion, he refers to the ordo as the encampment of a particular member of the royal family, see Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, pp. 215, 217; trans. Boyle, pp. 260, 262. 5 Christopher Atwood, ‘Ordo’ in Encyclopaedia of Mongolia and the Mongol Empire (New York, 2004). Allsen notes that the individual Mongol yurt was called ordo ger, which literally means ‘camp tent’. See Thomas T. Allsen, Commodity and Exchange in the Mongol Empire: A Cultural History of Islamic Textiles (Cambridge, 1997), p. 13; Sneath, The Headless State, p. 72. 6 For example, Juvayni mentions that at the time of Chinggis Khan’s death ‘each man left his ordu and set out for the quriltai’ that would elect the new khan. See Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 1, p. 144; trans. Boyle, p. 183. 7 David Durand-Guédy, Iranian Elites and Turkish Rulers: A History of Is.fahān in the Saljūq Period (London, 2009), pp. 75– 101. On the nomadic lifestyle of the early Seljuqs see A.C.S. Peacock, Early Seljūq History: A New Interpretation (London, 2010), pp.89–98. 8 Michal Biran, ‘The Mongol transformation: from the steppe to Eurasian empire’, Medieval Encounters 10, nos 1–3 (2004), p. 344; Anonymous, The Secret History of the Mongols, p. 454. 9 Chih-ch’ang Li, Hsi-yu chi, trans. Arthur Waley, The Travels of an Alchemist: The Journey of the Taoist, Ch’ang-ch’un, from China to the Hindukush at the Summons of Chingiz Khan, Recorded by His Disciple Li Chih-Ch‘ang, trans. Arthur Waley (London, 1931), p.71. 10 Dawson, The Mongol Mission, p. 126. 11 Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Batt.t.ūt.a, A.D. 1325–1354, trans. H.A.R. Gibb (Cambridge, 1962), vol. 2, p. 482. 12 Denise Aigle, ‘Iran under Mongol domination: the effectiveness and failings of a dual administrative system’, Bulletin d’Ėtudes Orientales 57 (2008), p. 74. 13 See the well-documented article by Charles Melville, ‘The itineraries of Sultan Öljeitü, 1304–16’, Iran 28 (1990), pp. 55–70. 14 Charles Melville, ‘The keshig in Iran: the survival of the royal Mongol household’, in Linda Komaroff (ed.), Beyond the Legacy of Genghis Khan (Leiden, 2006), p. 161; see also Christopher Atwood, ‘Ulus emirs, keshig elders, signatures, and marriage partners: the evolution of a classic Mongol institution’, in David Sneath (ed.), Imperial Statecraft: Political Forms and Techniques of Governance in Inner Asia, Sixth–Twentieth Centuries (Bellingham, 2006), pp. 141–73.

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15 On the origin of the word see John Andrew Boyle ‘Khātūn’, EI 2 and Gerhard Doerfer, Türkische und Mongolische Elemente im Neupersischen: Unter besonderer Berücksichtigung älterer Neupersischer Geschichtsquellen, vor Allem der Mongolen- und Timuridenzeit (Wiesbaden, 1967), vol. 3, pp. 132–41. 16 Lawrence Krader, Social Organization of the Mongol-Turkic Pastoral Nomads (The Hague, 1963), p. 186. 17 Dawson, The Mongol Mission, pp. 96, 103. See also Morris Rossabi, ‘Kublai Khan and the women in his family’, in W. Bauer (ed.), Studio Sino-Mongolica: Festschrift für Herbert Franke (Wiesbaden, 1979), p. 154. 18 Rossabi, ‘Kublai Khan and the women in his family’, p. 154. 19 For example, Ibn Battuta noticed that, when travelling, the ordos of the khātūns travelled separately from those of their husbands. See Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Batt.t.ūt.a, vol. 2, p. 483. 20 Precedents for women being in charge of property have been identified among other Inner Asian societies such as the LiaoKhitan, see Karl August Wittfogel and Jiasheng Feng, History of Chinese Society: Liao (907–1225) (Philadelphia, 1949), p. 199; George Vernadsky, ‘The scope and contents of Chingis Khan’s Yasa’, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 3 (Dec., 1938), p. 357; Rossabi, ‘Khubilai Khan and the women in his family’, p. 154. The standard number of main wives among the Mongols was four, although this number was not fixed across the Empire. See Shai Shir, ‘An improvised queen for a questionable king: Doquz Khatun and the establishment of the Ilkhanid dynasty in Iran’, in Charles Melville and Bruno De Nicola (eds), The Mongols and the Transformation of the Middle East, forthcoming. 21 This especially applies to concubines. See Ann K. Lambton, Continuity and Change in Medieval Persia: Aspects of Administrative, Economic and Social History (New York, 1988), p. 293. 22 Krader, Social Organization, p. 188. 23 Ibid., 188. 24 Thomas T. Allsen, ‘Ever closer encounters: the appropriation of culture and the apportionment of peoples in the Mongol Empire’, Journal of Early Modern History 1 (1997), p. 4. 25 Christopher Atwood, ‘Appanage system’, in Encyclopaedia of Mongolia and the Mongol Empire (New York, 2004); Boris Vladimirtsov, Le régime social des Mongols: Le Feudalisme Nomade (Paris, 1948), pp. 123–6. 26 Although the figures might be approximate, the Secret History mentions that she received 10,000 people, including the share allotted to Chinggis Khan’s youngest brother Otchigin, see De Rachewiltz, The Secret History of the Mongols, § 242. Rashid al-Din says that she received 8,000, of whom only 3,000 belonged to her and the rest to her youngest son. See Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ altawarikh, ed. Muhammad Rawshan and Mustafa Musavi (Tehran, 1373/1994), vol. 1, p. 611; trans. Wheeler Thackston, Jami‘u’ttawarikh: Compendium of Chronicles (Boston, 1998), p. 281. This edition by Rawshan of the Jami‘ al-tawarikh is the version mostly used for Rashid al-Din’s work in this article. However, occasionally I have also used Karimi’s compilation of other edited versions of the chronicle. The reason for this is that at times Karimi’s compilation either includes information that was omitted from Rawshan’s edition or that differs from it. 27 Anonymous, The Secret History of the Mongols, § 242. It is mentioned, however, that she ‘did not complain’ about this. 28 See Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, pp. 75, 593–4, 613; trans. Thackston, pp. 43, 272–3, 282. 29 Allsen, ‘Ever closer encounters’, p. 6. 30 Dawson, The Mongol Mission, pp. 17–18. 31 Ibid., p.95. 32 Ibid., p.96. 33 Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Batt.t.ūt.a, vol. 2, p. 484. 34 Ibid., p.486. 35 Ibid., pp.486–9. 36 Rashid al-Din mentions that the Khan had many wives and 60 concubines. Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p.620; trans. J.A. Boyle as The Successors of Genghis Khan (New York, 1971), p. 18; Fakhr al-Din Banakati, Tarikh-i Banakati: A General History from the Earliest Times to the 14th Century A.D. (Tehran, 1378/2000), p. 282. The manuscript of the Mu‘izz al-Ansab refers to 11 more women as ‘khātūns’ of Ögedei Khan, but does not tell us much about them. See Anonymous, Mu‘izz al-Ansab, Bibliothèque nationale, Paris, ms. persan, ancien fonds, p. 67. 37 See Bruno De Nicola, ‘Unveiling the Khātūns: some aspects of the role of women in the Mongol Empire’ (PhD dissertation, University of Cambridge, 2011), pp. 69–75. 38 Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, vol. 1, p. 631; trans. Boyle, p. 27; Banakati, Tarikh-i Banākatī, p. 282; she is also referred to in a separate section as a concubine (sarārī) in the manuscript of Rashid al-Din’s Su‘ar-i Panjgana, Topkapı Sarayı, Istanbul, ms. 2937. I am indebted to Prof. David Morgan for kindly providing me with a microfilm of the manuscript. 39 Yesülün was the cousin of Chaghatai’s mother, Börte. Chaghatai married Tögen after Yesülün’s death. See Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, vol. 1, p. 752; trans. Boyle, p. 135. They are the only women mentioned under Chaghatai in both the Su‘ar-i Panjgana and the Mu‘izz al-Ansab manuscripts. 40 Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Bahman Karimi (Tehran, 1367/1988–9), vol. 1, p. 534; trans. Boyle, p. 136. In the Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 759, the order of Chaghatai’s sons is reversed and Mochi Yebe appears as the second instead of the first as in Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Karimi, vol. 1, p. 534 and fourth in the Mu‘izz al-Ansab. 41 Both Yesülün and Tögen had sons with Chaghatai, the former was the mother of ‘all his chief sons’, while the latter was the mother of Chaghatai’s seventh son, Qadaqai. See Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Karimi, vol. 1, p. 540; trans. Boyle, p. 144. 42 Morris Rossabi, Khubilai Khan: His Life and Times (Berkeley, CA, 1989), p. 16. 43 Marco Polo, The Book of Ser Marco Polo, the Venetian: Concerning the Kingdoms and Marvels of the East (London, 1875), trans. Henry Yule and Henri Cordier, vol. 1, p. 356. 44 Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Karimi, vol. 2, pp. 612–15; ed. Rawshan, vol. 2, pp. 865–8; trans. Boyle, pp. 241–5. Rashid al-Din mentions at least seven wives who gave sons to Qubilai. Cf. Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Batt.t.ūt.a, vol. 2, p. 486. 45 Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 2, p. 963; trans. Thackston, p. 471. Also mentioned in Shirin Bayani, Zan dar Iran-i ‘asr-i Mughul (Tehran, 1974), p. 34. According to Mustawfi, Hülegü had seven chief wives but Doquz

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46 47



48 49 50



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52 53



54



55 56



57



58



59



60



61



62



63 64 65



66



67 68 69



70 71 72



73



74 75 76 77 78 79

is not mentioned among them, see L.J. Ward, ‘Z.afarnāmah of Mustawfī’ (PhD Dissertation, Manchester University, 1983), pp. 206–7. De Nicola, ‘Unveiling the Khātūns’, pp. 173–8. See, for example, the reference to her ordo in Abu ’l-Qasim ‘Abd Allah b. ‘Ali Qashani, Tarikh-i Uljaytu, ed. Mahin Hambly (Tehran, 1384/2005), p. 7. Her name was Malika. See Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 2, p. 1057; trans. Thackston, p. 516. Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 2, p. 1056; trans. Thackston, p. 515. Abaqa favoured Bulughan above Martai Khatun and Despina Khatun. Neither of them bore him a son and only the former gave the Ilkhan a daughter, who was called Nujīn. See Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 2, p. 1056; trans. Thackston, pp.515–16. Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 2, p. 1212; trans. Thackston, p. 592. The Mongols did not have problems in accepting the adoption of children by members of the royal family. See, for example, the adoption of Shigi Qutuqu by Chinggis Khan and Börte in The Secret History of the Mongols, §203 and the comments in ibid., p. 769. See also Paul Ratchnevsky, ‘Šigi-Qutuqu, ein mongolischer Gefolgsmann im 12.–13. Jahrhundert’, Central Asiatic Journal 10 (1965), pp. 87–120; Igor de Rachewiltz et al., In the Service of the Khan: Eminent Personalities of the Early Mongol-Yüan Period (1200–1300) (Wiesbaden, 1993), pp.76–9. Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, pp. 1208–10; trans. Thackston, pp. 590–1. For a deeper analysis of the fate of Bulughan’s ordo and its role in Ghazan Khan’s rise to power see De Nicola, ‘Unveiling the Khātūns’, pp.179–84. Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 2, pp. 1215, 1289; trans. Thackston, pp. 593–4, 644. Banakati follows Rashid al-Din in his account of Ghazan’s wives. See Banakati, Tarikh-i Banakati, pp. 450–1. De Nicola, ‘Unveiling the Khātūns’, pp. 173–8 Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, vol. 2, p. 1215; trans. Thackston, p. 593. Her name was Bulughan ‘Mu‘azzama’. For a short biography, see Charles Melville, ‘Bologān (Būlūgān) K- ātun’, EIr. On the decline in fertility rates among the Mongols see John Mason Smith Jr, ‘Dietary decadence and dynastic decline in the Mongol Empire’, Journal of Asian History 34, no 1 (2000), pp. 35–52; George Zhao, Marriage as Political Strategy and Cultural Expression: Mongolian Royal Marriages from World Empire to Yuan Dynasty (New York, 2008), p. 220. At least 15 are mentioned in Qashani, Tarikh-i Uljaytu, pp. 7–8, if we include Qutlughshah Khatun. It needs to be acknowledged here that the reduced life expectancy suffered by the Mongols in Iran during the fourteenth century was another cause of the decrease in the number of Mongol royal family members. See Smith, ‘Dietary decadence’. Qashani, Tarikh-i Uljaytu, p. 42. She had a son (not by Öljeitü) called Amir Shaykh ‘Ali, who had the esteem of Abū Sa‘īd at court, see Hafiz-i Abru, Dhayl-i Jami‘ al-Tawarikh-i Rashidi, ed. Khanbaba Bayani (Tehran, 1350/1971), p. 99; ed. and trans. Khanbaba Bayani as Chronique des Rois Mongols en Iran (Paris, 1936), p. 76. Charles Melville, The Fall of Amir Chupan and the Decline of the Il-Khanate, 1327–1337: A Decade of Discord in Mongol Iran (Bloomington, IN, 1999), p. 7. Lambton, Continuity and Change in Medieval Persia, p. 293. See also Jean Aubin, Émirs mongols et viziers persans dans les remous de l’acculturation (Paris, 1995). While the ownership of livestock was private in nomadic societies, the pastures remained communal property. See Anatoly Khazanov, Nomads and the Outside World (Madison, WI, 1994), pp. 123–6. Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 2, pp. 243–4; trans. Boyle, p. 507. Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 2, pp. 244–5; trans. Boyle, p. 508. Nasir al-Din ‘Ali Malik was given the ‘tümen’ of Nishapur, Tus, Isfahan, Qum and Kashan; Siraj al-Din was named .s āh.ibdīwān, along with Baha’ al-Din Juvayni, and Iftikhar al-Din was put in charge of the region of Qazvin. See Aubin, Émirs mongols, p. 19. Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Karimi, vol. 2, p. 895; trans. Boyle, p. 265. There is also a reference to the marriage of Arghun Agha to a daughter of an amir from the ordo of Yesü Möngke in Central Asia. See Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 2, p.250; trans. Boyle, p. 513. Melville, ‘The keshig in Iran’, p. 161. See, for example, Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 1, p. 72; trans. Thackston, p. 41. For the execution of Esen Temur and his amīr-ordo after their rebellion against Ghazan in 1296 see Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ altawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 2, p. 129; trans. Thackston, p. 631. Rashīd al-Dīn, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, vol. 2, p. 1168; trans. Thackston, p. 569. De Nicola, ‘Unveiling the Khātūns’, pp. 93–102. Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 2, p. 1126; trans. Thackston, p. 549. A similar intervention by the amirs of the ordos is mentioned in Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 2, p. 99; trans. Boyle, vol. 2, p. 367. Khātūns in Iran sometimes protected fugitives and dissidents. Some amīr-ordos did this too, see Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Rawshan, vol. 2, p.1170; trans. Thackston, p. 570; Lambton, Continuity and Change in Medieval Persia, p. 291. Amir Injil, who was the amīr-ordo of Bulughan Khurasani (wife of Ghazan Khan), protected Toghan until the wrath of the Ilkhan against him abated, see Rashid al-Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. Karimi, vol. 2, p. 929; trans. Thackston, p. 637. Qashani, Tarikh-i Uljaytu, p. 7. Marco Polo, The Book of Ser Marco Polo, vol. 1, p. 356. Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Batt.t.ūt.a, vol. 2, p. 484. Ibid., p.484. Ibid., p.485. The process of selecting women to act as advisers and administrators can be observed in the appointment of Fatimah Khatun by Töregene during the latter’s regency. See De Nicola, ‘Unveiling the Khātūns’, pp. 69–75.

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80 Interestingly, It Kujujuk’s ordo was separate from that of her father. It is not clear, however, whether the camp belonged to her or her husband (‘Isa Bek), who was the great vizier of the Golden Horde. It seems that she commanded the ordo dependants. Ibn Battuta mentions that when the lady called for her staff, the jurists, the qadis, the sayyid and sharif Ibn ‘Abd al-Hamid all came. See Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Batt.t.ūt.a, vol. 2, p. 489. Chamberlains were observed in the ordo of Bayalun Khatun (a Byzantine princess and third wife of Uzbek Khan), see ibid., p. 488. 81 On the wealth of the khātūns’ ordos see De Nicola, ‘Unveiling the Khātūns’, pp. 152–71. 82 For a general explanation of the role of bitikchis in different periods of Mongol rule in Iran see Lambton, Continuity and Change in Medieval Persia, pp. 52, 62, 209; eadem, Landlord and Peasant in Persia: a Study of Land Tenure and Land Revenue Administration (London, 1953), pp. 84, 90, 447. 83 Notice here the fact that concubines were in attendance on chief wives. See Lambton, Continuity and Change in Medieval Persia, p. 293. 84 See references to justice administration in women’s ordos in Juvayni, Tarikh-i Jahan-gusha, vol. 2, p. 241; trans. Boyle, p. 504; see also Paul Ratchnevsky, ‘La condition de la femme mongole au 12e/13e siècle’, in Denis Sinor (ed.), Tractata Altaica (Wiesbaden, 1976), p.519. 85 See, for example, Michal Biran, Qaidu and the Rise of an Independent Mongol State in Central Asia (Surrey, 1997), p. 41; De Nicola, ‘Unveiling the Khātūns’, pp. 144–51. 86 Thomas T. Allsen, ‘Sharing out the empire: apportioned lands under the Mongols’, in A.M. Khazanov and A. Wink (eds), Nomads in the Sedentary World (Richmond, 2001), p. 48.

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16 Mamluks, Franks and Mongols: a necessary but impossible triangle Reuven Amitai

T

he eastern Mediterranean region and the surrounding countries in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries are an interesting and important theatre of political and military activity, with significant social, economic and cultural implications. I would like to present here a few comments that I hope will contribute in a modest way to the crystallisation of a vision that sees the eastern Mediterranean and the adjacent regions of the Middle East in the later Middle Ages as a system that should be studied both in its component parts and as a whole. In other words, without denying the fundamental importance of intradisciplinary philological, cultural and historical training and research, at some junctures we must try to pull it all together and, as individual researchers, as small groups of colleagues, and as a community of scholars, look at the bigger picture and the interaction between various religious, ethnic and political groups to see if and how they functioned as a system. I am pleased that this essay is part of the Festschrift presented to Charles Melville, who has contributed so much to the understanding of the role of the Mongols in Iranian society and culture on the one hand, and their interaction with other regional actors, not least the Mamluks in Egypt and Syria, on the other hand. In this short paper I aim to look at the mutual relations between three of the main players in the history of this region from the middle of the thirteenth century to early in the fourteenth. The triangular relations between the Mamluk Sultanate, the Mongols – in both the Ilkhanate of Iran and the Golden Horde in the southern Russian steppe – and the Franks, whether in the Levant or in Europe, are one of the keys to understanding long-term historical developments — 137 —

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in the area. In some ways, each factor needed the other, or at least partially defined itself with reference to the other. This was not, however, a ménage à trois: the relationship between the Mamluks and the Franks of either variety was certainly not one of love, although there was a certain dependency on one group of them, the Genoese. The Mamluks’ relationships with the two Mongol states were fundamentally different, but consistent, and generally did not entail any betrayal or false pretensions, at least until around 1320: with one – the Ilkhanate – there was total war, and with the other there were expressions of friendship and cooperation but no joint action of consequence. Continuing, however, the metaphor of complicated amorous relations, we might look at the convoluted dealings between the Ilkhanids and the various Frankish rulers in the West: lots of flirtations but, in spite of some mutual attraction, the relationship was never consummated, much to the relief of the Mamluks – never a suitor to either side, but certainly a would-be victim. These are complicated relations indeed, an understanding of which is necessary for comprehending the history of each component, both in this region and beyond. I will commence the endeavour to look at these triangular relationships with two citations from Mamluk sources written in Arabic. The first is from Ibn al-Furat, the Egyptian chronicler who died in 1405, and is known for his generally accurate citing of earlier sources. Ibn al-Furat describes the fighting at al-Mansura in the Nile Delta in 1250 during the crusade of King Louis IX. The Franks had launched a surprise attack on the Muslim camp, and swept the opposition before them. The Ayyubid sultan, al-Salih Ayyub, had recently died and the Muslim army commander was killed early in the fighting. Bereft of leadership, the Muslim troops pulled back in disarray. From the Muslim point of view the situation was bleak, and for the Franks, victory seemed to be in their grasp. But then, the Turkish mamlūks, that is, soldiers of slave provenance, of al-Salih – known as the Bahriyya – appeared suddenly and took on some of the Franks who had rushed ahead to the town of al-Mansura itself. In spite of the equipment and training of both sides, this was not a mêlée between two groups of cavalrymen, but rather a bloody hand-to-hand encounter in the alleys of the town, with any weapon that came to hand: knives, axes, stones, and so on. The result was that the Franks suffered many losses, were forced back, and the day ended as a debacle for the Frankish army. The long-term disastrous effects of this defeat on the Franks and their king are well known. The mamlūks had saved the day, and the chronicler sums up this episode as follows: Things were near to a total defeat involving the complete destruction of Islam, but Almighty God sent salvation. The damned King of France (al-malik raydāfrans) reached the door of the palace of the Sultan al-Malik al-Salih and matters were at the most critical and difficult state. But then the Turkish Bahri squadron and the Jamdaris, mamlūks of the Sultan, amongst them the commander Rukn alDin Baybars al-Bunduqdari al-Salihi al-Najmi, showed their superiority and launched a great attack on the Franks which shook them and demolished their formations […] this was the first encounter in which the polytheist dogs were defeated by means of the Turkish lions (wa-kānat hādhahi al-waq‘a awwal wāqi‘a untus.ira fīhā bi-usūd al-turk ‘alā kilāb al-shirk).1

The writer leaves us in no doubt as to his view on the matter, especially noting that this was not the last time that the Turkish mamlūks, soon to rise to power, were to defeat the infidel enemies of Islam. As is well known, not long after this victory, the successor to al-Salih Ayyub was killed, and a junta from the mamlūk leadership took over, laying the groundwork (albeit initially in a somewhat inchoate fashion) for the Sultanate.2 Thus, the struggle with the Franks — 138 —

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led to the founding of the Mamluk state, which from its beginning was defined by its war with non-Muslim enemies. Let us move forward to September 1260. After a decade of political confusion, in the face of the Mongol danger, the Mamluk elite had united around the sultanate of Qutuz, who had the perspicacity to paper over his differences with Baybars, and together they launched the campaign that culminated at ‘Ayn Jalut near Beth Shean. The fighting was nip and tuck, but due to a combination of reasons the Mamluks were ultimately victorious. How does the contemporary historian from Damascus, Abu Shama (d. 1267), analyse this victory, which was certainly critical from his perspective? ‘Among the amazing things is that the Tatars [=Mongols] were defeated and annihilated by members of their own race from among the Turks (min abnā’ jinsihim al-turk).’ To this assessment, the author adds a short poem of his own composition: The Mongols conquered the land and there came to them From Egypt a Turk, who sacrificed his life. In Syria he destroyed and scattered them. To everything there is a pest of its own kind (jins).3

It is clear, then, that for this writer – as well as several others4 – the success of the Mamluks visà-vis their Mongol enemies, here at ‘Ayn Jalut and subsequently in the 60-year war against them, had a lot to do with their related – or, it could be argued, common – origins, which inter alia enabled the Mamluks to fight them with basically the same tactics, masses of mounted archers. Without a doubt the Mongols represented the greatest foreign policy challenge to the Mamluks in the first decades of their sultanate, and it was towards them that they devoted the lion’s share of their resources and energy. Knowing that the Mongols were sure to return in greater force than the army they had defeated at ‘Ayn Jalut, the Mamluks enlarged, reorganised and improved their army in both Egypt and Syria, refurbished and rebuilt fortifications on the Euphrates frontier and inside the country, dramatically improved communications between Egypt and Syria, and within the latter itself, and established a well-run foreign espionage service. These measures held the Mamluk Sultanate in good stead, and it is no coincidence that on the whole the Mamluks enjoyed the upper hand in over half a century of warfare with the Ilkhanid Mongols, both in skirmishes along the frontier and in major pitched battles. Other factors came into play too, such as internal Mongol politics and relations with other Mongol states to the north and east of the Ilkhanate, as well as logistical considerations.5 But there is more: paradoxically, the Mongols were in many ways indirectly and directly responsible for the rise of the Bahriyya and the continued influx of young Turkish boys and girls to Egypt and Syria after the Bahriyya (or the Salihiyya, as it and some other smaller groups are increasingly referred to) basically took over the Sultanate with Baybars’ rise to power in the aftermath of ‘Ayn Jalut. Thus, the historian al-Nuwayri – who died in 1333 and was a keen observer of things Mongolian6 – writes about the aftermath of the Mongol invasions of the Qipchaq steppe north of the Black and Caspian Seas in the late 1230s as follows: ‘The [Mongols] fell upon [the Qipchaqs] and brought upon most of them death, slavery and captivity. At this time, merchants bought [these captives] and brought them to the [various] countries and cities. The first who demanded many of them, and made them lofty and advanced them in the army was al-Malik al-Salih Najm al-Din Ayyub.’7 There was certainly some — 139 —

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historical irony here: the Mongols inadvertently contributed to the formation of a military unit that was to play such an important role in defeating them at ‘Ayn Jalut and then holding them at bay from 1260 onwards. But this is only part of the story: in the years after ‘Ayn Jalut, the Mamluks succeeded in putting together an entente of sorts with the rulers of the Golden Horde, the Mongol state in the steppes of southern Russia and the Ukraine of today, who were at odds with their cousins of the Ilkhanate.8 The fact that the Ilkhanids were preoccupied with another front in the Caucasus was certainly encouraging from the Mamluk point of view. But, in spite of some attempts to negotiate a concerted plan of action, no real common strategy was ever worked out between these new allies against their mutual enemy. What was more important, however, was that khans of the Golden Horde permitted the export of young slaves, mainly Turks but with the occasional Mongol thrown in too, to the Sultanate. This guaranteed the expansion and upkeep of the Mamluk army, which, as is well known, was a one-generational military society, and thus needed constant new recruits. I will come back to this trade in young slaves in a bit, but I do want to emphasise already that the Mongols – whether they were Ilkhanid enemies or allies in the Golden Horde – were indeed the primary foreign policy concern of the Mamluks in the crucial first years of their history. We cannot forget, at the same time, the Franks, either the local variety in the Levant or their big brothers from across the sea. As I said before, there was no love lost between the Mamluks and any of these Franks. The Mamluk leadership certainly understood the danger of a new campaign from the West, and their worst nightmare was that this would be carried out in conjunction with the Mongols. In fact, it may well be that this fear of a joint campaign was one of the main reasons behind the relatively high level of Mamluk aggression against the Franks in the Levant. Thus, under Baybars (r. 1260–77), and to a lesser degree Qalawun (r.1279–90), the Mamluks would turn to attacking the Franks whenever the situation with the Mongols permitted it. This salami approach to the Franks in the Levant worked well enough: by 1291 there was no real Western presence in the area. At the same time, the Mamluks were aware of the possibility of a renewed attack from the West, with or without Mongol cooperation, and this prospect played a part in their strategic thinking for at least another generation.9 To sum up so far: both the Ilkhanid Mongols and the Franks, from afar and close by, were firmly in Mamluk consciousness in the formative first decades of their state’s existence. The fact that on the whole the Mamluks were successful on the battlefield against their adversaries did not make this a negative experience, but one in which they could be proud of their achievements and project them accordingly. Thus, in the inscriptions of the early Mamluk sultans we often find the expression mubīd al-faranj wa-l-tātār, ‘the annihilator of the Franks and Mongols’.10 This expression is found together with other, albeit less specific, expressions of Mamluk triumphs over their infidel adversaries from east and west.11 The Mamluk sultans and elite wanted to be seen by their mainly sedentary, Arabic-speaking subjects as protectors of Islam and the Muslims. As we can see from the above citations, that is the way members of the local intellectual elite perceived and presented them to their audiences. I would like to move on to the Mongols, mainly of the Ilkhanid variety, although I will later touch again on the Golden Horde. The aggressive Mongol attitude towards the Mamluks was certainly in part a desire to avenge past defeats, starting with that of ‘Ayn Jalut, as well as their — 140 —

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continued resistance. The Armenian historian Het‘um, writing in French in the early fourteenth century, noted: ‘The Tatars do not wage war against the sultan of Egypt desiring to get lands and cities – since the whole of Asia is already subject to them – but because the sultan is their principal enemy who has done them more harm and damage than anyone else, especially when he has fought against their neighbors.’12 This certainly exaggerates the Mongols’ lack of desire for more land, as we will soon see. Perhaps it also over-emphasises the importance of the damage to the Mongols’ neighbours, especially Armenian Cilicia (overall, a loyal vassal to the Ilkhans) in south-east Anatolia, in motivating the Mongols. Still, the desire for revenge is brought home, as it is in the passage from John of Plano Carpini (Giovanni da Pian del Carpine) in his report from the mid-1240s: ‘Now it is the custom of the Tartars never to make peace with men who kill their envoys, until they have taken vengeance on them.’13 In the case of Carpini, this is not ex-post-facto justification, but describes how furious the Mongols could get when their honour was insulted. The Mamluks gave them plenty of opportunities to be so offended. But, of course, this is surely not enough to explain several decades of Ilkhanid truculence towards the Mamluks. Previously, I have attempted to demonstrate that the Mongols in Iran were long motivated inter alia by the imperial Mongol ideology that Heaven – Tengri – had given a mandate to Chinggis Khan and his family to unite the Mongols and steppe peoples in general, and then to conquer the world.14 This ideology is summed up nicely at the beginning of the letter from the Great Khan Möngke to Louis IX of France in the mid-1250s, conveyed both physically and by the text of William of Rubruck (Willem van Ruysbroeck), as follows: This is the order of the everlasting God. In heaven there is only one eternal God; on earth there is only one lord, Chingis Chan [… ] This is the word of the son of God which is addressed to you. Whosoever we are, whether Mongol (Mo’al) or Naiman or Merkit or Muslim (Musceleman), and wherever ear is capable of hearing, and wherever a horse is able to tread, there make it heard and understood.15

Those who refused to accept this mandate from heaven were condemned to an appropriate punishment, as expressed in a letter sent at the beginning of 1269 to Baybars from Abaqa Ilkhan, Hülegü’s son: ‘When the King Abaqa set out from the east and conquered the entire world, no one opposed him, and anyone who opposed him died and was killed. And you, [even] if you go up to the sky or down into the ground, you will not be saved from us. The best policy (mas.lah.a) is that you establish peace (s.ulh.) between us.’16 One should note that in the Mongol lexicon .sulh. means ‘unconditional surrender’ and is the Arabic equivalent of īl (< Mo. el ), which can be translated as both peace and total submission, synonyms in Mongolian political parlance. It is my contention that this imperialistic ideology, or at least its residue, still had an impact on the Ilkhanate and its foreign policy, especially vis-à-vis the Mamluks, and was one of the reasons that propelled its aggression towards this neighbour. This was the case even after the Islamisation of the Mongols towards the end of the thirteenth century, as seen by the belligerent letters sent by Ghazan to his Mamluk counterpart, in spite of their significant element of Islamic rhetoric and rationalisation. In addition, perhaps the most unequivocal sign of Ghazan’s true feelings towards the Mamluks was his repeated — 141 —

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campaigns into Syria. Here, he was following in the footsteps of his grandfather Abaqa, who had also sent a large army into the country in 1281. In fact, any doubts about the actual goals of the Ilkhanids towards Syria and the Mamluks in general can be dispelled by looking at these campaigns, together with the many raids along the border and into the north of the country: why go to such trouble, logistical and otherwise, unless there was an ultimate agenda to take the country and move on to Egypt, especially since that is what the Mongols said was their plan?17 To this can be added the many Ilkhanid embassies to the West – to the Papacy, the English and French kings, and others – to garner support for a joint campaign. There were some 15 of these Ilkhanid embassies over a 50-year period. Just as an aside, it remains inexplicable that, with all the apparent importance of creating this second front against the Mamluks, not one word about these diplomatic démarches is ever mentioned in the chronicle of the historian Rashid al-Din, vizier to three Ilkhanids, who was executed in 1318,18 or, as far as I know, in any other Ilkhanid source. Nonetheless, given the efforts invested in these many missions and the other clear signs, it can be stated that the Mongols of Iran did just about all in their power to bring about the eradication of their Mamluk neighbours, and had more than a passing interest in involving the Franks of Europe (and those of the Levant too, without deluding themselves about their real strength) in this effort.19 There certainly was some Frankish interest in these Mongol initiatives, although virtually nothing concrete was to come of it. I must say that speaking about the Franks is a much more difficult prospect than the Mamluks or even the Mongols. The Mamluks, of course, mostly spoke in one voice, certainly towards the West and even to the Mongols, in spite of the occasional deserter to the Ilkhanate. We can divide Mongol attitudes into two, in accordance with their own division: the Ilkhanate and the Golden Horde, although perhaps on occasion, the Chaghatayid Khanate may also have been in Frankish consciousness. The Franks, however, were divided into a large number of entities, big and small. One can just think of the Franks of the Levant, themselves not cut from one cloth, as we can see from the events of 1260 with the prince of Antioch unequivocally supporting the Mongols and the leaders of Acre equivocating about what attitude to adopt, finally opting for neutrality in the approaching clash between the Mamluks and the Mongols.20 With regard to the Franks of Europe, we certainly have to adopt a nuanced approach, since the Papacy, France, England, Aragon, Venice, Genoa, and other entities each may have had different attitudes towards the Mongols and how to respond to their overtures. We could also discuss other Christian states, such as Byzantium (newly constituted in Constantinople under Michael Palaeologus in 1261), the Armenians of both Lesser and Greater Armenia, and Georgia, but let us ignore them in the present context. On the whole, the various Western rulers were interested in principle in the Mongol overtures, but were unwilling or unable to do much about them. The Popes often wrote letters that expressed general interest in, and hope of, the Ilkhans’ conversion to Christianity.21 At times, however, something more was stated that could be seen as preliminary discussions of a joint campaign, but nothing of any substance ever came of these. True, in 1269 James of Aragon set off on a crusade in anticipation of some type of coordinated effort with the Ilkhanid army; all these hopes, however, were dashed when the Aragonese flotilla was dispersed in a storm soon after setting sail.22 Just a year or so later, we have the story of Edward, prince of England, and his mini-crusade in the aftermath of the failed campaign of Louis IX to Tunisia. — 142 —

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If ever there was a chance for a joint campaign of Franks and Mongols against the Mamluks, it was this. Letters were exchanged between the English prince and the Ilkhan Abaqa, and a Mongol force of some 10,000 men was poised to enter Syria. An advance force of some 1,500 troops actually entered the north of the country, harrying here and there. What did our friend Edward do? He wasted his troops and energies in pointless attacks. What could have been a real challenge to Baybars turned out to be a mere diversion. The Mongol troops withdrew when their advance was not met by a Frankish countermove.23 I mention this particular episode in some detail, because in past scholarship it is usually the Mongols who are blamed for dithering at this time and thus causing the planned joint operation to fail.24 Abaqa, however, had fulfilled his part of the deal, and it was Edward who dissipated his strength and hesitated. Let there be no doubt of the potential of this campaign. Some 10,000 Mongol troops, backed up by a few thousand Georgians, took on the entire Mamluk army at Abulustayn (today Elbistan) in south-east Anatolia in 1277, and gave Baybars a run for his money until they were ultimately defeated.25 Certainly 10,000 Mongols together with Edward’s personal forces plus those of the kingdom of Jerusalem could have presented the Sultan with a real challenge. He himself thought so, and seems to have taken this potential threat quite seriously. But, his fears were never realised, owing to Edward’s mismanagement of the situation. While there were other diplomatic negotiations between the Ilkhans and the Frankish rulers in the future, such as after Ghazan’s victory at Wadi al-Khaznadar in central Syria in December 1299,26 the Mongols and Franks never got any closer to a real cooperative campaign. This in spite of the fact that it appears that at least some of the leaders in the Christian West seriously entertained ideas of a new crusade, both before and after the fall of Acre in 1291, often in conjunction with the Mongols.27 But evidently the political realities in Europe, logistical difficulties, conceptual questions and misunderstandings put an attempt to realise these plans, such as they were, beyond their reach. If that was the case for a new crusade in general, this was certainly so in regard to a joint operation with the Mongols. But matters are more complicated. It certainly was not just a simple matter of Western Christians versus Muslims. The Mamluks, leaders of the fight against the Franks since the midthirteenth century, at times maintained complex relations with certain Frankish rulers: in the early 1260s there were friendly contacts with Manfred, ruler of Sicily.28 Links with James of Aragon, the would-be crusader mentioned above, are also known.29 Most important were the ongoing relations with the Genoese. These provided the shipping and perhaps some of the merchants for the import of young Turkish slaves – future Mamluks – from the Golden Horde to Egypt and Syria. The starting point of this trade was the Genoese colonies on the Crimean peninsula. From the Black Sea, the Genoese ships plied the Bosphorus with the agreement of the Byzantines, and then on to the slave markets of the Mamluk Sultanate. In other words, the Genoese made a direct contribution to the strengthening of Mamluk might, which in turn worked hard to eliminate the Frankish presence in the Levant.30 However, my own recent research has led me to believe that, during the first decades of the Mamluk Sultanate, the Genoese role may have been hitherto overstated: there is virtually no explicit mention of their activities in the slave trade with the Sultanate, while there is clear evidence of Egyptian (or Mamluk) shipping and commerce of this type.31 Be this as it may, there is no denying the long-term Genoese impact in this field and the perception of this role by the Papacy and others in the Latin West.32 — 143 —

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To emphasise the complicated – and still not fully clear – role of the Genoese in the slave trade with the Mamluk Sultanate in the period under discussion, I will quote from the Arabic text of the sworn undertaking of the Genoese envoys to Sultan Qalawun in 1290, a few months before the latter’s death. Here we learn that the Genoese will protect, respect and honor all the Muslims of our lord the Sultan al-Malik al-Mansur [Qalawun], and of his son, the Sultan al-Malik al-Ashraf [Khalil], who come to the territory of our lord the Sultan, and who go out from the territory of our Sultan, from all territories and regions, from the territory of the Franks, the Greeks and the Muslims; whether ambassadors, merchants or others; whether in safety or wrecked in ships, vessels, warships, galleys or other vessels; wars and persons, their chattels, slaves [the term used is mamālīk, i.e. mamlūks] and slave-girls ( jawārī) in their vessels; by land and sea, and in all places of the Commune of Genoa, and whatever territory they shall conquer and have jurisdiction over from the date of this truce, while nights and days, months and years continue.33

Nothing here is said explicitly about the involvement of the Genoese in the slave trade, but their minimally tacit acceptance of such a trade is clearly seen. But even this text shows the nature of the interaction of the Mamluks with this one group of Franks, just before the final elimination of the Frankish presence on the Syrian coast, an approaching event that should have been discerned by the Genoese and others – not only Christians and Muslims – in the region. I hope that I have been able to demonstrate the complicated relationships between these three sides. While there was much animosity between them, there could also be cooperation in the short and long term, at least between one side and certain elements on the other. Thus, the Mamluks fought a war to the death with the Ilkhanid Mongols, but the latter’s cousins in the Golden Horde were their most important allies, even if no common strategy was ever executed in the field. The Mongols may have gotten off on the wrong foot with the Franks in the Levant, and their visit to Hungary and Poland in 1241 certainly did not endear them to the Latin West. But, as the 1260s progressed, the Ilkhans did their best to cultivate relations with the Pope and important kings of Europe. Hope remained among Mongols and Europeans that some type of joint anti-Mamluk plan would come to fruition, although this was not to be. Certainly the majority of the leaders of Western Europe wanted to do their best to eliminate, or at least significantly weaken, the Mamluks. Their real attempts – with or without the Mongols of Iran – were feeble enough, but here too hope and dreams remained. Yet, the Latin Christians in Europe and Outremer were unable or unwilling to present a united front against the Mamluks, even in the midst of the final onslaught against the Frankish presence in the Levant, as we have seen from the Genoese. In short, the relations between the three points of the triangle were complicated and far from unequivocal. To understand the international relations (and even the internal politics) of the eastern Mediterranean and the adjacent areas we have to look at the broader picture: Mamluks fighting and negotiating with Mongols; some Mongols scheming against the Mamluks, but other Mongols cooperating with them; Mongols slowly trying to come to grips with the Latin West, but to no avail; the Franks trying to find a rapprochement with the Mongols, not very effectively, against the Mamluks, while one group of Latins – the Genoese – were increasingly the main purveyors of young Mamluks. This was indeed a triangular relationship: an impossible one in some ways, but existing all the same. — 144 —

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Notes













1 Ibn al-Furat, Ayyubids, Mamlukes and Crusaders: Selections from the Tārīkh al-Duwal wa’l-Mulūk of Ibn al-Furāt, trans. U. and M.C. Lyons; intro. and notes J.S.C. Riley-Smith (Cambridge, 1971), vol. 1, pp. 27–8 (Arabic text); vol. 2, pp. 22–3 (translation). The ultimate source of this passage appears to be Ibn Wasil (Jamal al-Din Muhammad, d. 1298), Mufarrij al-kurub fī akhbar bani Ayyub, in M. Rahim, Die Chronik des ibn Wās.il…Untergang der Ayyubiden und Beginn der Mamlukenherrschaft (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2010), pp. 54–6. Ibn Wasil, however, does not mention the role of Baybars. 2 For these events, see Robert Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages: The Early Mamluk Sultanate, 1250–1382 (London, 1986), chapters 1–2. 3 Abu Shama, Tarajim rijal al-qaranayn al-sadis wa-l-sabi‘ al-ma‘ruf bi-l-dhayl ‘ala al-rawdatayn, ed. M. Kawthari (Cairo, 1947), p.208. 4 For this matter (and also the present citation from Abu Shama), see D. Ayalon, ‘The European-Asiatic steppe: a major reservoir of power for the Islamic world’, Proceedings of 25th Congress of Orientalists – Moscow, 1960 (Moscow, 1963), vol. 2 pp. 49–50 (reprinted in D. Ayalon, The Mamlūk Military Society (London, 1979)); idem, ‘The Great Yāsa of Chingiz Khān’, Studia Islamica, part C1, 36 (1972), pp. 117–23 (reprinted in D. Ayalon, Outsiders in the Lands of Islam: Mamluks, Mongols, and Eunuchs (London, 1988)). 5 These are matters discussed at length in Reuven Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamluks: The Mamluk-Ilkhanid War 1260–1281 (Cambridge, 1995) and some of the papers collected in Reuven Amitai, The Mongols in the Islamic Lands: Studies in the History of the Ilkhanate (Aldershot, UK and Burlington, VT, 2007). 6 See Reuven Amitai, ‘Al-Nuwayri as a historian of the Mongols’, in Hugh Kennedy (ed.), Historiography of Islamic Egypt (c.950– 1800) (Leiden, 2001), pp. 23–36. 7 Shihab al-Din Ahmad b. ‘Abd al-Wahhab al-Nuwayri, Nihayat al-‘arab fi funun al-adab (Cairo, 1992), vol. 29, p. 417. 8 For the origins of this conflict, see Peter Jackson, ‘The dissolution of the Mongol Empire’, Central Asiatic Journal 32 (1978), pp.186–244 (reprinted in Peter Jackson, Studies on the Mongol Empire and Early Muslim India (Aldershot, UK and Burlington, VT, 2009). The intermittent, but at times intense, fighting in the Caucasus region between the two Mongol states is surveyed in the still important article by J.A. Boyle, ‘Dynastic and political history of the Īl-Khāns’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 5, ed. J.A. Boyle, The Saljuq and Mongol Periods (Cambridge, 1968), pp. 303–428. 9 See Reuven Amitai-Preiss, ‘Mamluk perceptions of the Mongol-Frankish rapprochement’, Mediterranean Historical Review 7 (1992), pp.50–65. 10 E. Combe, J. Sauvaget and G. Wiet (eds), Répertoire chronologique de l’épigraphie arabe (Cairo, 1943), vol. 12, pp. 141–2 (no 4612, Nabi Musa, 668/1269–70); p. 193 (no 4690, Damascus, 673/1274–5); p. 195 (no 4692, Damascus, 673/1274–5); pp. 226–7 (no 4738, Damascus, 676/1277–8). Cf. vol. 12, pp. 128–9 (no 4593, Homs, 666/1267–8): mubīd al-faranj wa’larman wa’l-tātār. 11 See some of the expressions noted in Reuven Amitai, ‘Some remarks on the inscription of Baybars at Maqam Nabi Musa’, in D.J. Wasserstein and A. Ayalon (eds), Mamluks and Ottomans: Studies in Honour of Michael Winter (London, 2005), pp. 45–53. 12 Het‘um (Hethoum), ‘La Flor des estories de la Terre d’Orient’, in Recueil des historiens des croisades, documents armeniens (Paris, 1906), vol.2, p. 245; translation from D. Sinor, ‘The Mongols and western Europe’, in K.M. Setton (ed.), A History of the Crusades, vol.3, The Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries (Madison, WI, 1975), p. 539 (reprinted in D. Sinor, Inner Asia and its Contacts with Medieval Europe (London, 1977). 13 Ystoria Mongalorum (‘History of the Mongols’), translation from Christopher Dawson (ed.), The Mongol Mission: Narratives and Letters of the Franciscan Missionaries in Mongolia and China in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries, ‘Translated by a nun of Stanbrook Abbey’ (London, 1955), p. 68. 14 Reuven Amitai-Preiss, ‘Mongol imperial ideology and the Ilkhanid war against the Mamluks’, in Reuven Amitai-Preiss and David Morgan (eds), The Mongol Empire and its Legacy (Leiden, 1999), pp. 57–72. 15 William of Rubruck, Itinerarium, trans. and ed. Peter Jackson with D. Morgan, The Mission of Friar William of Rubruck (London, 1990), p.248. The Naiman and Merkit were two of the important tribes in Mongolia and its environs. 16 Ibn al-Furat, Ta’rikh duwal al-muluk, MS. Vienna (Flügel) 814, fol. 153a; al-Maqrizi, Kitab al-suluk li-ma‘rifat al-duwal wa’lmuluk, ed. M.M. Ziyada et al. (Cairo, 1934–73), vol. 1, p. 574. See the discussion in Reuven Amitai-Preiss, ‘An exchange of letters in Arabic between Abaga Ilkhan and Sultan Baybars (667ah/ah1268–9)’, Central Asiatic Journal 38 (1994), pp. 11–33, esp. pp.14–15. 17 The matters touched upon in this paragraph are discussed in greater detail in chapters 1–3 of Reuven Amitai, Holy War and Rapprochement: Studies in the Relations between the Mamluk Sultanate and the Mongol Ilkhanate (1260–1335) (Turnhout, forthcoming). 18 A comment to this effect is found in J.A. Boyle, ‘Rashīd al-Dīn and the Franks’, Central Asiatic Journal 14 (1970), p. 64 (reprinted in J.A. Boyle, The Mongol World Empire 1206–1370 (London, 1977)). 19 For the relations of the Ilkhanids with Latin Europe, see Peter Jackson, The Mongols and the West, 1221–1410 (Harlow, 2005), pp.165–95. 20 On these matters, see Peter Jackson, ‘The crisis in the Holy Land in 1260’, English Historical Review 95 (1980), pp.494–5, 503–7. 21 For the relevant Papal documents, see K.-E. Lupprian, Die Beziehungen der Päpste zu islamischen und mongolischen Herrschern im 13. Jahrhundert anhand ihres Briefwechsels (Vatican City, 1981), pp. 63–82, 213–79 (nos 40–64). The contents of these letters as well as the larger context are discussed in Jackson, The Mongols and the West. 22 The Book of Deeds of James I of Aragon. A Translation of the Medieval Catalan Llibre dels Fets, trans. D. Smith and H. Buffery (Aldershot, 2003), pp. 337–41; for the reflection of this affair in the Mamluk sources, see Amitai-Preiss, ‘Mamluk perceptions of the Mongol–Frankish rapprochement’, pp. 53–4. 23 Reuven Amitai-Preiss, ‘Edward of England and Abagha Ilkhan: a reexamination of a failed attempt at Mongol–Frankish cooperation’, in M. Gervers and J.M. Powell (eds), Tolerance and Intolerance: Social Conflict in the Age of the Crusades (Syracuse, NY, 2001), pp.75–82 (notes: pp. 160–3).

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24 R. Röhricht, ‘La croisade du Prince Édouard d’Angleterre (1270–1274)’, in his ‘Études sur les derniers temps du royaume de Jérusalem’, Archives de l’Orient Latin, 1 (1881), p. 626; J. Prawer, Histoire du royaume latin de Jérusalem, trans. G. Nahon (Paris, 1970) pp.502–3; J.A. Boyle, ‘The Il-Khans of Persia and the princes of Europe’, Central Asiatic Journal 20 (1976), pp. 30–1. 25 See Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamluks, chapter 7. 26 Sylvia Schein, ‘Gesta Dei per Mongolos 1300: the genesis of a non-event’, The English Historical Review 94 (1979), pp. 805–18. 27 Sylvia Schein, Fideles Crucis: The Papacy, the West and the Recovery of the Holy Land (Oxford, 1991). 28 Peter Thorau, The Lion of Egypt: Sultan Baybars I and the Near East in the Thirteenth Century, trans. P.M. Holt (London and New York, 1992), chapter 7, esp. p. 120 and the notes on pp. 128–9. 29 Ibid., pp.164, 195. 30 Andrew Ehrenkreutz, ‘Strategic implications of the slave trade between Genoa and Mamluk Egypt in the second half of the thirteenth century’, in A.L. Udovitch (ed.), The Islamic Middle East, 700–1900: Studies in Economic and Social History (Princeton, NJ, 1981), pp. 335–45; J.J. Saunders, ‘The Mongol defeat at Ain Jalut and the restoration of the Great Empire’, in J.J. Saunders, Muslims and Mongols: Essays on Medieval Asia, ed. G.W. Rice (Canterbury, NZ, 1977), pp. 67–76. 31 Reuven Amitai, ‘Diplomacy and the slave trade in the eastern Mediterranean: a re-examination of the Mamluk-ByzantineGenoese triangle in the late thirteenth century in light of the existing early correspondence’, Oriente Moderno, NS, 87, no 2 (2008), pp.349–68 (Special issue entitled: Les relations diplomatiques entre le monde musulman et l’occident latin (XIIe-XVIe siècle), ed. D. Aigle and P. Buresi). 32 For discussion of the somewhat late evidence of the Genoese role in the trade in young Mamluks, and criticism in the West, see the forthcoming article by Christoph Cluse, ‘The role of the slave trade in the De recuperanda treatises around 1300’, in C. Cluse and R. Amitai (eds), Slavery and the Slave Trade in the Eastern Mediterranean (c.1000–1500 CE) (Turnhout). 33 Muhyi al-Din b. ‘Abd al-Zahir, Tashrif al-ayyam wa’l-‘usur fi sirat al-malik al-mansur, ed. M. Kamal (Cairo, 1961), p. 166. The translation is based on the exemplary rendition and discussion in P.M. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy (1260–1290): Treaties of Baybars and Qalawun with Christian Rulers (Leiden, 1995), pp. 147–8.

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17 Protecting private property vs negotiating political authority: Nur al-Din b. Jaja and his endowments in thirteenth-century Anatolia1 Judith Pfeiffer

I

n a recent article Jürgen Paul has suggested a radical redefinition of political author­ity in late fourteenth-century Anatolia, thereby also arriving at a new definition of the term beylik. According to Paul’s definition, neither coinage nor taxation plays a central role. What matters is the control over a town and/or its citadel, control over the agricultural areas and pastures of the hinterland and communication with, if not authority over, the pastoral population of this hinterland. To this may be added the transmission of this authority for more than one generation. As Paul put it, ‘beyliks sometimes were not territories so much as networks of mutual obligations, of alliances and vassalties’.2 According to this definition, Nur al-Din b. Jaja (fl. 1274), the object of the present study, could easily be called the founder of a beylik. He was the governor and military commander of a major town in central Anatolia (Kırşehir), where he also controlled several public institutions, including shops and bathhouses, a khānaqāh, a mosque, and a madrasa. He also claimed the fiscal ownership of extensive agricultural estates, together with the tools for their exploitation (for example, presses for wine, fruit or oil; mills and water mills); he exercised authority over the hinterland and its Mongol amirs, as the more than a hundred signatures of Mongol noyans and nökers on his endowment deed demonstrate; and his family can be traced for several generations. In addition, his immense wealth most probably put him in a position that permitted him to realise many of his aspirations, including political ones. However, his properties were curiously spread over a wide geographical area, and there is no indication that he aspired to achieve political independence of any kind. — 147 —

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This raises the question of why some individuals with considerable military power, and in this case also commensurate wealth, aspired to gain political authority, as several of the individuals discussed by Paul did, and why others did not. The answer is probably not to be found in a single factor alone. However, the differences between the overall political framework of the late thirteenth century and that of the late fourteenth century should go a long way towards explaining it. Anatolia during the second half of the thirteenth century was a place of great decen­tralisation. It was ruled by dynasties such as the Seljuqs and Ilkhans, whose notions of political authority were based on steppe taxonomies, the idea of the corporate dynasty, lateral succession, and a high degree of delegation, mobility, and ‘federal’ rule.3 However, it can be argued that the devolution of central political authority in Anatolia progressed exponentially further in the course of the fourteenth century. It began with the demise of the Seljuq sultans around 1307. This was followed by the end of Hülegüid–Chinggisid rule with the death of the Ilkhan Abu Sa‘id in 1335, whereby the two ‘top layers’ of political authority in Central Anatolia (the Hülegüid Ilkhans and Seljuq sultans) ceased to exist. Subsequently nonChinggisid Mongol amirs brought to power mostly lateral Chinggisid puppet khans, whose rule lasted until the mid 1350s. Among the latter Taghay Timur (737/1336–754/1353), a descendant of a brother of Chinggis Khan, struck coins in many places in Anatolia, including in Kırşehir,4 and claimed taxes from numerous Anatolian cities, though curiously not from Kırşehir, in whose vicinity Mongol noyans had their winter pastures, and where Nur al-Din Jaja became particularly active from the 1260s onwards.5 Around 1350, and partially overlapping with the previous phase, central authority had waned to the extent that the Mongol commoners themselves took over (for example, the Chupanids and the Jalayirids), and so did Türkmen chiefs and local dynasties and principalities, as described by Paul. This process was accompanied by the parcellation of political authority and territories. Towards the end of the century, finally, Anatolia saw Timurid campaigns ( yurish), which, however, never resulted in sustained rule or the establishment of local institutions that would support such rule, but were rather attached to a mostly ambulant Timurid court that ‘ruled from the outside’.6 Clearly, Anatolia was the ‘Wild West’ of opportunities, but it was also in a deep constitutional crisis that did not concern Anatolia alone, but encompassed most of the central Islamic lands, especially to the north of the Euphrates, which had been under Mongol rule. At the same time, various Sufi groups stepped in to provide spiritual guidance and authority in the absence of the caliph and caliphate. Sufi socioreligious networks were also in the ascendant politically, and it is especially during this period that they consolidated their authority and institutions by establishing shrines and pilgrimage routes, standardising dhikr rites, and canonising chains of students and teachers.7 Various t.arīqas in the proper sense of the term came into being, often in competition with each other, and it is no coincidence that hagiographies proliferated during this time. At least in the case of one prominent Sufi t.arīqa, the Safaviyya, these processes of competition and consolidation culminated in the establishment of a ruling dynasty, the Safavids, who came to power in Iran in 1501. The late thirteenth century, by comparison, was much more centralised and hier­achical in its political organisation, and there was less space for ma­noeuvre for local potentates. Hence, most principalities (beyliks) saw their heyday not in the thirteenth century, but in the second — 148 —

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half of the fourteenth, after Chinggisid rule had collapsed and there was no ruler who claimed regional political authority.8 The amir Nur al-Din b. Jibra’il b. Baha’ al-Din Jaja’s thirteenth-century endowment deeds offer exceptional insights into the interactions between the local holders of authority during this period, and are one of the most important, yet largely untapped, sources for the history of Seljuq Anatolia during this period. It is to these that we shall now turn. Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s life and career

The political environment in which Nur al-Din b. Jaja operated was the Seljuq Sultanate in central Anatolia during the reign of Kaykhusraw III (r.1262–84), himself subordinate to the Mongol Ilkhan Abaqa (r. 1265–82) at the time when the endowment deeds were drafted. Both Kaykhusraw and Nur al-Din b. Jaja also engaged with other political players in the region, notably the Karamanids and Mamluks to the east and south-east. Drawing on Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s endowment deeds and a series of surviving inscriptions and narrative sources, several Turkish scholars, including E. İhsan,9 Cevat Hakkı Tarım,10 Ahmet Temir11 and Sadi Kucur12 have reconstructed a partial vita for Nur al-Din b. Jaja. We know almost nothing about Nur al-Din’s youth. According to the Seljuq historian Ibn Bibi (fl. 680/1281), Nur al-Din b. Jaja or his father had originally been a camel driver (shuturbān),13 and the Mamluk scholar al-Qalqashandi (d. 821/1418) described Nur al-Din as ‘the greatest of the amirs of Anatolia in terms of wealth and lifestock’.14 Both are evidence of Nur al-Din’s close connections with the hinterland and possibly its nomadic populations; they may also indicate that at least during the early part of his life he may have acquired some of his wealth through trade and/or the protection of caravans. Working initially as the leader of what Ibn Bibi described as the Seljuq minister Mu‘in al-Din Parvana’s (d. 676/1277)15 ‘mercenary ignorant riffraff from among the Turks’, Nur



FIG. 17.1

Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s endowments in thirteenth-century Anatolia.

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al-Din attracted the Parvana’s attention, and under the latter’s protection he was appointed amir, or governor, of Kırşehir in 659/1261.16 In his main endowment deed, which dates from 1272, Nur al-Din Ibn Jaja is re­ferred to as ‘al-amīr al-isfahsālār’, commander of the (border) army.17 In 1277 he and his brother Siraj al-Din Isma‘il fought during the Battle of Elbistan among the ranks of the Mongols and were captured and deported to Syria by the Mamluk sultan Baybars (d. 676/1277). They were released shortly afterwards, immediately before the latter’s death.18 Following his father’s last wish, Baybars’ son al-Malik al-Sa‘id granted them fiefs (iqt. ā‘ ) in Syria,19 where Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s brother appears to have settled, at least for a while. The endowment deeds of Nur al‑Din b. Jaja were established at the height of his career, which roughly coincided with the height of the career of the Parvana, with whom Nur al-Din established a symbiotic relationship. On the name of his father, or more probably clan, ‘Jaja’, Zeki Velidi Togan speculated that it might be Mongolian, and that in this case it would mean ‘magic power’.20 Togan further argued, however, that Baha’ al-Din b. Jaja might not have been himself of Mongol background, but rather a Seljuq general who may have entered Anatolia as one of the military leaders of one of the Eastern Turkic Muslim groups that came to the region together with the Mongol military leader Bayju in the 1230s. While it is possible that Nur al-Din b. Jaja was part of a Türkmen group that came to Anatolia from Arran and Iranian Azerbayjan in the 1230s during the wars with the Khwarazmshahs, the endowed properties that are listed in the deeds pertain in many cases to so specifically urban spaces, in small, clearly defined, parcellated slots, that what lies behind the acquisition of these is more indicative of the slow process of at­tainment and parcellation that comes about through inheritance within a family, probably over several generations, complemented by piecemeal purchase over many years, rather than the pattern of the quick, sweeping gain of a conqueror who enters a new city and can presumably appropriate entire quarters wholesale. It is therefore not unlikely that ‘the sons of Jaja’ entered Anatolia even earlier, possibly in the twelfth century, though the evidence is extremely sparse.21 That members of the Jaja family were considered part of the local elite of Anatolia – as opposed to being part of the Mongol elite – is corroborated by Ibn Shaddad (d.684/1285). He listed the names of two of Ibn Jaja’s relatives, Amir Nur al-Din Jibra’il b. Jaja and Amir Siraj alDin Isma‘il b. Jaja, who had been captured by the Mamluk sultan Baybars during the Battle of Elbistan, among the ‘grandees of Anato­lia’ (kubarā’ al‑Rūmiyīn). In Ibn Shaddad’s list they are found immediately next to a son of the Parvana, a grandson of the grand amir (amīr al‑umarā’ ), and a brother of the atabeg, attesting to the high rank that members of the Jaja family held. Since Ibn Shaddad also listed these ‘grandees of Anatolia’ separately from the ‘Mon­gol chiliarchs and centurions’ in Anatolia (muqaddimī al‑Tatar ‘alā al-ulūf wa al‑mi’īn), he apparently did not consider them as part of the Mongol military estab­lishment.22 Other Mamluk historians gave Ibn Jaja a similarly high standing: al‑Qalqashandi called him ‘Nūr al‑Dīn Jājā akbar al‑umarā’’,23 ‘al‑amīr Nūr al‑Dīn Jājā, wa huwa akbar umarā’ al‑Rūm as.h.āb al‑ni‘ma wa al‑na‘am’ ,24 and also men­tions his brother, ‘al‑amīr Sirāj al‑Dīn Ismā‘īl b. Jājā’ as one of the grandees of Anatolia.25 Zeki Velidi Togan suggested, basing himself on evidence found in Wassaf, that an­other amir with the name Jajek was active during the time of Ghazan Khan in the area of Paphlagonia (Kastamonu), though it is not clear whether or not he was related.26 — 150 —

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Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s titles amīr and isfahsalār indicate that he belonged to the military elite or at least temporarily had military functions. The endowment deed em­phasises explicitly that he did understand the wording of the Arabic text without re­quiring an interpreter.27 If Nur alDin b. Jaja knew Arabic in an environment where Greek, Armenian, Persian, Kurdish, Syriac, Turkic and possibly Mongolian were the main languages of oral expression, this suggests that either his family stemmed from northern Syria/south-eastern Anatolia, where Arabic was spoken (and where there existed a Syrian Türkmen constituency), or that he was indeed of Arab background.28 Alternatively, he may have acquired a knowledge of Arabic through the kind of education that was provided either as part of the educa­tional ‘ca­reer’ of a mamlūk – perhaps in Ayyubid or Mamluk service – or at ma­drasas. Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s honorific – ‘the Light of Religion’ – was most probably a deliber­ate choice, and his endowments for the support of religious institutions amply demon­strate that he did everything to enact the promise contained in his honorific. He had several madrasas built in Kırşehir, Talımeğini (? ) near Ankara and possibly İskilip in their entirety from his endowments, in addition to mosques, zāwiyas and other buildings in Kırşe­hir, Kayseri, Talımeğini, and Sultan Öyüğü ( ) near Eskişe­hir (see below). This is comparable, but also stands in contrast, to contemporary Mongol endowments from the Ilkhanate, where primarily Sufi dervish lodges (as op­posed to mosques and madrasas) received support from the Mongol rulers and their amirs. It is also quite exceptional for Anatolian standards that here there is indeed a madrasa supported by someone from the higher, but not the highest, echelons of the society. As Ethel Sara Wolper, who studied in great detail the Sufi endowments of Sivas, Tokat and Amasya, has argued, An […] important financial incentive for choosing dervish lodges to patronize was that they were cheaper than other buildings. Local amīrs did not have the resources of sultans and could never have afforded to invest their property as waqf for mosques or madrasas. Although dervish lodges could be lavish, they were not required to have special rooms for prayer, lodging, food preparation, or teaching, and their waqfīyas, unlike those of madrasas, did not have to provide the large sti­pends allotted to the imām, mudarris, or students.29

Utilising the epigraphic evidence from thirteenth-century Anatolia, Howard Crane concluded on the contrary that ‘theological schools, in particular, appear to be associated with the patronage of the military-bureaucratic elite, and seem often to have been built on an especially lavish scale.’30 In this context, then, Nur al-Din b. Jaja was not an exception, but he was certainly extremely wealthy, so wealthy that he could afford to build not only one, but two madrasas in Kırşehir and Talımeğini near Ankara and to endow the stipends of the relevant staff,31 to which can be added two, possibly three, mosques in Talımeğini, Sultan Öyüğü, and possibly Kırşehir, as part of the madrasa complex that he had built there. The real estate he owned, and which is listed on a 20-metre long endowment deed, was distributed over a vast area. In modern terms, Nur al-Din b. Jaja may not have been the president, but he would have counted among the John D. Rockefellers, Andrew Carnegies or Andrew W. Mellons of his time. With the establishment of Mongol rule in Anatolia after the Battle of Kösedağ in 1243, and the removal of the institution of the caliphate in the central Islamic lands in 1258, new cards had been dealt to everyone. One group that benefited from this in the long term was — 151 —

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Sufi socioreligious networks, both ideologically, as various Sufi groups stepped in to provide spiritual guidance and authority in the absence of the ca­liph and caliphate, and economically, as for one reason or another, especially Sufi groups and lodges appear to have benefited from tax exemptions that had long-term economic and, indeed, political implications, and thereby provided a certain degree of stability on the ground.32 On the other side of this coin were those whose private property was threatened, as it could be confiscated or subjected to often arbitrary multiple taxation by Mongol officials at any time. Therefore we find that many converted their private property (mulk/milk) into endowments (waqf, pl. awqāf; also: wuqūf ) dedicated to institutions such as Sufi lodges and the restoration of mosques and madrasas. Waqfs were the ‘tax evasion mechanism’ par excellence of the time.33 Especially before the Ilkhan Ghazan’s reforms (1295–1304), over-taxation by the Turco-Mongol military and administrative elite was the norm.34 While the reign of Ghazan appears to have introduced some regularity, the amirs appar­ently took over again, and people were complaining as early as the reign of Abu Sa‘id (1316–35). The Ilkhan himself had to step in and publicise decrees in Ana­tolia (with surviving inscriptions in Ankara and Ani, dating between 1319 and 1335) to warn the Mongol amirs against exceeding the norm set for taxation by the state.35 As far as we know, Nur al-Din b. Jaja is the example of an individual who was neither a Sufi nor a scholar, but who, as we will see, knew well how to benefit from the potential of tax exemptions through the waqf system and the new political situa­tion in the region. His tomb, mentioned in the deed, was built in Kırşehir. It is not known when and where he died.36 The much later, fifteenth- to sixteenth-century, Bektaşi hagiog­raphy mentions that, after Nur al-Din had offended Hajji Bektash, the latter cursed Nur al-Din, who subsequently fell out with the Seljuq Sultan, who first imprisoned him and then sent him to the border­lands (uj) neighbouring Iran, never to see his home town again. According to this dramatic narrative, Nur al-Din’s body was transported back to Kır­şehir in a cenotaph and buried there in the tomb that he had built. Since this is a much later and hagio­graphic source, such ‘information’ may well be an extrapolation of the Mamluk im­prisonment in Aleppo, and has to be treated with caution.37 Various descendents of Nur al-Din b. Jaja are mentioned in the contemporary sources.38 After their capture by the Mamluks in 1277, his brother and/or the latter’s offspring apparently remained in Syria, or at least in the region between Aleppo and Amid (Diyarbakır), as the continu­ators of the history of Bar Hebraeus (d.1286) mention that ‘in the year sixteen hundred and eight of the greeks (ad1297) […] ‘alâ ad‑dîn, who was called the son of jâjâ, captured the city of ‘âmîd’.39 The same work also states that Ibn Jaja was supported by strong forces of ‘Arabs’ from Syria, as the ruler of Mardin, al‑Malik al‑Salih, had in­vited the ‘son of jâjâ’ to attack Amid for insubordination.40 Mamluk sources also mention a certain amir ‘Ala’ al-Din b. Jaja among the amirs of Aleppo for the year 696/1297 and then again, north of it, in the region of Amid in 717/1317.41 Here, members of the family of Nur al-Din b. Jaja are thus found much farther east. The presence of this part of the family, or the memory of their endow­ments in the area, may have lasted long enough to result in a street and zāwiyya (der­vish lodge) named after an Ibn Jaja (if indeed the same family is involved) in Aleppo well into the fifteenth century, during the time of al-Malik al-Zahir Khushqadam (865/1461–872/1467), as attested by Ibn al-Shihna’s (d. 890/1485) Aleppan history Nuzhat al-nawazir fi rawd al-manazir.42 — 152 —

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Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s endowments Structure and contents of the deeds

The endowments of Nur al-Din b. Jaja have survived as a group of two (possibly three) originals and a partial copy. Ahmet Temir, who edited three of them, named the documents by abbreviations of the locations where they were originally held, that is, İ. (for İskilip, a town in northern Anatolia; see the map in Fig.17.1), K1 (for Kırşehir1) and K2 (for Kırşehir2). The main deed, İ., is dated to the year 670/1273.43 Manuscripts İ. and K2 have been known since the early 1930s,44 whereas the Mongolian part of K1 was properly identified in 1938 by Ahmet Temir, who established that what earlier scholars had identi­fied as an ‘unreadable Kufi’ ‘tail’ was Mongolian, written in the Uyghur script. In­deed, these lines represented the sixth oldest known text in Mongolian in the world until 1959.45 After the original announcement by Ahmet Tevhid in the early twentieth century, one of the first modern scholars to draw attention to the Arabic text of İ. was E. İhsan, who in 1934 also summarised and quoted from it the parts related to repairs in Seljuq-period buildings in Sultan Öyüğü (Eskişehir).46 In 1959 Ahmet Temir edited, annotated and published all three deeds together as part of his Habilitation thesis at the University of Hamburg under Annemarie von Gabain. He did not, however, interpret the texts beyond is­sues of philological import; rather, he considered that future scholars should under­take such investigations.47 The initial international interest abated surprisingly fast, and it is mostly Turkish scholars who have worked on the deeds since the 1960s. In 1988 the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts (Türk ve İslâm Eserleri Müzesi) ac­quired a fourth, related document that dates to the year 687/1288. İ. = İskilip is by far the longest of the three deeds, now held in the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts in Istanbul (Topkapı Saray Museum Collection no 2198).48 It was composed, or has at least survived, entirely in Ara­bic, and focuses on endowments especially around the area of İskilip, although it also refers to endowments in Kırşehir, Kayseri, Sultan Öyüğü/Eskişehir and Talıme­ğini/Ankara. The document (dated 10 Shawwal 670/10 May 1272) has been pre­served in the form of a scroll (tumār) of yellowish fabric of 19.64m length and 28cm width, containing 618 lines of ta‘līq script in Arabic. Ahmet Temir estimated that this is a contemporary piece, not a later copy.49 The other two manuscripts published by Temir are the Arabic/Mongolian bi­lingues which Temir named manuscripts Kırşehir 1 (K1) and Kırşehir 2 (K2). Both K1 and K2 list additional endowed properties that are not mentioned in İ. K1 = Kırşehir1 (now held in private hands in Kırşehir (Muhsin Kılıçarslan)) is 12m long and 28 cm wide; its incipit and a long part at the beginning are missing.50 It consists of 466 lines in Arabic and 67 lines in Mongo­lian; both the Arabic and the Mongolian texts are dated 20 Shawwal 670/20 May 1272, which corresponds to the Year of the Ape in the Mongolian calen­dar.51 It contains more than a hundred signatures by high-ranking Mongol noyans and their nökers, with a further addition to the Mongolian signatures from the Year of the Rooster, which corresponds to 1273–4. K2 = Kırşehir2 (Türk ve Islâm Eserlesi Müzesi, Topkapı Saray Museum Collection No 2199) is 4.96m long and 25cm wide. It contains 175 lines in Arabic nakhshī script, and 9 lines in Mongolian. The incipit is missing, and both the Arabic and the Mongolian parts are dated 20 Shawwal 670/20 May 1272. K2 is proba­bly a later copy that reproduces parts of the other two documents.52 — 153 —

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Y. = Ya‘qub b. Yusuf (Türk ve İslam Eserlesi Müzesi No 4646) is 537cm long and 37cm wide. It comprises 88 lines in Arabic and 2 in Mongolian, and was acquired by the Türk ve İslâm Eserleri Müzesi in Istanbul in 1988. This deed, which was copied by a certain Ya‘qub b. Yusuf, clearly pertains to the group of deeds related to Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s endowments. It is dated Rabi‘ I 687/April 1288.53 While K1 and K2 are shorter than the İskilip scroll, they afford important insights into the interaction between members of the local elite, on the one hand, and the Mongol contingents stationed in the area, on the other. Most importantly, they contain the names of the Mongol witnesses to the deed, a feature that is absent from the İskilip scroll. I have counted altogether 106 names in the list of Mongol noyans and nökers of K1 who pledged to honour the deed. Some names are repeated, but listed clearly as part of a different group, though overlaps are possible. This list of witnesses contains the names of individuals who pledged, most probably orally, to honour the deed. The similarity to the way in which the Oaths of Strasbourg were confirmed is striking: the names of the noyans are not sufficient: the next level of military authority, the nökers, are also personally bound by the oath. While the Oaths of Strasbourg went further in that they stated explicitly that every single soldier was absolved from following their own lord if that lord broke his part of the oath, the underlying principle of personal liability is similar. On the basis of the research of Faruk Sümer, who identified, mostly from narrative sources, the individual members of the Mongol military and administrative elite in Anatolia during the second half of the thirteenth century, we can presently say that in the early 1270s, the names of the Mongol heads of 10,000 whom Sümer identified as having supported the Parvana are partially represented in the first list of Mongol signatures to the K1 deed, which is dated 670/1272.54 However, in 673/1273–4 an important shift in politics occurred, as the Ilkhan Abaqa recalled part of the Mongol elite in Anatolia and replaced them by different noyans.55 It is highly probable that the ‘renewal’ of the signatures by Mongol dignitaries on K1 in the Year of the Rooster (1273–4) was related to this replacement of the highest-ranking Mongols in Anatolia by the Ilkhan Abaqa in that year. K1 had originally been drafted in the Year of the Ape, 1272, and had been signed by several dozen Mongol officials (Samaghar, Baynal, Dayir, Nabchi, Samdaghu, etc.).56 It was signed once again two years later by different (or additional) high-ranking noyans, referring back (by name) to the original signatories (Samaghar etc.), adding prominently the name of the Jalayir Tohu, Abaqa’s new chief amir in Anatolia.57 Socio-economic implications

The contents of the Arabic and Mongolian parts of the deeds show significant differences. They are not translations of one another, but rather, complement each other.58 The Arabic part of the text conforms with the Islamicate bureaucratic tradition of converting private property (mulk/milk) into endowed property (waqf ), a mecha­nism that had long been used to avoid the payment of taxes to the state, and yet per­mitted the endower – qua administrator of the endowment – to receive a certain per­centage of the proceeds from the endowed property for administrative services while still alive. Moreover, the property (most probably not the land itself, but the right to its fiscal exploitation)59 could be endowed as absolute and hereditary — 154 —

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im­munity, permitting the endower to bestow a large part of its benefits on his descen­dants if he wished to do so. This is what Nur al-Din b. Jaja did: he established what is known as a semi-public (or semi-family) waqf.60 The Arabic text describes in great detail which properties were to be en­dowed, with the specifics about the exact demarcation of each field, garden, mill and orchard, the names of the owners of neighbouring properties, and the identification of urban spaces such as shops, bathhouses, intramural gardens, ice houses, and entire quarters in the bazaar. Occasionally, it offers rare insights into the history of educa­tion in the period as well, as, for example, in the detailed description of how to use the income derived from the endowment for the teaching of the ‘ulūm al-sharīfa al-sharī‘a in one of the endowed madrasas.61 The Mongolian text, by contrast, states that the oaths expressed in it regard ‘everything he [Nur al-Din b. Jaja] possessed’ ( yah.u-ked-iyen bügüde; K1, lines 5–6).62 No further details are provided on the endower’s properties, but the stipulations made in the Arabic part are solemnly confirmed by an oath that states that whoever transgresses the stipulations of the deed shall be . ‘struck by the punishment of the Eternal God’ (menggü t[e]ngri-eçe aldal-tu boltug ay).63 The Arabic document (İ.) starts with an invocation of the ‘ulema, heirs of the prophets’ (al‑‘ulamā’ warathat al-anbiyā’).64 In this context it is worth pointing out that it is the ‘ulema (scholars) not the awliyā’ (Sufis) who are being praised, and Ibn Jaja endowed – unusually – just as many madrasas as he did zāwiyas and khānaqāhs. Later in the document Nur al-Din states explicitly that the recipients of the stipends that he endowed for his ma­drasa ought to study the sharia, and apparently nothing else, which stands in con­trast to contemporary Ilkhanid institutions such as Maragha, where income from en­dowments was used to support the study of medicine and astronomy at a designated observatory and centre of learning.65 The incipit evokes the Seljuq sultan Ghiyath al-Din Kaykhusraw with epithets that earlier would normally have been reserved for rulers of the highest rank,66 though they were by this time common honorifics of sultans and khans, such as z.ill Allāh fī al-‘ālam (al­ready used for earlier Seljuq sultans, for example, Kaykhusraw b. Kayqubad, probably in the 1230s to 1240s),67 and mālik riqāb al-umam (an epithet prominently assumed on coins and in written sources by the contemporary Ilkhan Abaqa, as well as later Ilkhans, notably Öljeitü).68 This is followed by the evocation of the name and epithets of the endower Nur al-Din Jibra’il b. Jaja,69 from which we learn, inter alia, that he was at some point the commander of a (border) army (al-amīr alisfahsalār, İ., line 51). At this point the deed confirms, in legal terms, that the endower was legally permitted to con­clude the deed: he was of sane body and mind ( fī sih.h.at ‘aqlihi wa badanihi, İ., line 62), he had reached maturity (bulūgh, İ., line 62), and he him­self told the qadi in his own capacity and by his own will and with his own tongue ‘without an intermediary or interpreter’ that he wanted to establish the endowment (aqarra iqrāran .sah.īh.an shar‘iyyan wa i‘tarafa i‘tirāfan mar‘iyyan […] bi-lisānihi min ghayr wāsit.a wa lā tarjumān mustaqillan bi-dhātihi, İ., lines 63–4). All these were legal requirements needed to validate the deed. The greatest part of the deed is a detailed description of the properties en­dowed. The İskilip scroll alone lists dozens of properties and even entire villages and market quarters predominantly in or near Kırşehir, but also in and around İskilip, Koçhisar, Konya, Ankara and Aksaray.70 The endower stipulated that a full half of these properties ought to be endowed to his male descendants, with detailed instruc­tions for future generations: — 155 —

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The jointly owned half of all the specified aforementioned properties shall be endowed to his [Nur al-Din’s] male descendents, and to those who shall be born afterwards, and if one of them dies, then the endowment shall be passed on to his male descendants, womb after womb, and if he has no son or grandson, then his share (nas.ībuhu) shall fall to the remaining male siblings, and if none of them remains, and none of their male children [is alive], the endowment shall pass on to the female descendants of his [Nur al-Din’s] sons and grandsons, and to the children and grandchildren of his brother and sister, womb after womb, male and female without distinction, and if none of their descendants remains [alive], it shall be endowed to the appointed manu­mitted slaves of the endower – may God grant him success – and if one of them dies, his share shall pass on to his children and grandchildren, womb after womb, and if he has no child or grand­child, his share shall pass on to the remaining other emancipated slaves, and if none of the manu­mitted slaves remains, it shall pass on to the exigencies (mas.ālih.) of the madrasa that the endower built in Kırşehir.71

The other half of the proceeds was to go to a madrasa, a Sufi convent (zāwiya), a khānaqāh, a maktab, and institutions for pious people and custodians (dār al-s.ulah.ā’ wa al-akfāl ) in Kırşehir and institutions in Kayseri, whereby the endower Nur al-Din b. Jaja was to be made the trustee (mutawallī) of the endowment until his death.72 After expenditure had been deducted for erecting the buildings, half of this (that is, 25 per cent of the proceeds from the listed properties) was to be given to the endowment’s trus­tee (mutawallī) for the efforts incurred – that is, flow back tax free to no one other than Nur al-Din b. Jaja for the administration of the endowments for as long as he was alive. After his death, the deed stipulated, the right to administer the endowments and the right to this 25 per cent ‘administration fee’ should pass on to Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s sons, womb after womb, and so on, very similarly to the stipulations for the first half of the grant that was di­rectly endowed to his male descendants.73 Thus, waqf in this case was not only a way to avoid taxes, but also an instru­ment that permitted Nur al-Din b. Jaja to establish a patrimony that circumvented Islamic inheritance law, which would have given greater rights to female family mem­bers, but would also have resulted in the ‘loss’ of their shares for the clan of Jaja, and a gain for the families of their future husbands.74 In sum, this endowment deed was formulated in such a way that it permitted Nur al-Din and his family to remain, in perpetuity, 100 per cent in control of the property (either as direct beneficiaries or trustees), to keep 75 per cent of the proceeds, and to prevent future loss of properties to other families through ‘outside’ marriages of female family members. The effort that went into drafting this 12 m-long document was well justified. The topography of fiscal ownership

In the endowment deeds a large number of places and place names are mentioned, which need to be distinguished by their function as income-producing places or entities, on the one hand, and income-receiving places, buildings, and institutions, on the other. On the income-producing side of the endowment, we find a large number of properties and buildings, including hundreds of orchards; vineyards; various types of irrigated and dry gardens; wine, fruit or oil presses (almi‘s.ara); mills; water mills; bath­houses; shops; an ice house (al-mujammida), ovens/bakeries ( furn) and entire market quarters in Kırşehir, İskilip, Ankara/Talımeğini, Koçhisar, Konya and Aksaray.75 Among the income-receiving institutions are the following:76 — 156 —

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In Kırşehir: 1 madrasa, built by the endower (Nur al-Din b. Jaja; İ. 377, K1 246, K2 132)77 1 mosque next to the madrasa (İ. 378, K1 248) 1 khānaqāh (İ. 378, K1 249) 1 zāwiya (İ. 378; K1 249) 1 maktab (İ. 378, K1 251) 1 dār al-s.ulah.ā’ (İ. 378, K1 255) 1 turba (tomb) for the endower, built by the endower (İ. 381, K1 295) 1 turba (tomb) for the endower’s sister (İ. 409) In Kayseri: 1 Friday mosque (masjid al-jāmi‘) of Nizam al-Din al-Mustawfi (İ. 379, K1 253–4) In İskilip: 1 madrasa (İ. 509–10) In Talımeğini (in the administrative district of Ankara): 1 madrasa, built by the endower (K1 259) 1 mosque, built by the endower (K1 259) In Sultan Öyüğü (Eskişehir): 1 mosque (masjid ) built by the endower (İ. 560) 17 mosques (masjid ) repaired by him (İ. 563) 1 zāwiya of Shaykh ‘Abd Allāh al-Badawī, repaired by the endower (İ. 565) 1 khān (hostel/caravanserai?) built by the endower (İ. 563–4) 1 masjid in the khān, also built by the endower (İ. 563–4)

Among those places that have survived and can be identified by inscription are the madrasa in Kırşehir, which is now used as a mosque, though it can without doubt be identified as the madrasa in question, on the basis of its four Arabic and one Persian in­scriptions, and the date of 671/1272;78 the mosque in Sultan Öyüğü/Eskişehir, whose minaret with an Arabic inscription in the name of Nur al-Din b. Jaja was described as early as 1934;79 and the ruins of a caravanserai in Kesik Köprü, approximately 18 km south of Kırşehir, with an Arabic inscription by the endower, dated Muharram 667/September–October 1268.80 Among the above, the madrasa in Kırşehir has received most attention. An extensive oral tradition (probably of recent origin) had developed by the 1940s, when the historian of science Aydın Sayılı and the Indologist Walter Ruben, both pro­fessors at the University of Ankara, undertook to excavate part of the ma­drasa.81 According to the oral traditions, the madrasa, and in particular the well at its centre, had been used for astronomical observations. In the report on the excavations that they undertook in 1947, Ruben and Sayılı speculated that the well at the centre of the madrasa, which was at least 7.5 m deep, may have been a dry observational well, endowed with an internal staircase that permitted observers to walk up and down eas­ily, allowing for daytime observation. The theory was supported by the fact that ex­actly at the centre of the central dome of the madrasa there was an aperture in the ceiling that has since been re-roofed. Sayılı and Ruben were, of course, inspired by the find­ings at the observatory at Maragha, which was only a few hundred miles away and was at the height of its productivity under Nasir al-Din Tusi (d. 1274), who was still alive when the Kırşehir — 157 —

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deed was first drafted. However, there is no evidence for the use of the Kırşehir madrasa as an observatory in the endowment deed itself. It is curious that the endower (or his father) was originally known as a camel driver, and there is a possibility that he may have made much of his fortune through trade (possibly long-distance overland trade), and yet he did not reinvest in this area: the great majority of his endowments were devoted to religious or semi-religious buildings, not caravanserais.82 It is noteworthy that the areas of income-producing properties and income-re­ceiving endowments do not entirely overlap, as the following table shows: Town/area

Income-producing properties

Income-receiving endowments

Kırşehir

Yes, numerous

Yes, numerous

İskilip

Yes

Yes

Ankara/ Talımeğini

Yes

Yes

Koçhisar

Yes

No

Konya

Yes

No

Aksaray

Yes

No

Kayseri

No

Yes

Sultan Öyüğü (Eskişehir)

No

Yes, numerous

TABLE 17.1

Income-producing and income-receiving properties and endowments of Nur al-Din.

Properties in the areas of Kırşehir, İskilip and Talımeğini/Ankara both produced in­come and received endowments, with Kırşehir taking the lion’s share in both areas.83 While most of the properties that were producing income were found in an area extending along a north–south axis between İskilip in the north and Konya in the south, most of the new endowments that were receiving income were found along an east–west axis extending from Kayseri and Kırşehir in the east to Ankara to Eskişehir in the west, with one sole northern extension to İskilip. The two easternmost and westernmost out­posts on this east–west axis, Kayseri and Eskişehir, exclusively received income, without producing any.84 By contrast, properties in the southernmost areas of Konya, Aksaray and Koçhisar, all of which were close to the centre of Seljuq power, produced income, but these cities and their hinterland do not appear to have received anything in return in the form of endowments, which is especially significant for Konya. Nur al-Din’s lack of investment in Konya may be an indication that the city of Mawlana Jalal al-Din Rumi and the seat of the Seljuq sultanate was already saturated with existing endowments, and therefore did not need any more, or indeed it may have been an expression of the hegemony of the Seljuq state and the Parvana, who was a supporter of Rumi and had contributed to building his tomb, or other constituents in Konya with whom Nur al-Din either could not or would not want to compete, but to whom he did not make over any of his endowments either. On the other hand, Nur al-Din b. Jaja appears to have ‘invested’ in less central towns and cities, such as his very own Kırşehir and even farther-off İskilip, as well as the far western border area at the Byzantine frontier, Eskişehir, which did not contribute any income-pro­ducing properties at all. Eskişehir, in particular, received substantial in­vestments in the form of repairs — 158 —

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to no less than 17 mosques and an already existing zāwiya, and the new erection by the endower of a mosque, a khān (hos­tel/caravanserai?), and a further mosque pertaining to the khān. The latter is indeed the only ‘secular’ building endowed by Nur al-Din according to the surviving deeds.85 Its support for travellers and its possibly trade-oriented purpose may be indications that one of the rationales behind the endowments in the Muslim frontier outpost Eskişehir was trade, as areas where risk was highest – for example, where different spheres of political influence met – were usually particularly lucrative. Whether Nur al-Din may also have pursued ‘missionary’ ambitions with the establishment and support of so many religious institutions in this Muslim frontier area is an open question. In any case, ‘spreading the risk’ appears to have been a wiser policy for Nur al-Din than consolidating all of his assets in one location in a highly unstable Anatolia merely a decade and a half after the ‘Abbasid caliphate in Baghdad had ceased to exist and Chinggisid authority in Anatolia had devolved from the Batuid to the Hülegüid branch, with the potential of Mamluk raids, wars and battles, as well as local uprisings (such as that of Baba Ishaq in 1240) always a realistic possibility. Nur al-Din knew his place, but also understood the socio-political dynamics well, and took advantage of them as best he could. He did not endeavour to establish political authority, a beylik, if one will, in an environment where Seljuq authority was nominally in place, but counted little in the eyes of the Chinggisids, who, in turn, ultimately depended on the military support of the Mongol commoners. By asking the Mongol noyans and nökers to sign his endowment deed, Nur al-Din b. Jaja went straight to those who were ultimately in charge on the ground: it is significant that the same noyans (Samaghar, and so on)86 who signed Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s deed are among those individuals whose descendants or associates were going to rise to power over the following century as the founders of the type of beylik analysed by Paul. These later fourteenth-century beyliks, at least one of which appears to have been led by a Mongol aristocrat, came into being through the parcellation of the main successor state of the Ilkhans in Anatolia, the Eretna in Kırşehir, Nevşehir, Yozgat, Tokat, Çorum, Amasya, Niğde, Kayseri, Sivas, Erzincan, Erzurum, Tunceli, Samsun and Gümüşhane (1327–80). To what extent the Eretna and its Mongol aristocracy honoured Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s endowment deeds is not known. Conclusions

Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s endowment deeds provide exceptional insights into the ways in which wealthy individuals in Anatolia during the second half of the thirteenth century were capable of protecting their property and thereby maintaining their independence not only from the somewhat remote Chinggisid overlords, but also keeping at bay such local players as the Seljuq sultans and Mongol noyans and nökers – at least for a while. Why Nur al-Din b. Jaja did not go one step further and try to establish a principality or beylik is an intriguing question. It may be suggested that the general political framework was not right. In the 1270s central Anatolia, the area where Nur al-Din b. Jaja was most active, was nominally controlled by the Seljuq sultans, who, in turn, were vassals of the HülegüidChinggisid Ilkhans, who, at times, were challenged by, and in any case heavily depended on the support of, the Mongol noyans. — 159 —

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A century later the two top layers of Hülegüid-Chinggisid and Seljuq power had long gone, and lateral Chinggisid descendants, Mongol commoners, and even Türkmens and local aristocrats commanded military power and were able to aspire to, and in many cases actually attained, political authority. As Jürgen Paul put it, the multiplicity of beyliks in Anatolia may be explained by ‘the almost even distribution of resources, so that a number of rivals were almost equally strong’.87 In the late thirteenth century the strata of power were much more hierarchically layered than among the more ‘horizontally’ distributed beyliks of the late fourteenth century. The fact that so many local governors attained political independence is the reverse side of this coin: the weaker the central political authority, the greater the chances of individuals and clans such as the Samaghar and Barambay, Ja’uni Qurban or indeed the Ibn Jajas to attain political independence. However, this is not what Nur al-Din appears to have aspired to, nor could he have in the political climate of the second half of the thirteenth century. In all this, we should not lose sight of what the endower chose to do with his resources, and this is an area that is often overlooked in studies that focus exclusively on the social, economic and political aspects of history. Nur al-Din b. Jaja chose not to support either armies or trade, or the establishment of a beylik, but rather, religious institutions. Translated into socio-economic and political terms, rather than putting all on one card and consolidating his properties and economic power in one single place (Kırşehir as a potential beylik), he distributed his properties, endowments and risk over several towns that were at several days’ distance from each other. While ensuring that they were kept under tight family control, he designated all the proceeds that were not going to flow back into the pockets of the Jaja clan to religious institutions and the religio-political intelligentsia attached to them. In the power matrix of which Nur al-Din was part, the entity that lost out was the state. While central political power was economically weakened, the local religious elites, by contrast, were strengthened through a mechanism that fuelled their political ascendancy in the long term.

Notes





1 I am grateful to İlker Evrim Binbaş for reading the final draft of this article, and for his invaluable feedback and suggestions throughout. Earlier versions of this paper were presented at the Seminar on Byzantine, Ottoman and Modern Greek Issues, Birmingham University (3 February 2005), the Medieval History Seminar, Faculty of Modern History at the University of Oxford, All Souls College (25 April 2005), and the Symposium ‘Nomads vs. Standing Armies in the Iranian World, 1000–1800’ at the Institute of Iranian Studies at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, Vienna (5 December 2005). I am grateful to the seminar participants for their comments and questions, and to Elif Keser-Kayaalp and Salam Rassi for research assistance in the final stage of preparing this paper for publication. Their assistance was made possible by an Oxford University Press John Fell Fund Grant. All remaining errors are, of course, mine. The paper originally contained a long section on Sufi rivalries in central Anatolia, which had to be removed due to space constraints. Funding for research for this paper was made available from the European Research Council under the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2007-2013)/ERC Starting Grant 263557 IMPAcT. 2 Jürgen Paul, ‘Mongol aristocrats and beyliks in Anatolia: A study of Astarābādī’s Bazm va Razm’, Eurasian Studies 9, no 1–2 (2011), p.147. The term beylik usually refers to late medieval and early modern local and regional principalities in Anatolia. There is no reason to exclude from the list of beyliks the roughly contemporary Sarbidars or Musha‘sha‘, or any of the other principalities on the Iranian plateau that operated in similar ways, other than that they existed outside of Anatolia. It appears that the term ‘beylik’ may be a sixteenth- or seventeenth-century Ottoman invention; retracing the history of the term, however, would be a matter for a different study. 3 On Islamicate Anatolia during this period, see Claude Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: A General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and History c. 1071–1330, trans. J. Jones-Williams (London, 1968); idem, The Formation of Turkey: The Seljukid Sultanate of Rūm: Eleventh to Fourteenth Century, trans. and ed. P.M. Holt (Harlow, 2001); Sara Nur Yıldız, ‘Mongol Rule in Thirteenth-Century Seljuk Anatolia: The Politics of Conquest and History Writing, 1243–1282’ (PhD dissertation, University of Chicago, 2006); Andrew Peacock, ‘Nomadic society and the Seljūq campaigns in Caucasia’, Iran and the Caucasus

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9, no 2 (2005), pp. 205–30; idem, ‘Saljuqs iii. Saljuqs of Rum’, Encyclopaedia Iranica online, available at www.iranicaonline. org/articles/saljuqs-iii; Charles Melville, ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, in The Cambridge History of Turkey, vol. i, ed. Kate Fleet, Byzantium to Turkey, 1071–1453 (Cambridge, 2009), pp. 51–101. See also Donald M. Nicol, The Last Centuries of Byzantium, 1261–1453 (Cambridge, 1993, 2nd edition). On the notion of corporate sovereignty, see John E. Woods, The Aqquyunlu. Clan, Confederation, Empire (Salt Lake City, UT, 1999, 2nd edition), pp. 19–20, 22. Ömer Diler, İlhanlar, İran Moğollarının Sikkeleri (Istanbul, 2006), pp. 543–59, with an example of a coin struck in Kırşehir from the year 739/1338. The tax register of the year 751/1350, which is preserved in the Risala-yi Falakiyya, lists taxes owed to Taghay Timur for numerous Anatolian cities, such as Erzincan, Malatya, Bayburt, Sivas, Niksar, Kayseri, Tokat, Amasya, Ankara, Çankırı, Aksaray, Konya and Akşehir, and many others, but excluding Kırşehir. Zeki Velidi Togan, ‘Moğollar devrinde Anadolu’nun iktisadī vaziyeti’, Türk Hukuk ve Iktisat Tarihi Mecmuası 1 (1931), pp. 1–42, trans. Gary Leiser, ‘Economic conditions in Anatolia in the Mongol period’, Annales Islamologiques 25 (1990), pp. 203–40, here pp. 232–4. On the ‘ruling from the outside’ paradigm, see Paul, ‘Mongol aristocrats and beyliks in Anatolia’ and the reference there on p. 149, n.160, referring to David Durand-Guédy, ‘Ruling from the outside’, in L. Mitchell and Charles Melville (eds), Every Inch a King: Comparative Studies in Kings and Kingship in the Ancient and Mediaeval Worlds (Leiden, 2012). On the term ‘socioreligious networks’ with regard to Sufism, see Shahzad Bashir, Sufi Bodies (New York and Chichester, 2011), esp. pp.11–13. The list of beyliks usually includes the Karamanids (1250–1487); the Germiyanids in Kütahya (1260–1390 and 1402–1429); the Eshrefids in Beyşehir (second half of the thirteenth century – 1326); the Hamidoğulları in Isparta (1280–1324 and 1327– 91); the Tekeoğulları in Antalya (1300–1423); the Menteşeoğulları in Milas (1300–1425); the Aydınoğulları in Aydın (1300– 90 and 1402–1425); the Saruhanoğulları in Manisa (1300–90 and 1401–10); the Karesioğulları in Balıkesir and Bergama (1303–54); the İnançoğulları in Denizli (1276–1368); the Çobanoğulları in Kastamonu (1227–1309); the Candaroğulları in Kastamonu, Sinop, Samsun, Çankırı, and Zonguldak (1291–1461); the Pervâneoğulları in Samsun and Sinop (1277–1322); the Taceddinoğulları in Ordu, Niksar (1348–1428); the Ramazanoğulları in Adana (1352–1608); the Dhulkadıroğulları in Maraş, Malatya, and Adıyaman; the Akhi Dervishes in Ankara (1290–1354); the Karamanid Beys of Alanya (1293–1471); the Eretna in Kırşehir, Nevşehir, Yozgat, Tokat, Çorum, Amasya, Niğde, Kayseri, Sivas, Erzincan, Erzurum, Tunceli, Samsun, and Gümüşhane (1327–80); and the Türkmen ancestors of the Ottoman dynasty, who apparently first dwelt in the region between Ahlat and Mardin and then Erzincan, before they were assigned lands west of Eskişehir, Bilecik and Bursa by Alaeddin Keykubad in 1231. While they were relatively short-lived, both the territories that the Eretna governed and their coinage indicate that they were the main heirs to the Ilkhanids in the region; it appears that they incorporated Jaja’id territories as soon as Chinggisid rule disappeared. E. İhsan, ‘Eskişehir kitabeleri’, Türk Tarih, Arkeologya ve Etnografya Dergisi 2 (1934), pp. 262–8. Tarım presented a very early vita that draws on almost the complete array of sources available for reconstructing Nur alDin b. Jaja’s life, albeit without proper referencing. Cevat Hakkı Tarım, Kırşehir Tarihi Üzerinde Araştırmalar (Kırşehir, 1938), pp. 58–74. Ahmet Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu Nur El-Din’in 1272 Tarihli Arapça-Moğolca Vakfiyesi (Ankara, 1989), pp. 200–5 (Turkish) and pp.297–300 (German). Sadi Kucur, ‘Cacaoğlu Nûreddin’, Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslâm Ansiklopedisi (TDVİA) 6 (1992), pp. 541–2. See also Semavi Eyice, ‘Caca Bey Medresesi’, TDVİA 6 (1992), pp. 539–41, and Nebi Bozkurt, Mehmet İpşirli, Abdülhamit Birışık and İsmail Orman, ‘Medrese’, TDVİA 28 (2003), pp. 323–40. Ibn Bibi calls him the ‘pisar-i Jājā [-yi – JP] shuturbān’ (‘the son of Jaja the camel driver’, or ‘the son of Jaja, the camel driver’; Ibn Bibi, al-Awamir al-‘ala’iyya fi’l-umur al-‘ala’iyya, facsimile edition by Adnan Erzi as, El-Evāmirü’l-‘Alā’iyye fī’l-Umūri’l-‘Alā’iyye (Ankara, 1956), pp. 646–7. On Ibn Bibi, see Adnan Sâdik Erzi, ‘İbn Bibi’, İslâm Ansiklopedisi 5/2 (1997), pp. 712–8. Erzi (ibid., p.715) established 25 Rabi‘ II 680/13 August 1281 as the terminus ante quem by when Ibn Bibi’s history was written. ‘al‑amīr Nūr al‑Dīn Jājā, wa huwa akbar umarā’ al‑Rūm as.h.āb al‑ni‘ma wa al‑na‘am’. al‑Qalqashandī, Subh al‑a‘sha (Cairo, 1913–20), vol.14, p. 160. On Mu‘in al-Din Parvana, see J.H. Kramers, ‘Muin-üd-Din [Parvāna]’, İslâm Ansiklopedisi (Istanbul, 1997), vol. 8, pp. 556–7, and Nejat Kaymaz, Pervâne Mu‘înü’d-dîn Süleyman (Ankara, 1970); idem, Pervâne Süleyman: 13. yüzyılın işbirlikçi Emîri Muînüddîn Süleyman (Istanbul, 1999). Ibn Bibi states that the military supporters of the Parvāna included the ‘jam‘iyyat-i pisar-i Jājā shuturbān kih az suflagān [sic] wa majāhīl-i Turkān-i ujrā-khwār būd ’ (al-Awamir al-Ala’iyya, pp. 646–7). Aqsara’i reports that ‘Nur al-Din Jaja’ was appointed governor (amīr) of Kırşehir upon the accession of the Seljuq sultan Rukn al-Din Qilij Arslan. Aqsara’i, Musamarat al-akhbar, ed. Osman Turan as Müsâmeret ül‑ahbâr (Ankara, 1944), p. 75. Document İ., line 51 has ‘al-amīr al-isfahsalār al-kabīr’. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 20. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 299; Ibn Shaddad, Rawd al-zahir fi sirat al-Malik al-Zahir, ed. Ahmad Hutait (Wiesbaden, 1983), p.173. Ibn Shaddad, Rawd al-zahir, p. 337. A. Zeki Velidî Togan, Umumî Türk Tarihi’ne Giriş (Istanbul, 1981, 3rd edition), p. 484. In most sources the name is written Jājā or Jājah; the Manaqib al-‘arifīn has Jījā; Aflaki, Manaqib al-‘arifin, ed. Tahsin Yazıcı (Ankara, 1959), vol. 1, pp. 134, 497. A faqīh with the name Kafi al-Din Abu ‘Abd Allah Badal b. Abi Tahir b. Shirshahr b. Jājā b. ‘Abdallah al-Jili al-Muqri’ (d. 588/ beg. 18 January 1192) is first found in Hamadan and then settled in Baghdad some time in the twelfth century. Given the rarity of the name ‘Ibn Jaja’, it is tempting to think of him as a remote family member, but this is pure conjecture at this point. See Ibn al-Fuwati, Majma‘ al-adab fi mu‘jam al-alqab, ed. Muhammad al-Kazim (Tehran, 1416– (1995–)), vol. 4, pp. 13–14. The nisba al-Jili would indicate a connection to either Jilan (Gilan, in northern Iran), or a village in the vicinity of Baghdad; see Yaqut, Mu‘jam al-buldan (Beirut, 1955–7), vol. 2, p. 202. Ibn Shaddad, Rawd al-zahir, p. 173.

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Al‑Qalqashandi, Subh al‑a‘sha, vol. 14, p. 149. Ibid., p.160. Ibid., p.160. Togan, Umumî Türk Tarihi’ne Giriş, p. 484. ‘aqarra iqrāran .sah.īh.an shar‘iyyan wa i‘tarafa i‘tirāfan mar‘iyyan […] bi-lisānihi min ghayr wāsit.a wa lā tarjumān mustaqillan bidhātihi.’ Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 20, lines 63–4. The areas around Diyabakır, where Nur al-Din b. Jaja and some of his family members were particularly active, were called explicitly the ‘Arab Diyarbakır’ (wilāyat-i Diyār Bakr-i ‘arabī) in a tax register of the year 751/1350, which is preserved in the Risala-yi Falakiyya; these included Mardin, Arbil, Khoy/Mush (?), Mayyafariqin, Ra’s al-‘Ayn, Sinjar, and Harran. See Togan, ‘Moğollar devrinde Anadolu’nun iktisadī vaziyeti’, trans. Leiser, ‘Economic conditions in Anatolia’,  p. 232. Ethel Sara Wolper, Cities and Saints. Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia (University Park, PA, 2003), p.26. Howard Crane, ‘Notes on Saldjūq architectural patronage in thirteenth century Anatolia’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 36 (1993), p. 16. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 59–60, İ., lines 516–31. Thus, the thirteenth-century fledgling beginnings of the Safaviyya in Ardabil greatly benefited from Mongol tax exemptions, which were ultimately instrumental in permitting the Safawiyya to establish itself in Iran in 1501 as the dynasty that would (by and large successfully) attempt to convert Iran’s, until then, mostly Sunni population to Twelver Shi‘ism. This holds true at least for a while; during the early modern period, the central authority of the state increased, and the Ottoman sultan Mehmet II (1432–81) turned a good number of the endowments into timars, land grants given to the military elite. Some of these were then returned to their original purpose as endowments by later Ottoman sultans. For examples, see A. Yaşar Ocak, ‘Zaviyeler’, Vakıflar Dergisi 12 (1978), p. 258. Ultimately, Oktay Özel has argued, the Ottoman sultans lost the struggle against the ‘centrifugal forces’ in the Ottoman Empire: ‘Limits of the almighty: Mehmed II’s land reform revisited’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 42, no 2 (1999), pp. 226–46. On Mongol economic history and taxation in Anatolia, including the qalan (tax levied on land), qubchur (taxes on livestock, especially of nomads); rusūmāt (customs charges) and tamgha and bāj (taxes for city-dwellers and merchants), see Togan, ‘Moğollar devrinde Anadolu’nun iktisadī vaziyeti’, trans. Leiser, ‘Economic conditions in Anatolia’, esp. pp. 219–40. On the inscriptions in Ani (in Armenian on the gate of Ani’s fortress, and in Persian, Arabic, Georgian, and Armenian on the wall of Ani’s city mosque) and Ankara, see W. Barthold,’ Persidskaya nadpis’ na stene Aniyskoy mecheti Manuche (St Petersburg, 1911 (Anyskaya Seriya V); reprinted in Sochineniya (Moscow, 1966), vol. 4, pp. 313–38); Turkish trans. Abdülkadir İnan, ‘Ani Kitabesi: İlhan[l]ılar devrinde malî vaziyet’, Türk Hukuk ve İktisat Tarihi Mecmuası 1 (1931), pp. 135–59, reprinted in Makaleler ve İncelemeler (Ankara, 1987, 2nd edition), pp. 520–45; German trans. Walter Hinz, ‘Die persische Inschrift an der Mauer der Manūčehr-Moschee zu Ani’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 101 (1951), pp. 241–69; Paul Wittek, ‘Ankara’da bir Ilhanī kitabesi’, Türk Hukuk ve İktisat Tarihi Mecmuası 1 (1931), pp. 161–4; and Togan, ‘Moğollar devrinde Anadolu’nun iktisadī vaziyeti’, trans. Leiser, ‘Economic conditions in Anatolia’, pp. 221–2. Aynur Durukan has speculated that Nur al-Din was born in 1240, and that he died in 1301 in a battle with the Byzantine rulers (‘Rum Tekfurları’) and that his sarcophagus was afterwards transferred to Kırşehir. Durukan’s footnotes refer to Karim al-Din Aqsara’i (who says nothing of this sort), and to C.H. Tarım’s 1938 Kırşehir Tarihi Üzerinde Araştırmalar, ‘pp. 65–47’ (sic) (who stated (on p. 69) that Nur al-Din apparently did not return from his imprisonment in ‘Egypt’ after the Battle of Elbistan in 1277, and that he died there). I have not checked on Durukan’s third (by reputation, fairly unreliable) reference, Şapolyo. See Aynur Durukan, ‘Anadolu Selçuklu Sanatı Açısından Vakfiyelerin Önemi’, Vakıflar Dergisi 26 (1997), pp. 34– 5. Durukan’s information is probably (indirectly) based on Togan, Umumî Türk Tarihi’ne Giriş, 484. Togan refers for this information to Wassaf, Tajziyat al‑amsar wa tazjiyat al‑a‘sar, ed. Muhammad Mahdi Isfahani (Bombay, 1269/1853; reprint: Tehran, 1338/1959), pp. 374, 379, line 21, and 380. Here Wassaf mentions a certain amir ‘Jājak’ during Ghazan’s campaign to Syria, together with the amirs Mulay and Sultan. Whether ‘Jājak’ is identical to Nur al-Din, or his brother, or even anyone from his family, is highly speculative, especially given that both Mulay and Sultan are well-known amirs of Ghazan, and Rashid al-Din mentioned them in his account of Ghazan’s campaign in Syria. ‘Jājak’ was, therefore, most probably also one of Ghazan’s amirs. See Rashid al‑Din, Jami‘ al‑tawarikh, eds Muhammad Rawshan and Mustafa Musawi (Tehran, 1373/1994), vol. 3, pp. 1297–8. Hacı Bektaş Veli, Manakıb‑ı Hacı Bektâş‑ı Velî ‘Vilâyet-nâme’, ed. Abdülbâki Gölpınarlı (Istanbul, 1990 (1958)), pp. 28–30; Hacı Bektâş-i Veli, Velâyetnâme, ed. Hamiye Duran (Ankara, 2007), pp. 230–42; fols 45a–48a in the Ms. Ali Emiri Efendi no 1076; Firdevs‑i Rûmi, Manzûm Hacı Bektâş Veli Vilâyetnâmesi, ed. Bedri Noyan (Istanbul, 1996), pp. 199–207. See, for example, Aqsara’i, Musamarat al‑akhbar, p. 75; Anonymous, Tarikh‑i Al‑i Saljuq dar Anatuli, ed. Nadira Jalali (Tehran, 1377/1999), p. 101. Bar Hebraeus, Chronography, ed. and trans. E.W.A. Budge (London, 1932), vol. 1, p. 509. Bar Hebraeus’ Chronography was completed by a different writer after his death, possibly by his brother Bar S.âwmâ S.âfî; see ibid., p. 475, n. 1 – hence the recording of an event that occurred after the (primary) author’s death. Ibid., vol.1, p. 509. Kucur, ‘Cacaoğlu Nûreddin’, p. 542. Ibn al-Shihna, Nuzhat al-nawazir fi rawd al-manazir/The History of Aleppo Known as ad-Durr al-Muntakhab by Ibn ash-Shihna, ed. Keiko Ohta (Tokyo, 1990), pp. 237/158 (for a street called Ibn Jājā) and, ibid., pp. 230/165 (for a Zāwiyat Ibn Jājā). Ibn al-Shihna’s history of Aleppo purports to be a continuation of volume one of Ibn Shaddad’s al-A‘laq al-Khatira, but is more of an inventory of the city than a history, with lists of the names of streets and buildings, and at times additional information, for example, the name of the current head of a certain zāwiya, or personal information if family members were the patrons or waqf overseers of certain buildings. It is in these lists that the personal name ‘Ibn Jaja’ occurs. See also Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p.299, for a tomb (türbe) ascribed to the Jaja in Aleppo.

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43 Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 1–7; for a German summary, see ibid., pp. 281–301. 44 In 1938 Cevat Tarım cited from İ. and described K1 without mentioning K2 (Kırşehir Tarihi, pp. 65–8). Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp.285–6. 45 The discovery stirred the interest of scholars such as Köprülü, Pelliot, Reşid Rahmeti Arat, G.J. Ramstedt, Zeki Velidi Togan, Francis Woodman Cleaves and Richard N. Frye. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 157–8. At some point, Osman Turan announced that he would publish Nur al-Din b. Jaja’s endowment deed, but Temir’s publication appears to have made that superfluous; see, Aqsara’i, Musamarat al-akhbar, p. 75, n. 2: ‘Bunun [Nur al-Din (b.) Jaja’nın – JP] Kırşehir’de yaptırdığı vakıflara dair vakfiyesi tarafımızdan neşredilecektir’. 46 İhsan, ‘Eskişehir kitabeleri’, pp. 262–3. 47 ‘Der in den Texten steckende inhaltliche Stoff muss späteren Sonderuntersuchungen vorbehalten bleiben.’ Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p.281. 48 Türk ve İslâm Eserleri Müzesi, Topkapı Saray Museum Collection, no 2198. This is where İ. has been held since 28 March 1921; before that it had been kept in the waqf register of İskilip (Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 283), though it was originally registered by the qadi of Kırşehir (line 6 of the document). I obtained research permission from the requisite ministry to see the documents, but, due to their fragile condition and scheduling conflicts with an exhibition, I was not permitted to handle the originals, and this paper relies entirely on the edition by Temir. 49 Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 283. As the final lines are missing, it is not clear whether this document was, like K1 and K2, originally also bilingual or not. There also exist two late copies from 1915 and 1921 of the same manuscript, as well as a Turkish translation of it, in the Vakıflar Genel Müdürlüğü in Ankara, Defter 607, pp. 300–306, no 429 (copied in 1915 or earlier); Defter 618–1, pp. 20–28, no 6 (copied on 12 November 1921); Defter 1989, pp. 283–308 (translation); Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p.283. A similar bilingual scroll (in Arabic and Chaghatay Turkic in Uyghur script) from 727/1326 was on display in the exhibition ‘TURKS: Journey of a Thousand Years, 600–1600’ in the Royal Academy in London in 2005; see the exhibition catalogue: David J. Roxburgh (ed.), Turks: A Journey of a Thousand Years (London, 2005), pp. 137, 401 (item no 93, text by O. Sertkaya). Temir worked on this document as well. See Ahmet Temir, ‘Die arabisch-uigurische Vak.f-Urkunde von 1326 des Emirs Şeref el‑Din Ah.med bin Çakırca von Sivas’, Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 56 (1960), pp. 232–40. 50 Temir provided information about this manuscript on the basis of Cevat Tarım’s description, and prepared the publication of the Arabic part of it based on a copy made for Tarım, which is now held in the Vakıflar Genel Müdürlüğü in Ankara. According to Temir, the incipit is missing; at the time Tarım wrote, the original was held in the hands of one of the last administrators of the Jaja endowments, a certain Ahmet b. ‘Ali from the Recen family; Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 284. Tarım had believed that the 67 lines at the end of the document consisted of an unreadable Kufi script, which Temir identified as Uyghur. Temir expressed regret that Tarım never made the original accessible to him, and never publicly acknowledged his error of stating that the Mongolian was Kufi; Tarım silently ‘corrected’ it in his third edition, where a facsimile of the Mongolian was also published. Temir worked from the photogram, and stated that the Uyghur script runs, like the Arabic, from right to left (rather than from the top down). Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 290–1. For the identification of the Year of the Ape as 1272, and that of the Rooster as 1273–4, see Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 291–3. 51 On the use of the Chinese-Uighur animal calendar in the Islamic world, see Osman Turan, Oniki Hayvanlı Türk Takvimi (Istanbul, 1941); Charles Melville, ‘The Chinese-Uighur animal calendar in Persian historiography of the Mongol period’, Iran 32 (1994), pp.83–98. 52 Türk ve İslâm Eserleri Müzesi, Topkapı Saray Museum Collection, no 2199. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 184–285. The document has been held in the Türk ve İslâm Eserleri Müzesi (Topkapı Sarayı Library no 2199) since 3.12.1333 (1917). There also exists a copy of the same manuscript (Defter 608–23, pp. 17–20, no 6) as well as a Turkish translation of it (Defter 1989, pp. 309–15), in the Vakıflar Genel Müdürlüğü in Ankara. A facsimile reproduction of the part containing the nine lines in Mongolian was published in Osman Fikri Sertkaya, ‘İlhanlı kültürünün Anadolu’daki Moğolca ve Türkçe yâdigârları’, in Cengiz Han ve Mirasçıları. Büyük Moğol İmparatorluğu (Istanbul, 2006), pp. 429–55 (object T27 on p. 449). Nur al-Din’s endowment deeds are briefly discussed in ibid., pp. 448–9. The facsimile that is reproduced on p. 449 also features nine lines in Ottoman that date from the early twentieth century, when the document was apparently first registered in the museum. This indicates that a summary (khulās.a) of the endowment deed was also registered under no 2875 on 23 Rajab [1]335. 53 Türk ve İslâm Eserleri Müzesi no 4646. Sertkaya, ‘İlhanlı kültürünün Anadolu’daki Moğolca ve Türkçe yâdigârları’, pp. 448–9. Sertkaya states that the document also contains a Sultanic entry in thuluth rubrics. 54 These are the Jalayir Tayji/Taichi, together with the noyans Baynal, Gerey, Berdi, Ebügen and Toghatemür, who were stationed there together with Bayju’s son Üvek/[Üvey (?)]. Faruk Sümer, ‘Anadolu’da Moğollar’, Selçuklu Araştırmaları Dergisi 1 (1969), pp. 1– 147. Why the other names are ‘missing’ is not clear – it may simply mean that these commanders were mainly active in other regions and therefore not affecting Nur al-Din’s property. 55 Sümer, ‘Anadolu’da Moğollar’, pp. 38–40. Abaqa sent the Jalayir Tohu Bitikchi to Anatolia as the main governor of all of Anatolia on behalf of the Mongols instead of the Tatar Samaghar and his brother Ajai, whom he called back, and Tohu is indeed one of the signatories whose names were added in the 1273–4 additions. By contrast, the member of the Hülegüid dynasty, Ajai, did not sign the first (1272) draft of the deed when he was in charge. This may be another indication that such ‘deals’ were brokered at the level of the amirs, not the Chinggisid/royal family of the Ilkhans. For a brief biography of Tohu (Tuhu, Tuqu, Tughu), see Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 216–17. According to Aqsara’i, Tohu (Tuqu) had his winter quarters (qishlāq) in Kırşehir, for example, in 676/1277, right before the battle of Elbistan, where he died; Musamarat al-akhbar, pp. 113–14. 56 Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 163–4. 57 Ibid., p.165. 58 Ibid., p.291. 59 Oktay Özel has cautioned against considering the freeholds of the early Ottoman Empire as landholdings, and suggested considering them as revenue-holdings instead. These freeholds came with large immunities, such as the right to sell, donate, leave to others, or convert these into waqfs. (Özel, ‘Limits of the almighty,’ p. 229). Such an understanding is probably applicable to

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73



74 75



76 77



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81

Nur al-Din b. Jaja also, and explains why so many of the listed properties do not concern land, but rather the means to exploit it (mills and presses) or revenue-generating institutions (such as bath houses). Thus, we are most probably talking about the fiscal ownership of Ibn Jaja, not necessarily his ownership of the land itself. See Bahaeddin Yediyıldız, Institution du Vaqf au XVIIIe siècle en Turquie. Étude socio-historique (Ankara, 1990), pp. 23–5. In the İskilip madrasa, the endowed stipends included a fully salaried teacher, teaching assistant, 10 fuqahā’, a muezzin and a porter. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 59–60, İ., lines pp. 516–31. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 291. The modern Turkish translation reads ‘ebedî tanrısının cezasına çarpılsınlar.’ Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 159, 163 (K1, lines 17–18). The ‘Eternal God’ is presumably an invocation by which both Mongols and Muslims could take an oath. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 17, İ., lines 8–9. The observatory at Maragha was at the height of its productivity under Nasir al-Din Tusi (d. 1274), who was still alive when the endowment deed was first drafted in 1272. Maragha was run on the endowments that had originally been made to a traditional madrasa or madrasas: Tusi, as the overseer of all the endowments of Ilkhanid Iran, was able to channel these funds to the observatory. See Nasir al-Din Tusi, al‑Tadhkira fi ‘ilm al‑hay’a, ed. and trans. F. Jamil Ragep (New York, 1993), vol. 1, ‘General Introduction’. As Jamil Ragep observed, this is ‘one of the few known instances of the use of such funds for a nonreligious purpose’ (ibid., p. 9, similarly, p. 14). This special arrangement was only revoked under the first Muslim Ilkhan Ahmad Tegüder (r. 1282–4), who ordered that the observatory be supported by state funds instead; see Judith Pfeiffer, ‘Conversion to Islam among the Ilkhans in Muslim Narrative Traditions: The Case of Ah.mad Tegüder’ (PhD dissertation, University of Chicago, 2003). The Seljuq sultan Ghiyath al-Din Kaykhusraw II (lines 25–36) is also addressed as al-sult.ān al-a‘z.am (Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p.19, line 25), sult.ān ‘ard. Allāh (ibid., p. 19, line 26), tāj Āl Saljūq (ibid., p. 19, line 28) and mawlā mulūk al-‘arab wa al‘ajam (ibid., p. 19, line 25). Similar honorifics referring to the same sultan are found on inscriptions of the time (for example, in the inscription above the entrance to the madrasa of Nur al-Din b. Jaja in Kırşehir from 671/1272: ‘Sult.ān al-a‘z.am [sic] shāhinshāh al-mu‘az.z.am mālik riqāb al-umam sayyid salāt.īn al-‘arab wa al-‘ajam sult.ān al-barr wa al-bah.rayn’. See Tarım, Kırşehir Tarihi Üzerinde Araştırmalar, p. 59. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 19, line 25. See Scott Redford, ‘The inscription of the Kırkgöz Hanı and the problem of textual transmission in Seljuk Anatolia’, Adalya 12 (2009), p. 348. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 19, line 25. For the numismatic evidence, see Diler, İlhanlar, İran Moğollarının Sikkeleri, pp.253–74. ‘al-Amīr Isfahsalār al-kabīr Nūr al-Dawla wa al-Dīn Jibrā’īl b. al-Amīr al-marh.ūm Bahā’ al-Dīn Jājā’ (İ., lines 51–61, here line 51). Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 21–49 (Arabic), pp. 105–36 (modern Turkish translation), İ., lines 75–369; for a Turkish summary, see ibid., pp. 94–5. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 49 (Arabic), pp. 119–20 (modern Turkish translation), İ., lines 368–77; for a Turkish summary, see ibid., pp. 95–6. The stipulations of K1 are similar (p. 74, lines 326–7), except that they state that once the line of the endower and his slaves comes to an end, the proceeds of the endowment should fall to the qadi of Kırşehir, and to the poor and destitute (fuqarā’ihim wa masākīnihim; K1, lines 326–43). This is fully in line with the so-called semi-public (or semi-family) waqf; see Yediyıldız, Institution du Vaqf au XVIIIe siècle en Turquie, pp. 23–5. ‘wa-sharat.a al-tawliya fī hādhā al-nis.f ayd.an li-nafsihi mā dāma fī qayd al-h.ayāt wa lahu bi-h.aqq al-tawliya al-nis.f min hādhā alnis.f wa huwa al-rub‘ al-kāmil min jamī‘ al-amlāk al-madhkūra ba‘da al-‘imāra wa ba‘dahu yakūn al-tawliya li-abnā’ihi wa abnā’ abnā’ihi bat.nan ba‘da batnin.’ Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 49–51 (Arabic), pp. 136–8 (modern Turkish translation), İ., lines pp.370–399; for a Turkish summary, see ibid., pp. 95–6. On Islamicate inheritance law, and waqf as one of the main ways to circumvent it, see J. Schacht and A. Layish, ‘Mīrāth’, EI2. Turkish scholars have been working on identifying the place names, names of quarters and bazaars that are mentioned in the deed with still extant buildings and quarters in modern-day Kırşehir. Mahmut Seyfeli, ‘Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu Nur el Din’in 1272 Tarihli Arapça-Moğolca Vakfiyesi’nde Geçen Kırşehir’e Ait Yer Adlarının Bugünkü Durumu Üzerine Bir İnceleme’, in Tuncer Gülensoy Armağanı (Kayseri, 1995), pp. 318–32; Ahmet Akşit, ‘Cacaoğlu Vakfiyesine Göre Kırşehir’de İskan ve Mahalleler’, in Semih Yalçın (ed.), 60. Yılına ilim ve Fikir Adamı Prof. Dr. Kâzım Yaşar Kopraman’a Armağan (Ankara, 2003), pp. 119–28. For a very thorough, condensed summary of the (historical) endowments and endowed properties, regardless of whether these are still extant or not, see Aynur Durukan, ‘Anadolu Selçuklu Sanatı Açısından Vakfiyelerin Önemi’, pp. 34–7. Zafer Bayburtluoğlu provides a useful list and table of buildings built or endowed by Nur al-Din, but its interpretation remains superficial, and fails to identify some of the individuals mentioned – ‘Abdallah al-Badawi, for example, to whom the khānaqāh in Eskişehir is dedicated, remains a mystery. Zafer Bayburtluoğlu, ‘Caca Oğlu Nureddin’in Vakfiyesi’nde Adı Geçen Yapılar’, Vakıflar Dergisi 25 (1995), pp. 5–8. For a study of ice houses, albeit in Iran, see Hemming Jorgensen, Ice Houses of Iran (Costa Mesa, CA, 2012). The following is based on Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, pp. 287–8, referring to all three deeds: İ., K1 and K2. On this madrasa, its surviving inscriptions, and documentation related to its endower, Nur al-Din b. Jaja, see Tarım, Kırşehir Tarihi, pp.58–74. When A.D. Mordtmann visited Kırşehir in 1858, he stated that the madrasa was being used as a depot for weapons. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 288. On the madrasa, see also Eyice, ‘Caca Bey Medresesi’, pp. 539–41. İhsan, ‘Eskişehir kitabeleri’, pp. 262–8; Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, p. 289. Tahsin Özgüç and Mahmud Akok, ‘Üç Selçuklu Abidesi, Dolay Han, Kesik Köprü Kervansarayı ve Han Camii’, Belleten 22, no 86 (1958), p. 256. Aydın Sayılı and Walter Ruben, ‘Türk Tarih Kurumu Adına Kırşehir’de Cacabey Medresesinde Yapılan Araştırmanın İlk Kısa Raporu’, Belleten 11, no 44 (1947), pp. 673–81; plates CXXXV-CXLIV. English version: ‘Preliminary report on the results of the

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84 85 86



87

excavation, made under the auspices of the Turkish Historical Society, in the Caca Bey Madrasa of Kırşehir, Turkey’, Belleten 11, no 44 (1947), pp. 682–4. The surviving caravanserai at Kesikköprü, or the plan to build it, is not mentioned in the endowment deed, and this may be due to the fact that this part of the deeds is missing. Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, İ., lines 368–77, p. 49 (Arabic), pp. 119–20 (modern Turkish translation); for a Turkish summary, see ibid., pp. 95–6. See Fig.17.1, which I owe special thanks to Salam Rassi for preparing. On the surviving caravanserai at Kesikköprü, see Özgüç and Akok, ‘Üç Selçuklu Abidesi’, pp. 251–9. On Samaghar Noyan, see Ahmed Temir, ‘Anadolu’da İlhanlı valilerinden Samag.ar-noyan’, in Fuad Köprülü Armağanı (Istanbul, 1953), pp.495–500. On a 13-line Persian poem on Samaghar by Sultan Veled, see Mehmet Fuad Köprülü, Türk Dili ve Edebiyatı Hakkında Araştırmalar (Istanbul, 1934), p. 171. Paul, ‘Mongol aristocrats and beyliks in Anatolia,’ p. 153.

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18 The Mongol puppet lords and the Qarawnas Michele Bernardini

T

he Qarawnas represent a puzzling human element in the history of Iran, Central Asia and India during the thirteenth and the fourteenth centuries. Their origins, their name, and the first evidence concerning them have been the subjects of much debate among scholars,1 who have established a chronology and described – up to a point – their role in the Mongol empire. However, some points remain obscure, such as the Qarawnas’ conversion to Islam and their previous religion, their society and their ambition to create a state during the fourteenth century. Here I do not wish to revisit the question of their name and origins, which Aubin argued lay in the Mongol sarh.add-i Hindūstān or ‘frontier of India’, as is suggested by their name (meaning ‘blackish’),2 and the fact that they were also called Negüderi for the role they played in the army of Negüder, a Mongol general based on the northern frontiers of India during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.3 Recent work by Grupper concerning the keshig institution and the role played in it by the Qarawnas has suggested new directions for research,4 and stimulates further consideration of the formation of a Qarawnas kingdom (1346–70) and this kingdom’s legacy in the genesis of the Timurid emirate. Danishmandche, first puppet lord

Baktut, the Qarawnas leader, is said to have led them out of the Ilkhanate orbit to the Chaghatayid dissident prince, Yasa’ur, but he did not survive long.5 Both Baktut and Yasa’ur were killed in 1320 by the army of Kebeg, the Chaghatayid Khan, but the Qarawnas – or — 169 —

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‘most of them’ – became from this time part of the Ulus Chaghatai, which assumed a new shape during the reigns of Tarmashirin Khan (1326–34) and Qazan (1343–6). It could be argued that during the reign of Tarmashirin Khan, the Qarawnas adopted Islam en masse, as is suggested by the conversion of Burulday, and Tarmashirin Khan himself and the substantial change in the shape of the Chaghatayid dominions. These changes in the Chaghatai Khanate and the ensuing conflicts among the Chaghatayid house accelerated a process of independence for the western part of the Khanate and parts of eastern Khurasan. Qazan died in the year 747/1346–7 ‘when Timur [Tamerlane] was ten years old’7 and the new lord Qazaghan, who had killed Qazan, became lord of Ma wara’ al-nahr and all its provinces. Hafiz-i Abru justifies the inclusion of this reign in the Zubdat al-tawarikh in this way: ‘The beginning of this story, though preceding the history [of Tamerlane], is placed here to avoid the breaking of the chain of the discourse’ with the following events.8 Hafiz-i Abru goes on to describe the reign of Qazan, who was extremely arrogant, tyrannical, violent and oppressive. He destroyed the ancient families (khāndānhā-yi qadīm), suppressed the great amirs (umarā-yi buzurg) and exercised power in a tyrannical manner, rapidly earning him the populace’s hatred. Affairs of state were neglected, religion and state were injured, and Qazan fought with the majority of the amirs, as a result of which he sent a message to the amir Qazaghan pretending that he had been obliged to punish them. According to Hafiz-i Abru, Qazaghan was wiser than the other amirs, and decided to rebel. He consulted the amirs one by one, convincing them with these words: ‘If today we are not together in opposing him, he will gradually eliminate us one by one. Prudence and sound judgment suggest that we join together, and we will eradicate this perversion by fighting against him.’ All the amirs agreed with him and created an alliance against Qazan. Then they sought a commander (qūlī) of Chinggis Khan’s lineage who had converted to Islam to head the new state. As they could not find a suitable candidate from the line of Chaghatai, they chose Danishmandche b. Hindu b. Turkhan b. Malik b. Ögedei b. Chinggis Khan.9 The choice of Danishmandche represents a turning point in the formation of an independent state in Ma wara’ al-nahr. The use of a Mongol lord of the Ögedeid branch of Chinggis Khan’s family rather than one of Chaghatayid descent suggests a new attitude to Mongol power. This choice was justified by the absence of a good candidate among the Chaghatayids, in other words it was the consequence of internal rivalry between the amirs who supported Qazaghan. In any case, the election of a puppet lord is clearly connected with an accession ritual deriving from the practice of the keshig. In a certain sense, Qazaghan’s rebellion and the election of Danishmandche demonstrate that the Turko-Mongol confederations created a new model of post-Mongol state where the election of a Chinggisid lord represented not only a continuity with the ancient tradition, but also served as a cohesive element in an otherwise heterogeneous confederation. We could argue that Qazaghan was no more than primus inter pares in this phase. Hafiz-i Abru states that shortly after the nomination of Danishmandche, Qazaghan collected a large army and they engaged in a great battle with the army of Qazan in 745/1344–5. Qazaghan was wounded by an arrow in his eye, but his army remained united despite casualties, even receiving the defection of several amirs from the army of Qazan, who as a result lost his power in the region. In the year 747/1346–7, a second battle took place in which Qazan died.10 Subsequently, some of Qazan’s wives were captured by Qazaghan. Hafiz-i Abru mentions Turmish 6

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Khatun who was then married to the amir Muhammad Khwaja, and Saray Mulk Khatun – at this time ten years old – who became the wife of Qazaghan himself. Although his kingdom prospered, after the killing of Qazan, in 748/1347–8, Qazaghan decided to kill Danishmandche. Hafiz-i Abru considers this execution without reason (bī mawjib). Later Natanzi’s Muntakhab al-tawarikh, which erroneously places Danishmandche’s accession to the throne after the killing of Qazan, calls Danishmandche hopeless (bīchāra).11 According to Hafiz-i Abru and Natanzi, Danishmandche was killed because he was not of the line of Chaghatai and for this reason he was detested by the amirs, even though he was of royal pedigree through the Ögedeid line. Qazaghan understood that the kingdom therefore risked disturbances and sedition, and decided to select a candidate from the line of Chaghatai.12 Bayanquli and Temürshah ughlan, the second and the third puppet lords

Qazaghan’s choice fell on Bayanquli (or Buyanquli) Khan, son of Surghudu Oghul son of Du’a Khan,13 a choice which was approved by all the army and the amirs.14 The beginnings of his rule were characterised by justice and equity, as Hafiz-i Abru attests, and there was no enmity in Ma wara’ al-nahr during his reign. He was especially pious and devoted to Islamic rituals. Meanwhile, the armies of Qazaghan were engaged in various campaigns in India, which was devastated by them during the year 749/1348–9 and again subsequently.15 These years also witnessed the conflicts over Herat so well described by Jean Aubin,16 which eventually led to the incorporation of this region in the ‘sphère d’influence’ of the Chaghatayid Khanate.17 Bayanquli participated in the war together with the other amirs.18 In this respect, Bayanquli seems to have played a more important role in the kingdom of Qazaghan than his predecessor Danishmandche. In the year 760/1358–9 the amir Qazaghan was murdered in the Kingdom of Ma wara’ alnahr by an antagonist from the same Qarawnas milieu, Burulday’s son19 Qutlughtemür, a chief of one hazāra (1,000 soldiers), and brother of Tawakkul Aqa who was one of Qazaghan’s wives.20 Qutlughtemür was killed shortly afterwards by the army of Qazaghan near Qunduz, having failed to obtain the command of the troops of Burulday to which he laid claim (759/1357–8).21 Qazaghan’s son and successor, ‘Abdallah, reached Samarqand and initially confirmed Bayanquli on the throne. Suddenly in the same year, 759, accusing Bayanquli of conspiring against him, he murdered him. Bayanquli was buried in Bukhara near the tomb of the Shaykh Sayf al-Din Bakharzi and ‘Abdallah enthroned Temürshah Ughlan son of Baysun Temür Khan in his place.22 Sharaf al-Din ‘Ali Yazdi affirms that the killing of Bayanquli brought ill fortune on ‘Abdallah by provoking the reaction of various amirs. Amir Buyan Sulduz gathered an army and reached Kish, where he was joined by Hajji Barlas and his forces in an attack on ‘Abdallah. Defeated on the field of battle, ‘Abdallah fled while his brother and Temürshah were killed.23 - k al-tawa - ’if intermezzo The mulu .

The murder of Temürshah Ughlan, son of Baysun Temür Khan, was followed by a period of chaos, which is described by Natanzi as a time of ‘factional kings’ (mulūk al-t.awā’if ).24 In a chapter entitled ‘The emergence of the amirs in Ma wara’ al-nahr,’ Natanzi summarises the history of this — 171 —

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period. When Qazan, the ‘bloodthirsty sultan’, attained power, he began the elimination of the great amirs: ‘The amir Qazaghan, of the Qarawnas clan (az qawm-i qarāghūnās), was the lord of the towns of Munik and Saray. He rebelled against Qazan, and faced him in two battles, the second of which he won, killing the sultan [Qazan] and conquering the kingdom.’25 After Qazaghan, his son (‘Abdallah) held power for one year, after which the ‘factional kings’ (mulūk al-t.awā’if ) took over. Natanzi lists them with their leaders: the Sulduz tribe (qawm-i suldūz) was under the command of the amir Buyan; the Jalayir under the amir Bayazid; the armies of the regions of Kish and Nakhshab were under Hajji Barlas; the Yasa’ur tribe was commanded by the amir Khidr; the regions of Andkhuy and Shaburghan passed to Hamid Khwaja Nayman; and the sons of Qazaghan were settled in Kabul and Ghazna.26 As I have noted elsewhere,27 the Timurid sources furnish a very incomplete record of these events, which are described from the perspective of the rise to power of Tamerlane. Nevertheless, the outlines are clear: various tribes exercised control of Ma wara’ al-nahr through temporary agreements. For example, the alliance between the Sulduz and Barlas tribes resulted in the conquest of Samarqand after the death of ‘Abdallah in 760/1358–9. According to the sources, the negligence of Buyan Sulduz in governance was one of the reasons for the resulting anarchy in the region. We should note here that neither the Sulduz nor the Barlas, nor the other amirs of the region, adopted a Mongol puppet lord to legitimate their power. In fact Tamerlane’s decision to submit himself to Tughluq Temür after the first invasion of the area in 761/1360 is considered by later Timurid sources as an embryonic act of legitimation of future Timurid power,28 but it demonstrates Tamerlane’s weakness in this first phase. Tamerlane was invested by Tughluq Temür with the tuman of Qarachār in the area of Kish, and his renunciation of power in the region as a whole, justified by the Arab saying ‘if a people fight one another, their enemies will get the better of them’,29 is a clear declaration of his inability to control Ma wara’ al-nahr. Kabulshah Ughlan and ‘Adil Sultan, the fourth and fifth puppet kings

The agreement between Tamerlane, the amir Khidr and the Qarawnas amir Husayn represents a further demonstration of Tamerlane’s subordinate role in Ma wara’ al-nahr in this early period. At the time of the second invasion by the eastern Chaghatayid lord Tughluq Temür in 1361, Tamerlane and Khidr helped the amir Husayn to defeat the Sulduz tribe and later, to throw the same Tughluq Temür out of Ma wara’ al-nahr. After Tughluq Temür’s death in 765/1364, Amir Husayn attained power in the ulus through a great quriltay where he enthroned a Chaghatayid puppet lord, Kabulshah Ughlan, son of Durji son of Iljigidey son of Du’a Khan.30 This act demonstrates a conscious link with the older tradition and shows clearly the hegemonic role played by the old Qarawnas keshig in the power structures of Ma wara’ al-nahr. Yazdi describes the quriltay as a consequence of the conquest of Ma wara’ al-nahr and the expulsion of the Chaghatayids, whom he calls jata (plunderers), using this derogatory term to distinguish them from the invaders of Tughluq Temür’s time. Drawing on the same ritual as previous enthronements, ‘Amir Husayn and the S.āh.ib-qirān [Tamerlane], after a consultation, agreed on the choice of a khan from the Chaghatayid house (az nasl-i chaghatāy), and during the quriltay they decided together with the amirs and the noyans on Kabulshah Ughlan who was living on his own in poverty as a dervish, and was led to the assembly for the occasion and cloaked in a robe of honour.’31 — 172 —

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Who was Kabulshah? Shami and Yazdi mention him only on the occasion of the quriltay of 765/1364 and in a previous list of Chaghatayid lords.32 Kabulshah’s poverty at the time of his enthronement was probably because he was not living in the Chaghatayid milieu. Natanzi adds that he was a hermit (abdāl ), with the temperament of a qalandar, charming and gentle (malīh., lat.īf ). He was a poet and his poems were well known. According to Natanzi, Husayn drew him ‘from the crowd of the poor/ascetic people’ (az zumra-i ahl-i faqr) and placed him on the throne of the sultanate. His temperament worked against him, however, provoking jealousy and attracting the hostility of the same Amir Husayn, who killed him after a reign of one year and four months (around 766/1366).33 The history of ‘Adil Sultan, Kabulshah’s successor, is more complex and presents various problems, starting with his origins. While Natanzi mentions him as the son of Kabulshah,34 Shami and Yazdi call him ‘Adil Sultan son of Muhammad Khan35 son of Pulad oghul son of Kunjak Khan son of Du’a Khan.36 Natanzi describes him as an extremely haughty (mukhtāl ) person, continually at loggerheads with Amir Husayn. When Amir Husayn gained a bad reputation for the killing of Kabulshah, probably as a result of ‘Adil Sultan’s insinuations, he pretended that Kabulshah had not been killed. Amir Husayn always endured ‘Adil Sultan patiently and, when he acted dishonestly, he never opposed him. They reigned together over the Qarawnas for five years (766/1366–771/1370) and finally, when Tamerlane killed Amir Husayn, ‘Adil Sultan was also killed.37 Yazdi mentions a letter written by ‘Adil Sultan, who was ‘his’ khan (that is, that of Amir Husayn) in this period, in which he secretly proposed to Tamerlane a treacherous agreement.38 Then he describes the flight of ‘Adil Sultan because he was suspected by Amir Husayn. ‘Adil Sultan reached Kish where Tamerlane caught up with him and took him prisoner, sending him to Amir Husayn.39 Suyurghatmish Khan and Sultan Mahmud, sixth and seventh puppet lords of the ulus at the time of Tamerlane’s emirate

Tamerlane’s emergence as amir of the ulus Chaghatay in Balkh in 771/1370 was preceded by the enthronement of Suyurghatmish Khan, son of Danishmandche, marking the re-establishment of the Ögedeid branch over the Chaghatayid ulus. The choice of Suyurghatmish was clearly a result of the amirs’ antagonism to ‘Adil Sultan, which was still alive at the time of Tamerlane’s rise to power. Yazdi and Shami insert the episode before the final clash between Tamerlane and Sultan Husayn. Shami affirms that a reign which lacks the divine shadow of a sovereign will find neither political order (siyāsat), nor justice (‘adālat). When a king is devoid of high rank, chaos in his kingdom will be complete. Shami here alludes to the House of Israel, which when governed by Joshua needed divine intervention to fight against the infidels (the reference is to Qur’an 2:246).40 In a sense, Tamerlane is represented as a sort of atabeg, a title used explicitly in other sources hostile to him.41 After a meeting with the noyans and the amirs, Suyurghatmish was elected at a place named Arpuz near Balkh and a great feast was held (12 Ramadan 771/10 April 1370).42 After the elimination of Amir Husayn, Suyurghatmish appears on various occasions as a member of Tamerlane’s war machine. During the first campaign against Khwarazm of Ramadan 774/February–March 1373, he personally (ba-nafs-i khwud ) repelled with an arrow the attack of a Khwarazmian officer, Big Khwaja.43 As with the other puppet lords, Suyurghatmish’s personality — 173 —

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is best described by Natanzi, who also confirms his enthronement but dates it in 772/1370–1. According to Natanzi he reigned 17 (sic) years till 786/1384–5 when he died of natural causes. In fact Natanzi’s error can be explained by the fact that his name was mentioned for three more years in the khut.ba and on coinage.44 Moreover, Shami and Yazdi add that when Tamerlane was in Khwarazm for his fifth campaign in this region (789/1387–790/1388), Suyurghatmish became ill in Bukhara and died. According to Yazdi he was buried in the area of Kish, near Qubaqan Yaghach, leaving his throne empty.45 The chroniclers add that just after his return from Khwarazm, Tamerlane proclaimed a great quriltay where the noyans, the amirs and the arkān-i dawlat, after commemorating Suyurghatmish, unanimously elected his son Ghiyath al-Haqq wa ’l-Din Sultan Mahmud and started to mention his name in the khut.ba and on the coinage (790/1388).46 Sultan Mahmud participated in various campaigns of Tamerlane. We find him in the Dasht-i Qipchaq fighting against Toqtamish Khan in 798/1395,47 and in the Indian campaign of 800/1398–801/1399, at the start of which he was symbolically enthroned in Kabul in the month of Dhu’l-Hijja 800/August 1398.48 He headed the left wing of the army in various battles, in Bathnair49 and near Dehli.50 He played a special role in the battle of Ankara against the Ottoman army, personally capturing Sultan Bayazid I.51 Natanzi reports that he died in 805/1403 of natural causes, and he had a son Abu Sa‘id, still alive at the time of the compilation of the Muntakhab al-tawarikh, but unknown in other sources. Some concluding remarks

During the turbulent period that followed the death of Tamerlane, the puppet lords from the Chaghatayid or Ögedeid lines survived until a radical change took place under Shahrukh. Beatrice Forbes Manz has clearly explained the transition to the reign of Shahrukh, who in 813/1411 declared the abrogation of the yasa and reinstated the sharia.52 The keshig, which was a ‘submerged’ institution, rarely mentioned in the post-Mongol Persian sources that prefer circumlocutions instead, as Melville and Subtelny have underlined,53 lost its raison d’être in this new phase. We can exclude in this late period the continuation of a practice that was the consequence of the intertribal relations established at the time of the Qarawnas. In fact, after 1405, this ethnic and social group continued to play a secondary role until 830/1426–7,54 when the Qarawnas disappeared from the history of Central Asia. We can assume that the role of these puppet lords was restricted to a period of about 70 years stretching from the 1340s to 1403 when Mahmud b. Suyurghatmish presumably died. As we have seen, these puppet lords had quite distinct personalities and they played various roles during their reigns. We have called them ‘puppet lords’ because in all their reigns they played a marginal role in the politics of the amirs who dominated the Qarawnas and then the Timurid state. Nevertheless, their presence helped legitimise these kingdoms and, if some of them seem to have been reluctant to play any political role (such as the ‘qalandar’ Kabulshah), others were deeply involved in court intrigue, like Bayanquli and Sultan ‘Adil, and were feared by their nominal subjects like Amir Husayn. An important aspect of the role played by these lords can be identified in the continuation of the Qarawnas state system during Timurid times, marking the abandonment of the Chaghatayid legacy. In fact, the later Timurid damnatio memoriae of all Qarawnas history was unable to — 174 —

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hide the continuity in intertribal relations to which Tamerlane himself remained very attentive. Tamerlane understood the importance of these Ögedeid lords for his anti-Chaghatayid programme, expressed through propaganda against the ‘Jata’ state of Moghulistan. Rivalry with some of the former followers of Amir Husayn’s Qarawnas also underlay the promotion of the Ögedeids. The ‘purity’ of the Ögedeid line was used as an argument to defend the cohesion of the state. Later Tamerlane paid a great deal of attention to the symbolic role of these puppet lords in the army, using them to demonstrate his ‘Mongol’ power outside the borders of the Chaghatayid ulus, as the figure of Mahmud Sultan clearly demonstrates in India and in Anatolia. Notes







1 See Jean Aubin, ‘L’ethnogénèse des Qaraunas’, Turcica 1 (1969), pp. 65–94; and the refutation of this article by Hirotoshi Shimo, ‘The Qarāūnās in the historical materials of the Ilkhanate’, Memoirs of the Research Department of the Toyo Bunko 35 (1977), pp. 131–81. 2 Aubin, ‘L’ethnogénèse des Qaraunas’, p. 67. 3 Ibid., p.85. 4 S.M. Grupper, ‘A Barulas family narrative in the Yuan Shih: some neglected prosopographical and institutional sources on Timurid origins’, Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi 7 (1992–4), pp. 11–97, here p. 59. On the keshig institution, see also Charles Melville, ‘The Keshig in Iran: the survival of the royal household’, in L. Komaroff (ed.), Beyond the Legacy of Genghis Khan (Leiden, 2006), pp.135–64, and M.A. Subtelny, Timurids in Transition (Leiden, 2007), pp. 18–24. On Baktut, see Hafiz-i Abru, Dhayl-i Jami‘ al-tawarikh-i rashidi, ed. Khanbaba Bayani (Tehran, 1317/1938) pp. 73–7, 91–113. 5 Grupper, ‘A Barulas family narrative’, p. 59; Beatrice F. Manz, The Rise and Rule of Tamerlane (Cambridge, 1989), p. 25, n. 22; Aubin, ‘L’ethnogénèse des Qaraunas’, p. 90; Shimo, ‘The Qarāūnās’, p. 180. 6 Manz, Rise and Rule, p. 25. See also on this period, Beatrice F. Manz, ‘The Ulus Chaghatay before and after Temür’s rise to power: the transformation from tribal confederation to army of conquest’, Central Asiatic Journal 27 (1983), pp. 82–3. . 7 Nizam al-Din Shami, Z.afarnāma par Niz.āmuddīn Šāmī, avec les additions empruntées au Zubdatu-t-tawārīh-i Baysungūrī de H . āfiz.-i Abrū, vol.1, Texte persan du Z.afarnāma (Prague, 1937); vol. 2, Introduction, commentaire, index, ed. Felix Tauer (Prague, 1956), p. 6; Sharaf al-Din ‘Ali Yazdi, Zafarnama, ed. Muhammad ‘Abbasi (Tehran, 1336/1958), vol. 1, p.22. 8 Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 2, p.6. 9 Ibid., vol.2, p.7; see also ‘Abd al-Razzaq Samarqandi, Matla‘-i Sa‘dayn wa Majma‘-i Bahrayn, ed. ‘Abd al-Husayn Nava’i (Tehran, . 1372/1993), p.240 and Aubin, ‘Le Khanat de Čagatay et le Khorassan (1334–1380)’, Turkica 8 (1976), p. 34. 10 Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 2, pp. 8–9; ‘Abd al-Razzaq Samarqandi, Matla‘-i Sa‘dayn, p. 242, Mu‘in al-Din Natanzi, Muntakhab altawarikh-i Mu‘ini, ed. Jean Aubin (Tehran, 1336/1957), p. 197. 11 Natanzi, Muntakhab al-tawarikh, p. 113. 12 Ibid., p.199. 13 Yazdi, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 22; Khwandamir, Tarikh-i Habib al-siyar, ed. J. Huma’i (Tehran, 1333/1955), vol. 3, p. 92. 14 Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 2, p. 10. 15 Manz, Rise and Rule, p. 44. P. Jackson, ‘The Mongols and the Delhi Sultanate in the reign of Muh.ammad Tughluq’, Central Asiatic Journal 19, nos 1–2 (1975), p. 151. . 16 Aubin, ‘Le Khanat de Čagatay’, p. 34. Aubin rightly draws attention to the sentence ‘tāzhikī rā chih rāh ān bāshad kih da‘wā’ī salt.anat kunad?’ (How could a Tazhik pretend to the sultanate?) (Yazdi, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 25; Hafiz-i Abru, Cinq opuscules de Háfiz-i Abrú, ed. F. Tauer (Prague, 1959), p. 38), describing it as ‘Le mot tipique par lequel il comdamna les prétentions du Malik [de . Herat] […] Lui-même [Qazaghan], n’était pas de sang, avait mis sur le trône au Čagatai un prince Ögödeïde, Dānišmendči, qu’il . remplaça bientôt par un čagataïde, Buyan-qulī Hān’. 17 Ibid., p.37. 18 Yazdi, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 25: ‘amīr Qazaghan dar rikāb-i Buyānqulī khān ravān shud’. 19 Yazdi, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 29. 20 Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 2, p. 11. 21 Ibid., vol.1, p.30. Manz, Rise and Rule, p. 44; Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 2, p. 11. 22 Yazdi, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 30. 23 Ibid., vol.1, p.31. 24 Natanzi, Muntakhab al-tawarikh, p. 197. 25 Ibid. 26 Ibid., pp.197–294. 27 For other sources on this period, see Michele Bernardini, ‘À propos du vat.an timouride’, Eurasian Studies 6, no 1–2 (2006), pp.55–67, esp. pp. 59–62, and idem, ‘La prise du pouvoir dans l’ulus Chaghatay’, in M.-Fr. Auzépy et G. Saint-Guillain (eds), Oralité et lien social au Moyen Âge (Occident, Byzance, Islam): parole donnée, foi jurée, serment (Paris, 2008), pp. 138–40. See also Manz, ‘The transformation from tribe to confederation’, pp. 83–4. 28 See Bernardini, ‘La prise du pouvoir dans l’ulus Chaghatay’, pp. 140–1. 29 Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 16.

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30 31 32 33



34 35 36 37 38 39 40



41



42 43 44 45 46 47 48



49 50 51



52 53 54

Ibid., vol.1, p. 27; Yazdi, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 73. Yazdi, Zafarnama, vol. 1, pp. 73–4. Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 14; Sharaf al-Din ‘Ali Yazdi, Zafarnama, ed. A. Urunbayev (Tashkent, 1972), f. 81b. Natanzi, Muntakhab al-tawarikh, pp. 114, 129. On the line of Iljigidey and Kabulshah, see Shiro Ando, Timuridische Emire nach dem Mu‘izz al-ansāb (Berlin, 1992) pp. 88–9. Natanzi, Muntakhab al-tawarikh, p. 129. Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 14. Yazdi, Zafarnama, ed. Urunbayev, f. 81b. Natanzi, Muntakhab al-tawarikh, p. 129. Yazdi, Zafarnama, ed. ‘Abbasi, vol. 1, p. 138. Ibid., vol.1, p. 142. Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 54. See also Michele Bernardini, ‘Il colpo di Stato di Timur a Balh nel 1370’, Oriente Moderno, 24 (85), nos 2–3 (2005), p. 319. Ibn al-Furat, Ta’rikh Ibn al-Furat, vol. 9/1, ed. Costi K. Zuryak, Nejla Izzeddin (Beirut, 1936), pp. 7, 9; see also John E. Woods, ‘Timur’s genealogy’ in Michael Mazzaoui and Vera Basch Moreen (eds), Intellectual Studies in Islam. Essays Written in Honor of Martin Dickson (Salt Lake City, UT, 1999), p. 102; and Michele Bernardini, Mémoire et propagande à l’époque timouride (Paris, 2008), p.52. Yazdi, Zafarnama, ed. ‘Abbasi, vol. 1, p. 258. Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 67. Natanzi, Muntakhab al-tawarikh, pp. 129–30. Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 1, pp. 110–11; Yazdi, Zafarnama, ed. ‘Abbasi, vol. 1, p. 330. Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 1, pp. 111–12. Ibid., vol.1, p. 161. Ghiyath al-Din ‘Ali Yazdi, Sa‘adatnama ya Ruznama-i Ghazawat-i Hindustan, ed. I. Afshar (Tehran, 1379/2000), pp. 65–6; Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 1, p. 171. Shami, Zafarnama, vol. 1, pp. 185–6. Ghiyath al-Din ‘Ali Yazdi, Sa‘adatnama, p. 112. Yazdi, Zafarnama, vol. 2, p. 314. The capture of Bayazid by Sultan Mahmud b. Suyurghatmish is confirmed by Natanzi, Muntakhab al-tawarikh, p. 115. Beatrice Forbes Manz, Power, Politics and Religion in Timurid Iran (Cambridge, 2007), p. 28. Melville, ‘The Keshig in Iran’, pp. 140–1; Subtelny, Timurids in Transition, p. 21. Manz, Rise and Rule, p. 161, n. 105.

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19 Remarks on steppe nomads and merchants Thomas T. Allsen

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eneralisations about relations between steppe peoples and long-distance merchants tend to concentrate on periods when the nomads were in an expansive mode, the eras of the Xiongnu, Türk and Mongols. In this essay I will shift attention to a period of political fragmentation in the steppe, c.1400–1750, in a search for a different perspective on this age-old relationship. Sources for the study of this problem are many and varied, but the Russian materials are highlighted here. Most helpful are the commercial tax registers (tamozhennye knigi) and the archives of the Ambassadorial Department (Posol’skii prikaz), which provide much detailed, often first-hand, information on nomads and merchants in the post-Mongolian era.1 Publication of these documents began in the nineteenth century and new volumes continue to appear. Even unpublished material is available indirectly in the works of Russian and Soviet scholars, some in the form of verbatim excerpts. *

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By 1400 the Golden Horde, the longest lived of the Chinggisid khanates, was rapidly disintegrating. In the following century it devolved into a series of successor states – the Crimean Tatars, the Great Horde on the lower Volga, the Noghais on the Ural/Yaik River, the khanates of Tiumen and Sibir east of the Urals and the three Kazakh Hordes in the central steppe. The eastern steppe was similarly fragmented, divided into contending polities centred in southern, northern and western Mongolia (Jungaria). — 177 —

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The political structures the Russians encountered along their steppe frontier ranged from the decentralised, the Kazakhs, to the well integrated, the Jungar Khanate formed by Oirats. But whatever their level of political integration, all these post-imperial formations had one common concern – trade. The reason for this preoccupation is dramatically conveyed in a letter written around 1551 by the Noghai prince Izmail to his brother Iusup, who was urging hostilities with Russia: ‘Your people go to trade in Bukhara and mine go to Moscow; but were I to war with Moscow, then I myself would go about naked and there would be nothing to sow shrouds for the dead.’2 Because of their need for goods from the sown, steppe states often took the initiative in seeking out new commercial partners. The Oirats, for example, sent out a trade mission in the 1630s that visited China, the Kazakh Hordes, Bukhara, Samarkand, Tashkent and the Türkmen country.3 Such initiatives were common, too, among smaller polities. In 1556 the ruler of Tiumen sent an envoy to Moscow inquiring ‘about peace and trade’.4 And the ‘Altan Khans’, a line of petty princes in north-western Mongolia, had even greater aspirations; in their initial negotiations with the Russians they made the usual request for trade rights and later requested permission to send their envoys from Moscow to trade ‘with the Ottoman sultan and the Persians’. As Shastina correctly surmised, the surprisingly wide commercial horizons of this minor ruler in the heart of Asia are due to Bukharan merchants in the region, the ‘Bukhartsy’ of the Russian records.5 *

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In the course of their century-long expansion to the Pacific, the Russians encountered Bukhartsy everywhere. At the conquest of Kazan in 1552, which triggered their expansion, Bukharans were prominent among the 5,000 merchants trapped within the besieged city.6 When the Russians crossed the Urals in 1582 they immediately came into conflict with the Khanate of Sibir, which had intimate ties to Bukhara.7 In the following decades, the Kazakhs and Oirats made their initial commercial overtures to Russia through Bukharan intermediaries.8 And when they reached East Asia, Ivan Petlin, the first Russian envoy to China in 1619, found Bukhartsy in Mongolia and along the Great Wall.9 Bukharans formed a number of diaspora communities in Inner Asia, including several in western Siberia where they served the Russian government as trade agents. Called resident (iurtovskie) Bukhartsy, they were legally distinguished from the visiting (priezzhie) Bukhartsy coming temporarily for trade.10 The latter, it appears, often travelled with families. According to Russian records, a Jungar caravan that arrived in Irkutsk in 1686 was composed of the following: ‘Trading people of Bukhara, 15 men, 3 wives, 3 children and 130 camels.’11 This, I think, says something useful about the genesis of trading diasporas and the training of merchants. Although not formally defined in our sources, it is clear that Bukhartsy was a very elastic term, one explained by Russian geographical nomenclature of the era. In their usage, Great Bukhara designated West Turkestan and Little Bukhara, East Turkestan. Thus, Kazakhs secured their ‘Bukhartsy’ from Sygnak and towns along the Syr Darya, while Oirats recruited theirs from Yarkand and cities in the Tarim. In one case, one of these ‘Bukhartsy’ interrogated by Siberian officials in 1745 turned out to be ‘a Persian by birth’.12 The term, then, is best understood as the — 178 —

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generic Russian designation for Muslim merchants operating in and around the steppe. As such, Bukhartsy is the close equivalent of the earlier Sart, Tat and Tajik. The Bukhartsy performed many vital services for the nomads and did so for both the Muslim, Turkic-speaking peoples in the central and western steppe, and for the Buddhist, Mongolian-speaking Oirat in the east.13 As their primary commercial agents, they obtained prestige and consumer goods from the sown so essential in the political economy of steppe polities. These nomads could neither produce for themselves nor acquire economically since they lacked the necessary skills to operate effectively in the marketplace. This is spelled out in a report Major General Bouver submitted to Catherine the Great around 1790 on conditions in the Middle Horde in which he states that the Kazakhs are constantly cheated and swindled by traders and government officials and frequently blamed for thefts from bazaars and caravans.14 Unaccustomed to the ways of the market, nomads sought, whenever possible, professional representation. *

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Such representation had a further advantage; long-distance merchants, typically literate adherents of world religions, provided the nomads with a recognisable ‘civilised’ face in their dealings with the sedentary world. Consequently, it is hardly surprising that merchants assumed prominent political roles in nomadic states. This was certainly so under the Mongols. Even before the formation of the Empire in 1206, Chinggis Khan had Muslim merchant followers, some of whom were employed as diplomats, a practice continued by all the Empire’s nomadic successors. The Russian sources are quite informative about the backgrounds of these envoys: most are called Bukhartsy or tezik, the Russian form of Tajik, and even when not so identified, their names (Asan, Iusup) and honorifics (mulla, khodzha) tell us they are Muslims.15 These same documents further attest that nomadic rulers regularly dispatched them to both Muslim and non-Muslim lands.16 One mission is particularly striking: in 1747 the newly enthroned Jungar ruler Tsewang Dorje asked the Qing emperor Qianlong permission to send his representatives, which included a contingent of merchants, across Chinese territory to visit the holy places of Lhasa and there offer prayers and sacrifices on behalf of his recently deceased predecessor. The details of their itinerary were negotiated in Beijing by an Oirat envoy named Mahmud who then personally led this large, yearlong Buddhist pilgrimage to Tibet.17 The reasons why merchants often assumed diplomatic roles are fairly obvious. Firstly, their linguistic and negotiating abilities well qualified them for the job. Secondly, they had ample opportunity to prove their loyalty to a nomadic ruler through commercial undertakings on his behalf. Lastly, in Russia and China sanctioned diplomatic embassies were also commercial missions, allowed to conduct trade on very advantageous terms: they had access to the capital, not just frontier towns, paid no duties and received generous travel allowances from the host court. In Russia, moreover, these privileges were extended to the so-called state caravans (kazennyi karavan) carrying goods of foreign rulers.18 Such advantages, of course, were a great attraction to private merchants who often used their political connections to attach themselves to embassies.19 But this practice was by no — 179 —

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means limited to individuals: in 1745 an Oirat state caravan arrived at a Russian outpost on the upper Irtysh which, according to the official declaration, consisted of ‘450 Bukhartsy, 1300 pack camels, including 30 camels with goods of their ruler’.20 In this instance, obviously, the majority of the Bukhartsy were private merchants hitching a free ride. Not surprisingly, as Zlatkin points out, almost every Oirat embassy entering Russia, and there were many, contained Muslim ‘envoy/merchants’.21 Commercial exchange under these conditions was extremely expensive for the Russians, but as Olearius, travelling the Volga in the mid-1630s, fully understood, the tsarist court lavishly supported and rewarded Tatar embassies ‘to buy peace’.22 For the tsars this was a face-saving device and for the Tatars a continuation, in another form, of the tribute (dan’) Moscovite princes formerly paid the Golden Horde. *

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To this point, we have focused on merchants’ external services, their role as mediators with the outside world; we now turn to their primary internal function, the operation of the camp market. Already in 1253 Rubruck noticed that the itinerant court of Batu, first ruler of the Golden Horde, was ‘always followed by a market [ forum]’.23 In later centuries, the Russians called such mobile markets ordobazar/ardobazar and their personnel ordobazarets, pl. ordobazariane.24 The institution, however, was not unique to the western steppe; a Chinese decree issued under the great khan Ögedei in 1233 makes reference to the woludo shangfanhuihuiren, the first element of which is a transcription of the Mongolian ordo, ‘royal camp’, and the second a translation, ‘trading Muslims’, of the Mongolian bedzirget, from Persian bāzargān, ‘merchants’.25 The Slavic ordobazarets, ‘camp merchant’, is therefore a close semantic equivalent of this earlier East Asian term, while the institution itself certainly dates back to the beginnings of the Empire and very likely long before. There are no descriptions of the layout or workings of the ordobazar in the Russian accounts, but the Italian merchants, Barbaro and Contarini, who visited the travelling camp of Uzun Hasan, ruler of the Aqqoyunlu in the mid-1470s, speak of the large number of ‘victuallers’ selling food and drink at elevated prices and the temporary bazaars set up at every stop ‘by those who are detailed to follow the camp with provisions’.26 This, of course, was their essential function everywhere: to supply food to the ordo, a vital service because a nomadic ruler on his annual rounds was always accompanied by hordes of people not directly engaged in pastoral production – members of the royal family, personal servants, government officials, guardsmen, spiritual advisors, artisans and the like. In establishing the functions of the ordobazar, it is significant that many Russian references to this institution are connected with military operations. In fact, the first Russian mention, from 1380, comes in accounts of the civil war between the Golden Horde khan Toqtamysh and his rival, Mamai. At the end of their climactic battle the triumphant Khan, we are told, ‘seized Mamai’s camp, his wives, treasuries, markets [ordobazary], his people and his riches – gold, silver, pearls and precious gems’.27 Obviously, the ordobazar went to war, during which time it served as a kind of Kriegskommissariat and became thereby a frequent target of attack. — 180 —

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The allusion to treasuries, gold and silver suggests further that these markets were home to royal minters, particularly since a number of Jochid coins from the later period were issued in ‘Ordobazar’. The question of where they were struck, in a camp market or in an as yet unidentified locale called Ordobazar, has long been debated.28 Numismatists will have the final say but to me, the distribution of these coins, found scattered throughout the Jochid domains, and the mobile nature of the technology, favours the conclusion that some were minted on the move, in the camp market. Similarly, the ōrtobazar recorded in an Armenian source from 1329, generally understood as a place name, might also designate a mobile market.29 One final service can be mentioned, this one external – the camp market’s role in the sale of horses to the sedentary world. In the 1430s Barbaro speaks of the many horse coursers (mercandanti de cavalla) in the western steppe who export thousands of head to Persia every year.30 Muscovy, too, was a primary market: in 1551 the Russians imported 27,806 head and by 1588 well over 30,000.31 These figures, though elevated, are consistently reported and fully in keeping with those from Ming China, which record the purchase of 27,170 Mongolian ponies in 1573.32 The export of livestock became so identified with the camp merchants that the term ordobazarets took on the extended meaning of a trader in steppe horses and the annual drive to Moscow came to be called the camp–market herd (ordobazarnaia stanitsa). While the Noghais and Volga Kalmyks (westernmost Oirats) provided the bulk of the animals, their drives, along a fixed camp–market road (ordobazarnaia doroga), sometimes included Indian and Bukharan merchants taking smaller numbers to market.33 The Russians’ frequent contact with the camp merchants, mainly Muslims judging by their names, generated considerable animosity. Some hostility can be attributed to religious differences, but there were also other specific causes that are most revealing. Russian complaints that ordobazartsy were arrogant and corrupt on home ground affirms that they were well connected and close to the ruler, and the equally bitter complaints about their high-handed behaviour on Russian territory implies that they enjoyed a protected status while abroad.34 These topics, like many others connected with this institution, await and deserve further study. *

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The data assembled here supports the following conclusions: – Long-distance merchants were embedded in all steppe polities, whatever their size or level of development. – Merchants were instrumental in the operation of the nomads’ complex political economy. They procured goods from the outside world that steppe rulers bestowed on followers, a redistributive process dominated by political calculation, as well as goods sold in the ordobazar, a marketplace dominated by economic calculation. – Merchants commonly managed the nomad’s commercial-political relations with sedentary states and became, in consequence, influential advisors and administrators. This same body of sources will also prove helpful in addressing a series of important and unresolved questions concerning trans-Eurasian exchange in the pre-machine age: – Did nomadic states ‘piggyback’ on pre-existing commercial systems or did they create new ones? In other words, to what extent were nomadic states and trade networks co-terminous? — 181 —

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– Did merchants simply adapt themselves to expanding nomadic states or were they, as some argue, the principal architects of steppe empires?35 – How did Islam’s central role in trans-Eurasian exchange come to an end? The decline of their commercial networks in maritime Asia has been subject to extended investigation and debate.36 Not so the end of their predominance on the overland routes. In order to understand this transition, it will be necessary to exploit the records Russians so carefully kept of their own involvement in this centuries-long process. Notes





1 N.M. Rogozhin, ‘Posolski books as a source in the study of political relations of Russia with peoples and countries of the Orient’, in Barbara Kellner-Heinkele (ed.), Altaica Berolinensia (Wiesbaden, 1993), pp. 191–208. 2 S.M. Solov’ev, Istoriia Rossii s drevneishikh vremen (St. Petersburg, 1896 [?]), kn. II, p. 92. 3 M.I. Gol’man and G.I. Slesarchuk (eds), Russko-mongol’skie otnosheniia 1636–1654: Sbornik dokumentov (Moscow, 1974), p.260. 4 N.M. Rogozhin, Posol’skie knigi Rossii kontsa XV-nachala XVII vv. (Moscow, 1994), p. 53. 5 N.P. Shastina, Russko-mongol’skie posol’skie otnosheniia XVII veka (Moscow, 1978), pp. 29–30 and pp. 55–6. 6 Kazanskaia istoriia, in Pamiatniki literatury drevnei Rusi, seredina XVI veka (Moscow, 1985), pp. 484–5. 7 Terence Armstrong (ed.), Yermak’s Campaign in Siberia: A Selection of Documents (London, 1975), pp. 40, 68, 104, 279 and 291. 8 B.P. Gurevich and G.F. Kim (eds), Mezhdunarodnye otnosheniia v Tsentral’noi Azii v XVII-XVIII vv.: Dokumenty i materialy (Moscow, 1989), vol. 1, pp. 69, 70. 9 N.F. Demidova and V.S. Miasnikov (eds), Pervye russkie diplomaty v Kitae (‘Rospis’ I. Petlin i stateinyi spisok F.I. Baikova) (Moscow, 1966), p.56. 10 Kh. Z. Ziiaev, Ekonomicheskie sviazi Srednei Azii s Sibir’iu v XVI-XIX vv. (Tashkent, 1983), 26 ff. and Audrey Burton, Bukharan Trade, 1558–1718 (Bloomington, IN, 1993), pp. 66–85. 11 G.I. Slesarchuk (ed.), Russko-mongol’skie otnosheniia 1685–1691: Sbornik dokumentov (Moscow, 2000), p. 70. 12 Gurevich and Kim, Mezhdunarodnye otnosheniia, vol. 2, p. 3. 13 For the latter, see Sh.B. Chimitdorzhiev, Vzaimootnosheniia Mongolii i Srednei Azii v XVII-XVIII vv. (Moscow, 1979), pp.26–30. 14 V.Ia. Basin, Rossiia i kazakhskie khanstva v XVI-XVIII (Alma-Ata, 1971), p. 247. 15 Gol’man and Slesarchuk, Russko-mongol’skie otnosheniia 1636–1654, p. 260. 16 I. Ia. Zlatkin, Istoriia dzhungarskogo khanstva 1635–1758 (Moscow, 1983), p. 164, 222–3, 232; Sh.B. Chimitdorzhiev, Vzaimootnosheniia Mongolii i Rossii XVII-XVIII vv. (Moscow, 1978), pp. 111, 122; G.I. Slesarchuk (ed.), Russko-mongolskie otnosheniia 1654–1685 (Moscow, 1996), pp. 18, 86; Gurevich and Kim, Mezhdunarodnye otnosheniia, vol. 1, 165–6; vol. 2, p.10; N.F. Demidova and V.S. Miasnikov (eds), Russko-kitaiskie otnosheniia v XVII veke: Materialy i dokumenty (Moscow, 1978), p.114. 17 Luciano Petech, China and Tibet in the Early XVIII Century (Leiden, 1972), pp. 199–202; A. Khodzhaev, ‘Torgovye sviazi mezhdu dzhungarskom khanstva i tsingskoi imperiei v 1744–1754’, in G.M. Iskhakov (ed.), Iz istorii mezhdunarodnykh otnoshenii v Tsentral’noi Azii (Alma-Ata, 1990), pp. 38–9. 18 M.B. Fekhner, Torgovlia russkogo gosudarstva so stranami Vostoka v XVI veke (Moscow, 1956), pp. 46–8; Ziiaev, Ekonomicheskie sviazi, pp.82, 85, 88 and 90; Hugh F. Graham (trans.), The Moscovia of Antonio Possevino, S.J. (Pittsburg, PA, 1977), p. 10. 19 For an example, see G.A. Sanin, Otnosheniia Rossii i Ukrainy s krymskim khanstvom v seredine XVII veka (Moscow, 1987), pp.196– 7. 20 Gurevich and Kim, Mezhdunarodnye otnosheniia, vol. 2, p. 10. 21 Zlatkin, Istoriia, p. 147. 22 Samuel H. Baron (trans.), The Travels of Olearius in Seventeenth Century Russia (Stanford, CA, 1967), p. 200. 23 Peter Jackson, trans. and David Morgan, ed., The Mission of Friar William of Rubruck (London, 1990), p. 135. 24 K.N. Serbina (ed.), Ustiuzhskii letopisnyi svod (Moscow, 1950), p. 94; Armstrong, Yermak’s Campaign, pp. 40, 45, 293. 25 Da Yuan ma zhengji (Guangcang xuejun congshu ed.), 29b. 26 Lord Stanley of Alderley (ed.), Travels to Tana and Persia by Josafa Barbaro and Ambrogio Contarini (London, 1873), pp. 64, 67, 132, 134. 27 This is found in several sources: L.A. Dmitriev and O.P. Likhacheva (eds), Skazaniia i povesti o Kulikovskoy bitve (Leningrad, 1982), pp.72, 197; Polnoe sobranie russkikh letopisei (Moscow, 2000), vol. 11, p. 69; and Sergei Zenkovsky (trans.), The Nikonian Chronicle (Princeton, NJ, 1986), vol. 3, p. 303. 28 See A. Pachkalov, ‘Monetnye dvory Zolotoi Ordy i ikh lokalizatsii’, Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi 13 (2004), pp. 152–7. 29 Avedis K. Sanjian (trans.), Colophons of Armenian Manuscripts, 1301–1480 (Cambridge, MA, 1969), pp. 68, 415. 30 Lord Stanley of Alderley, Travels to Tana and Persia, 20 and E.Ch. Skrzhinskaia (trans.), Barbaro i Kontarini o Rossii (Leningrad, 1971), pp.124–5, 149. 31 Fekhner, Torgovlia, p. 94–5; B.-A. Kochekaev, Nogaisko-russkie otnosheniia v XV-XVIII vv. (Alma-Ata, 1988), pp. 81–6; Giles Fletcher, Of the Russe Commonwealth (Cambridge, MA, 1966), 70v. 32 Henry Serruys, Sino-Mongol Relations during the Ming, vol. 3: Trade Relations; Horse Fairs (Bruxelles, 1973), pp. 212–23, especially 214.

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33 V.V. Trepavlov (ed.), Posol’skaia kniga po sviaziam Rossii s nogaiskoi ordoi (1576 god) (Moscow, 2003), pp. 15–16; K.A. Antonova et al. (eds), Russko-indiiskie otnosheniia v XVII v.: Sbornik dokumentov (Moscow, 1958), pp. 45, 96, 123; Demidova and Miasnikov, Russko-kitaiskie otnosheniia, vol. 1, p. 152. 34 Sbornik imperatorskago russkago istoricheskago obshchestva, vol.41, Pamiatniki diplomaticheskikh snoshenii moskovskago gosudarstva s krymskoiu i nogaiskoiu ordami i s Turtsiei s 1474 po 1505 god (St Petersburg, 1884), kn. 1, pp.47, 446; Trepavlov, Posol’skaia kniga, p.18. 35 For example, Omeljan Pritsak, The Origin of Rus’ (Cambridge, MA, 1981), vol. 1, 10 ff. 36 See Patricia Risso, Merchants and Faith: Muslim Commerce and Culture in the Indian Ocean (Boulder, CO, 1995), pp. 77 ff. and the literature cited there.

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20 Loyalty, betrayal and retribution: Biktash Khan, Ya‘qub Khan and Shah ‘Abbas I’s strategy in establishing control over Kirman, Yazd and Fars Rudi Matthee

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n the basis of the available source material, the study of the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I (1587–1629) neatly divides into two periods. The first runs from the time of the Shah’s accession and initial rise to power in 995/1587–996/1588 to the moment around 1015/1605 when he had completed a major portion of his domestic reforms; the second period begins at this point and ends with ‘Abbas’s death in 1038/early 1629.1 Written documentation for the first period mostly comes in the form of Persian-language court chronicles, compendia of events that record the activities of the Shah and his entourage in annalistic and rather formulaic fashion. The second period is covered by a much greater and more variegated array of sources. Court chronicles naturally cover the last three decades of Shah ‘Abbas’s reign as much as they narrate the earlier period, but modern scholars in addition have at their disposal a combination of several informative European travelogues as well as a plethora of commercial, diplomatic and ecclesiastical documents written by Western visitors and residents. These later sources have arguably played a preponderant role in constructing the image that this formidable ruler typically evokes in the modern mind, that of a wise and forward-looking king whose only real flaw was the tragic killing and blinding of his male offspring. This image goes back in part to contemporary European visitors, who, enjoying the Shah’s hospitality and seduced by his apparent affection for Christianity, portrayed him as a resolute and energetic monarch with a magnetic personality, as visionary as he was tolerant. To be sure, they did draw attention to the sanguinary beginnings of ‘Abbas’s reign, and their interaction with the Shah and his entourage opened their eyes to ‘Abbas’s mercurial personality and demeanour as well: — 184 —

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as they saw it, royal clemency could turn to royal terror at a moment’s notice, so that a gesture of generosity might segue into an act of unspeakable cruelty. Anthony Sherley, the well-known English adventurer-cum-diplomat who became personally acquainted with the Shah during the five months he spent in Iran in 1598–9, characterised ‘Abbas as ‘royall, wise, valiant, liberall, temperate, mercifull, and an exceeding louer of iustice’. Yet he qualified this encomium by insisting that the Safavid monarch ruled ‘through general loue and awfull terror’.2 John Cartwright, an English preacher who visited Iran a few years after Sherley, noted that ‘Abbas had come to power amid the ‘shedding of much blood’, yet concluded that at present he was ‘exceedingly belouved and honoured by his subiects, in so much that when they will confirme any thing by solemne oaths they will sweare by the head of Abas the king, and when they wish well to any man, they visually say, King Abas grant thee thy desire’.3 Over time, the cruel element was further pushed into the background, and what really stuck was the first part of the image – that of the magnanimous, ebullient and tolerant monarch bent on creating a glorious, centralised state worthy of the name ‘empire’. Within a few years after the Shah’s death in 1629, his reign was already fondly remembered as a golden age of good governance. This image, brought into sharp relief by the bloody purge undertaken by ‘Abbas’s successor, Shah Safi (r. 1629–42), of real and suspected rivals, acquired even greater lustre as subsequent rulers, men of lesser stature, lost their grip on power and allowed palace eunuchs, harem women and doctrinaire clerical forces to put their mark on state policy.4 The story usually told follows this sequential, teleological narrative by distinguishing between two phases in Shah ‘Abbas’s reign. Acceding to power at the age of 17, the Shah at first had to claw his way to real power amidst fierce tribal rivalry. Once he achieved mastery over his direct surroundings, he embarked on his real project, building an empire. This second phase involved a series of forward-looking policy measures, of which sidelining the seditious Qizilbash, the Türkmen warriors who had long been the mainstay of Safavid military power, was the most urgent. To break their destructive hold over the country, ‘Abbas accelerated a policy initiated by his predecessors, that of marginalising and supplanting them by appointing ghulāms, socalled slave soldiers, who were Armenians, Georgians and Circassians from the Caucasus, to key administrative and military positions. Equally spectacular was his selection of the centrally located city of Isfahan as Iran’s new – and first real – capital. Isfahan’s newly designed and embellished centre provided the Safavid state with a vibrant commercial and political nexus. Funding for these projects came from an increase in crown land holdings and especially from the expansion of domestic and foreign trade – itself a symbol of ‘Abbas’s imperial aspirations, represented by the resettlement of a large number of Armenians to a newly built suburb of Isfahan, where they were offered commercial rights and privileges; the building of numerous caravanserais; improved road security; and the creation of an outlet to the Persian Gulf by way of a new port, Bandar ‘Abbas. All this helped to shape an image of Shah ‘Abbas ‘the Great’ in his glory days as the equivalent of a European Renaissance prince – a judicious and visionary ruler who stayed in touch with his subjects as he built a great empire.5 Operating within the system that they described and that sustained them, and driven by entirely different concerns and agendas, the Safavid court chroniclers naturally produce a different narrative and ‘project’ a different shah. If the European travellers sought to explain a foreign ruler in terms understandable to a Western audience, contemporary Iranian authors wrote to legitimise — 185 —

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Safavid rule, which means that they extolled the Shah’s actions in a context that pleased their patrons and that was familiar to their readers. Significantly, planned empire-building hardly figured in this. Indeed, the chroniclers pay remarkably little attention to the Shah’s economic and administrative policies, including the eye-catching selection and redesign of Isfahan, as part of a visionary policy.6 They, too, praise Shah ‘Abbas’s justice and judiciousness, viewing these qualities as integral to the divine mandate of kingship. Their real focus, however, is on the Shah’s military exploits in the form of his many campaigns. Like Turko-Mongol rulers before him, he appears mostly concerned with mulk-gīrī, territorial expansionism, and military matters dominate in the accounts, before, during, and after the execution of the ‘imperial’ project.7 The chroniclers occasionally refer to the Shah as a world conqueror, jahān-gīr, heir to Chinggis Khan via Tamerlane – to whose genealogies they linked the house of the Safavids – who, like these illustrious forebears, was destined to project dynastic greatness. Yet even this ultimate imperial destiny is left ill defined and remains rather abstract in the actual narratives.8 Put simply, the Shah in the hands of the chroniclers is a pre-ordained, God-sent ruler, but he also comes off as a warlord operating in a brutal and unforgiving environment in which only the fittest survive. Indeed, Shah ‘Abbas, like his forebear Shah Isma‘il (r.1501–24), the founder of the state, remains first and foremost the chieftain of a warrior band, moved to act by a raw and ruthless will to power. This secular ambition involves clemency and magnanimity as required by circumstances, but it also includes a variety of darker urges – among them suspicion, jealousy and resentment erupting as volcanic wrath – and it justifies opportunistic, cruel behaviour like deceit and betrayal, revenge and retribution in the form of severe punishment, even brutal murder – all passions that are proffered as natural and integral to statecraft. Nor is the perceived naturalness of such basic motives informing royal demeanour just implicitly present in the narratives. In keeping with the reputation of the Safavids as the charismatic leaders of a Sufi order, we tend to see mystical inspiration and messianic zeal rather than violence and terror as the key ingredients in the rise of the state they built.9 Yet the rise to power of the paragon of religious inspiration, Shah Isma‘il, was all but peaceful, and at least one Safavid annalist considered that the founder of the Safavid state was motivated by worldly ambition as much as by spiritual concerns.10 The chroniclers treat his successors in similar fashion, often resorting to prescriptive admonitions. Talking about the reign of Shah Isma‘il II (1576–7), Natanzi in his Naqawat al-athar expounds on the notion that the realm goes to ruin in the absence of a leader willing to enact severe measures.11 Iskandar Munshi, the most celebrated of the royal scribes, in a separate ‘discourse’ preceding the annalistic part of his ‘Alam-ara-yi ‘Abbasi, explicitly lists despotic behaviour and an inclination to deal swiftly and severely with wrongdoers not just as one of Shah ‘Abbas’s attributes but as one of his virtues.12 Iskandar Munshi is no exception, and Shah ‘Abbas is not the only monarch thus characterised. Abu ’l-Mafakhir Tafrishi, narrating the reign of ‘Abbas’s successor, Shah Safi, in his introduction legitimises that ruler’s two primary urges, to make war and to enjoy himself.13 Political theorists included siyāsat, punishment, and intiqām, revenge, in their lists of necessary kingly attributes. Muhammad Baqir Sabzavari, the shaykh al-islām of Isfahan under Shah Sulayman (r.1666–94), offers a religiously based legitimation for royal firmness, arguing that, in light of the human penchant for deviant behaviour, it is important to have a shah as the guardian of God’s domain in the absence of the imam. It is of the utmost importance for a ruler to organise and equip a strong army in order to — 186 —

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combat the enemies of Islam, he explains, since soldiers are the protectors of the abode of Islam against evil-doers.14 The late seventeenth-century man of letters and faqīh Sayyid Abu Talib Findiriski, a student of the well-known hard-line cleric Muhammad Baqir Majlisi (d.1699), is even more explicit in justifying royal violence: ‘It is thus clear that royal justice has nothing to do with rectitude and the absence of causing harm. Some harsh policies of rulers generate security; and much of the blood-letting they engage in prevents people from unjustly shedding other people’s blood and, for fear of retribution, keeps them from killing others.’15 This essay will illustrate these propositions, using as a case study Shah ‘Abbas’s endeavour to gain mastery over Kirman, Yazd and Fars, the final phase of the so-called civil war that had started with the death of Shah Tahmasp in 984/1576, and the only time in his reign when the Shah travelled to southern Iran beyond Isfahan, visiting Yazd and Shiraz, although not Kirman.16 It will focus on the methods and strategies the shah employed in his confrontation with the respective rulers of those regions, Biktash Khan Afshar and Ya‘qub Khan Dhu ’l-Qadr. Shah ‘Abbas and his rivals

Nothing can detract from Shah ‘Abbas’s stature as one of the most energetic, expansive and imaginative Iranian rulers of all time, with a reputation that deservedly resonates until today. But it is also true and – given the rough environmental conditions, the unstable socio-political climate of premodern Iran, and the Turko-Mongol legacy of legitimacy residing in the ruling clan rather than the person of the ruler – perhaps inevitable, that the Shah was challenged by rivals for the duration of his reign. This begins with his emergence from the shadows of kingmaker Murshid Quli Khan Ustajlu, which is the story of his initial bid for supreme rule over Iran. Murshid Quli Khan seized power in Khurasan in 994/1586, at a time when different rivals competed to succeed the weak and purblind Muhammad Khudabanda (r.1578–87). Most importantly, it was Murshid Quli Khan who secured the Safavid throne for the young ‘Abbas after the assassination of the latter’s elder brother, the heir apparent Prince Hamza, later that same year. Once invested with the royal title in Qazvin in 996/1588, ‘Abbas appointed Murshid Quli Khan as his wakīl, main counsellor. For the next year or so the two men lived in an uneasy relationship, marked by condescension on the part of the senior adviser and growing irritation on the part of a young, impatient monarch ready to direct and lead rather than follow and obey, until the Shah had his wakīl executed in the summer of 997/1589. Murshid Quli Khan sealed his fate with his refusal to heed a desperate request for military assistance by his main rival, ‘Ali Quli Khan Shamlu, who was holding out in Herat against an Uzbek army, until he had to surrender in early 997/1589. Apprised that Murshid Quli Khan was hatching a plot to remove him, the Shah that same summer had his preceptor slain in his tent. This event was shortly followed by the elimination of other Qizilbash leaders, the first in a series of purges of rivals that would punctuate ‘Abbas’s reign.17 Murshid Quli Khan paid the price for the death of ‘Ali Quli Khan and the loss of Herat to the Uzbeks. The execution of Muhammad Khan Turkman was a matter of revenge, but also served as a warning to other ambitious men – his head was paraded round the army camp on a pike. His death marked a phase in the coming of age of Shah ‘Abbas. The Shah’s subsequent rise involved the successive elimination of a series of other strong contenders for power, beginning — 187 —

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with Farhad Khan Qaramanlu, his next close adviser and main general. Like Murshid Quli Khan before him, Farhad Khan at first was a trusted servant, to the point where the monarch granted him the honorific title farzand, ‘son’. Farhad Khan served his master well, helping him ‘reconquer’ a large swath of Iranian territory.18 But just like Murshid Quli Khan, Farhad Khan was eventually eliminated because he represented a formidable threat to the Shah’s power and wealth. The pattern of Safavid shahs taking control over state affairs by way of purging real and imaginary rivals, accusing them of treason and sedition, continued until the early reign of Shah Safi, who, shortly after ascending the throne, rid himself of the powerful ruler of Fars, Imam Quli Khan, and his clan.19 Aside from these main players, the sources offer numerous figures of the second echelon, men who never threatened the Shah’s supremacy yet had serious regional ambitions and thus had to be brought down as well. This essay discusses two of these men – Biktash Khan of Kirman and Yazd, and Ya‘qub Khan of Fars – and their conflict with each other, as well as their intertwined entanglements with Shah ‘Abbas. Their defeat and death represented the final phase in the ruler’s campaign to bring down the seditious Qizilbash and marked the end of the civil war that had begun shortly after the death of Shah Tahmasp in 984/1576, ushering in what Kathryn Babayan calls the ‘Isfahan era of absolutism’.20 The story of the ghastly demise of Ya‘qub Khan, in particular, spoke to the imagination of contemporary observers, for it occurs in all the annalistic sources, in the early ones, Qadi Ahmad Qummi’s Khulasat al-tawarikh, the chronicle closest to the events, written in 999/1590–1, and Afushta-i Natanzi’s Naqawat al-athar, the next near-contemporary account, composed in 1006/1598, as well as in later narratives, ranging from Iskandar Munshi’s quasi-official Tarikh-i ‘alam-ara-yi ‘Abbasi to Munajjim Yazdi’s popularising Tarikh-i ‘Abbasi, and, finally, Mirza Beg Junabadi’s Rawdat al-Safaviyya, which was finished in 1036/1627, almost four decades after the events. Afushta-i Natanzi indeed claims that it was precisely the amazing events surrounding Shah ‘Abbas’s victory over Ya‘qub Khan, the news of which spread far and wide throughout the Safavid realm, that prompted him to take up his pen and write his chronicle.21 It spread beyond Iran as well, for Ya‘qub Khan’s demise is the only episode singled out for recounting by the Indian court chronicler Shaykh Abu ’l-Fayz, better known as Fayzi (Faizi), Sultan Akbar’s Poet Laureate, who wrote about both Biktash Khan and Ya‘qub Khan on the basis of news he gathered from informants in Ahmadnegar.22 Modern scholars have looked at this episode in Shah ‘Abbas’s early career, but the attention has been uneven. Lucien Bellan and Nasrullah Falsafi (briefly) discuss both chieftains in their respective studies; David Blow, the author of a recent (popular) biography of ‘Abbas, omits any reference to Biktash Khan and only fleetingly mentions Ya‘qub Khan; the authors of the three Western-language synthetic works of the entire Safavid period, Savory, Roemer and Newman, hardly pay any attention to either chieftain.23 Sholeh Quinn, in her excellent book on historiography, devotes an entire chapter to Ya‘qub Khan. She does so, however, from a specific vantage point. Her exclusive interest is the textual variants of the narrative, the different ways in which the chroniclers deal with the story and what this says about their perspectives and, in particular, their view on the Qizilbash and their diminishing standing in Safavid society. Historiography trumps history in her account, obscuring the wider historical and geographical context. She thus examines the story of Ya‘qub Khan with a focus on his demise without any reference to Biktash Khan.24 — 188 —

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In truth the fate of the one is inextricably intertwined with that of the other, involving a complex power struggle from which Shah ‘Abbas emerged victorious by way of a clever and ruthless strategy of divide-and-rule, of playing two opponents and rivals off against one another, neutralising both in the process. Shah ‘Abbas, the Afshar and the Dhu ’l-Qadr

The removal of Murshid Quli Khan enhanced ‘Abbas’s personal authority, enabling him to expand the territory under his control. Yet extending and consolidating his domestic grip proved a complicated undertaking in the face of the dual threat posed by the Ottomans in the west and the Uzbeks in the north-east. The former had resumed war in 986/1578, prompted to do so by Iran’s manifest weakness following the recent death of Shah Tahmasp. They took Tabriz in 993/1585, and within three years had penetrated Safavid territory as far as Nahawand, halfway between Kirmanshah and present-day Arak. The Uzbeks, too, capitalised on Iran’s weakness in this period. Unleashing a campaign in Khurasan, they managed to take Herat in 996/1588, and two years later captured Mashhad, where they ransacked the shrine of the eighth Imam and massacred a large number of Shi‘a.25 ‘Abbas had to resign himself for a while to this loss of territory on Iran’s western and eastern borders. In order to avoid having to fight an unwinnable war on two fronts, and intent on putting his domestic house in order first, the Shah in 998/1590 concluded the disadvantageous Peace of Istanbul with the Ottomans, ceding to Iran’s arch-enemies a large swath of the country’s western provinces. But before taking this step, he first set out to regain territory in the interior. Among his first targets were the provinces of Kirman and Fars. Both were vast regions held by tribal groups. Kirman had been a stronghold of the Afshar from the early days of Shah Isma‘il’s reign. This originally Anatolian tribe of the Qasimlu branch was centred in western Iran in the regions of Kuh-i Giluya, Khuzistan, then called ‘Arabistan, and in northern Kurdistan. In part as a result of a policy of resettling tribes, the Afshar under Shah Isma‘il I had spread over a far larger area, which included Kirman and Khurasan. The first Afshar ruler on record in Safavid times is Bayram Beg (Bahram Beg), who appears in the sources in c. 915–16/1510 as head of a contingent of Afshar tribesmen moving to Kirman.26 Taking advantage of the weakness of Shah Khudabanda, the Afshar in the later sixteenth century managed to establish their independence in Kirman, bringing Yazd under their rule as well. In 985/1577 Wali Beg Afshar became ruler of Kirman. This is also when we first encounter his son, Biktash Khan, as he inherited the post of yūzbāshī, centurion, from his father.27 The power of the Afshar is reflected in the high administrative functions they managed to arrogate to themselves in the early Safavid state. Afshar chiefs thus occupied the important function of qūrchībāshī, head of the Praetorian Guard, from the mid-1530s until the early reign of Shah ‘Abbas. They also held the post of ishik-āqāsi-yi khās..sa, the major-domo of the palace, in the early days of Shah ‘Abbas’s rule.28 Whereas Kirman was an Afshar stronghold, the Dhu ’l-Qadr had held sway over Fars since early Safavid times. A Ghuzz tribe, the Dhu ’l-Qadr had entered the service of Shah Isma‘il in some numbers after their principality in south-eastern Anatolia came under Ottoman pressure. Afterwards they had become concentrated in Fars, which they held from the early days of Shah — 189 —

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Isma‘il until the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I, as well as in Azerbaijan. The Dhu ’l-Qadr, too, enjoyed bureaucratic standing in the Safavid administration order: they had a monopoly on the post of muhrdār, royal keeper of the seal, from the 1530s until the early reign of Shah Safi I.29 Motives and methods

The story of the clash between Biktash Khan and Ya‘qub Khan, the defeat and killing of the former by the latter, and the eventual demise of Ya‘qub Khan, comes to us in multiple versions and points up several themes, some of which appear in all versions and some of which can be distilled from comments in individual narratives. A presumed Safavid thrust to the south that would end with the incorporation of the Persian Gulf littoral is not among these. The early accounts, the Khulasat al-tawarikh and the Naqawat al-athar, as well as the ‘late’ and ‘retrospective’ ones, the Tarikh-i ‘alam-ara-yi ‘Abbasi and the Rawdat al-Safaviyya, rather put the Shah’s involvement with Kirman and Fars in the context of military needs, more specifically a manpower shortage in the face of large-scale Uzbek incursions into Khurasan. Qummi, Natanzi and Munshi explain the reason why Ya‘qub Khan initially moved to Shiraz from Khurasan was motivated by a need to muster troops from among the Dhu ’l-Qadr, whose chieftains had refused to show up for a royal parade designed to mobilise troops.30 The wider context of this shortage is that Murshid Quli Khan’s execution had frightened many tribal retainers who sought to escape the Shah’s wrath by fleeing from Khurasan. These included the Dhu ’l-Qadr in ‘Abbas’s entourage, who, wary of the favours seemingly accorded to the Afshar, decamped to Fars in order to defend their interests.31 As the story unfolds a number of additional animating forces become apparent. A principal motive in the story as portrayed by the Safavid chroniclers is greed. Biktash Khan is presented to the reader as a man driven by avarice. Eventually all of his wealth would fall into the hands of Shah ‘Abbas, by way of Ya‘qub Khan, who usurped Biktash’s assets when he defeated and killed him. Ya‘qub Khan, too, in the chronicles comes across as exceedingly greedy and partly motivated by a lust for money in his desire to bring Biktash Khan down. A related, even more compelling motivational force that suffuses the entire story is the theme of hubris, the fateful pride and arrogance of the underling who does not recognise the bounds set for him, seeks to break out of them by way of disobeying the master of the realm, and pays a terrible price. The terms ghurūr, pride, z.ulm wa fisād, oppression and debauchery, istikbār, takabbur va tajabbur, arrogance and hubris, and anānīyat, egotism, occur with great frequency in the description of the actions and the character of both Biktash Khan and Ya‘qub Khan. The final, related and most important theme that permeates the chronicles is loyalty, the ideal of unconditional allegiance that is, in reality, the scarcest of commodities, and its obverse, betrayal, and the retribution that must follow. The rise to power and the fall of both Biktash Khan and Ya‘qub Khan are essentially tales of broken promises and loyalty betrayed. The acme of loyalty is represented by the term shāhsivānī, love for the shah, an epithet granted to subjects who declared their loyalty to the ruler and contributed funds or labour to public works undertaken by the crown.32 Nor is the ruler exempted from the motives ascribed to the Qizilbash chieftains brought down by him. The Shah, too, is driven by motives such as naked greed and a raw desire for power. Represented as simmering grudges, explosive anger and a burning desire for revenge, — 190 —

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these instinctive urges are masked or tempered by references to the Shah’s divine nature, the mandate of punitive action as necessary for the order and stability of the realm, or the foolishness and naivety of subordinates, yet they nevertheless come through as elementary, compelling and legitimate in the various accounts. Biktash Khan

The events preceding the conflict unfolded in Qazvin, showing Shah ‘Abbas engaged in preparations for a confrontation with the Uzbeks, who in 996/1588 had seized Herat. Later that year, the Shah dismissed Mihdi Quli Khan Dhu ’l-Qadr, the leader of a conspiracy that sought to convince the ruler of the need to rid himself of Murshid Quli Khan, for insulting the latter in his presence. ‘Abbas stripped him of the governorship of Fars and in his stead appointed Murshid Quli Khan’s retainer, Ya‘qub b. Ibrahim Khan Dhu ’l-Qadr – a loyalist who ‘had joined ‘Abbas in Khurasan and had accompanied him to Iraq’ – governor of the province with the title of khan. He also ordered him to kill his predecessor.33 All this was a prelude to the demise of Murshid Quli Khan himself shortly thereafter. In the wake of Murshid Quli Khan’s execution, ‘Abbas, having set up camp in Bistam in Khurasan, showed Wali Khan, the governor of Kirman, his trust by appointing him qūrchībāshī, while allowing Wali Khan’s son, Biktash Khan, to take over as governor of Kirman. In the same period the Afshar, who for years had failed to heed the Shah’s mobilisation calls, were summoned to send troops to the north.34 Biktash Khan is said to have extended his hold over Kirman by marrying into a leading local family. He established control over Yazd in similar ways, taking as his wife a daughter of Mir Ghiyath al-Din Muhammad Miran Yazdi, a sayyid of the Ni‘matullahi Sufi order. He thus ruled for 10 to 12 years with absolute autonomy over both Kirman and Yazd. In that period he allowed no one a say in the affairs of his realm, came to see himself as superior to everyone else, and neglected to visit the Shah for the traditional pā-būsī, the ‘foot-kissing’ ceremony during which subordinates professed their loyalty and obedience to the ruler. This haughty heedlessness persisted into the early years of Shah ‘Abbas’s reign.35 Qummi from the outset establishes avarice as a leitmotiv in the story of Biktash Khan, claiming that, while ruling Kirman, the Khan appropriated the possessions of various local families, including their landed property, in the amount of 50,000 tumans.36 Natanzi, too, makes this part of his account. According to him, Biktash Khan’s rule was marked by the large-scale confiscation of assets from the rich and the poor alike. During his time in power he became so wealthy that his stable reportedly contained 380 bejewelled saddles. The Khan’s retinue included 8,000 servants, while 400 plates of food were served in his palace each and every day.37 The sources tell a similar tale about Ya‘qub Khan, insisting that he quickly established quasiindependent control over Fars. Before long he ruled over a territory stretching all the way from the environs of Isfahan to the outskirts of Lar, encompassing a goodly portion of Iran’s southern half. Variant readings exist with regard to the quality of his rule. Qummi relates that, after arriving in Shiraz in 997/1588, he first had 20 rival Dhu ’l-Qadr chiefs executed.38 Natanzi focuses on the vast amount of money and goods Ya‘qub Khan collected, much of it from his vanquished adversaries. He further elaborates on the unbounded arrogance, greed and violence of the Khan’s rule, and calls his lifestyle marked by ‘lust and play’, lahw u la‘b – expressed in a — 191 —

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fondness for polo, musical entertainment and heavy drinking. The same chronicler includes this quatrain as a warning about the fate of oppressive officials: ‫روآ تسکش تلود ناینب هب دروآ تسد دادیب هب وک یسک‬ ‫رادیاپ تکلمم ورب دنامن یتخا درک هک سک ره ملظ هر‬ ‫یهب یور هار نآ رد دنیبن یهتنم وا هار دوش خزودب‬ He who rules with injustice Inflicts damage on the foundations of the state Anyone who chooses oppression Will not be left with his realm intact On that path he will not face improvement His road will end in hell39

A segment of the Dhu ’l-Qadr, driven by feelings of hatred, h.iqd, and revenge, kīna, resisted and rebelled against Ya‘qub Khan’s rule. The latter responded by executing most of the rebels, after which he gathered ‘hooligans and scum’ from every tribe around him. A few Dhu ’l-Qadr chiefs managed to escape, seeking refuge with Biktash Khan.40 Junabadi offers a variant reading of these events: he more charitably insists that, having arrived in Shiraz, Ya‘qub Khan gave out large amounts of landed property and pensions to his followers, and that he pleased the regional elite as well as the common people with his just rule.41 The first encounter between Biktash Khan and Ya‘qub Khan introduces the theme of loyalty and betrayal. Having arrived in Yazd, Biktash Khan proceeded to incarcerate the retainers of Ya‘qub Khan who, led by Hamza Beg Jamillu, had fled from Khurasan to Yazd, presenting his actions as a noble deed of a loyal servant vis-à-vis his master, the Shah. In reality, however, his were the machinations of a shrewd operator who saw his chance to add Fars to his domain by moving against the leaders of a tribe that had just fallen into disgrace with the Safavid ruler. At the same time he used the fugitives, hoping to turn them into accomplices in his plan against their leader, Ya‘qub Khan, with the ulterior motive of replacing the latter as governor of Fars. When Ya‘qub Khan arrived near Yazd in pursuit of the Dhu ’l-Qadr mutineers, Biktash Khan welcomed him, offering him hospitality by inviting him into the city. Yet Ya‘qub Khan, suspecting Biktash Khan of plotting to get the Dhu ’l-Qadr rebels on his side, declined the invitation. He left his baggage, fled the city under the darkness of night, and headed for Shiraz, where he proceeded to gather allies against the Afshar.42 To that end he supported the nomination of ‘Abbas Sultan, Biktash Khan’s uncle, as the new governor of Kirman. ‘Abbas Sultan, invested with the shāhsivānī label, marched from Tabriz to Kirman, where he was welcomed by the Afshar, who had been given to understand by way of a royal decree that they were to obey him.43 Shah ‘Abbas next decided to move west to resist the Ottomans, but resolved to make a detour via Yazd with the intent of bringing the fugitive Dhu ’l-Qadr insurgents to heel as well as to chastise Biktash Khan for refusing to appear at the royal court. Yet, as Iskandar Munshi tells it, he was dissuaded from doing so by Biktash Khan’s father, Wali Khan, who, reminding the Shah of Biktash Khan’s long-standing loyalty, convinced him that alienating his son in this manner might be counterproductive, and promised to mediate and bring him back into the fold.44 — 192 —

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‘Abbas Sultan soon managed to gather 3,000 Afshar troops around him, and found himself confronted by Biktash Khan, who marched toward Kirman at the head of his own army consisting of 500 mounted tribesmen. Despite the numerical disparity, the impetuosity of Biktash Khan’s assault was such that he carried the day, forcing his uncle to retreat into the fortress of the city, which he next entered. ‘Abbas Sultan proposed mediation via Hatim Beg Urdubadi, Biktash Khan’s vizier, and offered to surrender on condition that his life and those of his retainers be spared. Biktash Khan consented, but broke his word when his uncle came out of the fortress: he had him imprisoned and ultimately killed. One of ‘Abbas Khan’s sons, Karam Beg, managed to escape and made it to Shiraz, where he joined ranks with Ya‘qub Khan.45 Confrontation

Ya‘qub Khan next received orders from the Shah to try to bring Biktash Khan, now clearly a rebel, to heel by taking him into custody. Qadi Ahmad Qummi tells the story in rather summary fashion, claiming, on the one hand, that ‘Abbas moved to Isfahan with the intent of removing him, and insisting, on the other, that Ya‘qub Khan acted without the Shah’s orders when he headed for Yazd under the pretext of attacking the ruler of Lar. Junabadi, writing much later, is far more circumstantial. Accompanied by the retainers of ‘Abbas Sultan, Biktash Khan in his account moved to Yazd and succeeded in persuading the Dhu ’l-Qadr prisoners to recognise one of his own men, Hamza Beg Jamillu, as prospective governor of Fars, after which they marched toward Fars in order to depose Ya‘qub Khan. In his reports to the Shah, Biktash Khan presented Ya‘qub Khan’s dismissal as a matter of state priority given the latter’s mismanagement and the need to reestablish order in the region, and he assumed that he would be chosen as his successor. The Shah, however, was more realistically informed about the state of affairs by Hatim Beg Urdubadi.46 Whether or not he was directly instructed by the Shah, Ya‘qub Khan did not stand by idly. He marched toward Yazd with his own troops, accompanied by his comrade-in-arms, Yusuf Khan Afshar, erstwhile qūrchībāshī and governor of Abarquh, whom he had designated as the new governor of Kirman, replacing Biktash Khan. The confrontation that ensued between the two chieftains was uneven: Biktash Khan and his 1,000 men were vastly outnumbered by Ya‘qub Khan’s army, which reportedly numbered 12,000 to 15,000, consisting of Dhu ’l-Qadr warriors, in addition to Lurs, Kurds and Arabs, from Fars and Kuh-i Giluya.47 Biktash Khan, who is said to have been living in great luxury, engaged in wine drinking and other forms of merriment, was forced to react. Having left Yazd and set up camp at the nearby town of Taft, he realised the numerical inferiority of his army and thus tried the same tactic that had served him well in his fight against ‘Abbas Sultan – a frontal assault. This time he failed, however, so that he was forced to seek cover in the fortress of Yazd. Ya‘qub Khan next resorted to a ruse to ferret him out. He sent a message to Mir Miran, making him responsible if his son-in-law were to escape from Yazd to Kirman. The intimidation worked: Mir Miran put Biktash Khan under guard so he would not escape, and allowed some of Ya‘qub Khan’s men to enter the city.48 Biktash Khan’s death comes in different versions. Qummi gives a summary account, limiting himself to the observation that, captured alive, the Khan begged to be killed on the spot.49 The same author has the account of Biktash Khan’s death followed by this quatrain, suggesting how his lust for power and possessions had spelled his downfall: — 193 —

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‫دوب شماجنارس یرس یب هک شناتکب‬          ‫دوب شماد و هناد جات رد و لعل‬ ‫ بش دش یم ادج نت ز شرس هک یزور‬  ‫دوب شماش نتفرگرس حبص رد‬ Biktash, whose fate it was to be headless The ruby and pearl of the crown were his bait and snare His head was severed from his body on the eve of the day that he intended to take on Syria50

Iskandar Munshi and Junabadi provide many more details. The former claims that, confronted with Ya‘qub Khan’s men and hurt by a musket ball, Biktash Khan decided to take his fate into his own hands by pleading with his captors to kill him on the spot.51 Junabadi tells a similar story, recounting how Biktash Khan was holed up in the house of his father-in-law, how Ya‘qub Khan sent his men, how these entered the house, and how Biktash Khan died in the ensuing fight. But he also offers a different version of the circumstances surrounding Biktash Khan’s death, which begins with the latter’s decision to leave his fortress to meet Ya‘qub Khan. Before doing so, he gave one of his servants a gun, tūfang, and ordered him to stand by the gate while waiting for his master to approach his adversaries and to shoot him if the latter treated him with baseness, but to refrain from doing so should they treat him properly. Biktash Khan next went out, intent on mounting a steed so as to approach Ya‘qub Khan on horseback. The latter’s guards tried to prevent him from doing so, and his servant misjudged the ensuing discussion and shot him to death.52 Biktash’s severed head was first brought before Ya‘qub Khan, who subsequently sent it on to the Shah accompanied by a letter. Ya‘qub Khan appropriated Biktash Khan’s considerable assets, of which he only sent a small portion to the Shah. He also took Biktash Khan’s daughter for himself, putting her in his harem. He then returned to Shiraz, where he settled into a life of pleasure and leisure. In his report to the Shah he stressed the shāhsivānī nature of his devotion.53

Ya‘qub Khan’s fate

The subsequent story, too, is explicitly told in terms of hubris and the price it carries. The chronicles are in agreement that, having become a favourite of the Shah, Ya‘qub Khan turned arrogant – beginning with his omission to send all of Biktash Khan’s confiscated wealth to the court. Iskandar Munshi offers this moral admonition: if only he had been a true loyal servant, content with the honour of serving the Shah instead of polluting himself by touching the wealth of Biktash Khan, the chronicler intones, Shah ‘Abbas would have rewarded Ya‘qub Khan with all of Biktash Khan’s possessions.54 Faizi even claims that the Khan became hubristic to the point of claiming royal descent. According to the Indian commentator, Ya‘qub Khan came to pretend that he was among the offspring of Shah Tahmasp and that one day he would be king himself.55 The Safavid chroniclers echo this assessment without referring to the ultimate arrogance involved in claiming kingship. They do mention, though, that, like Biktash Khan before him, Ya‘qub Khan refused to appear before the Shah in person for the traditional āstān-būsī, the ‘kissing of the threshold’, or to send suitable gifts to the court. He put Yusuf Khan, Biktash Khan’s nephew, who for fear of his uncle had fled to Shiraz, where — 194 —

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he had collaborated with Ya‘qub Khan, in charge of Kirman.56 This is also when he had some 20 prominent Dhu ’l-Qadr executed under torture, confiscating their possessions, and when he is said to have surrounded himself with unsavoury characters from various uymāqs. As news about this rebelliousness spread, the Shah decided to take action. ‘Abbas first summoned him to give up his possessions. Yet Ya‘qub Khan refused. Realising that his time was up, the Khan set out to build a fortress in the Bāgh-i gulshan, an area of Shiraz where previous rulers had had their palaces, most of which were now in ruins. He first destroyed several of the city’s famous Timurid madrasas, such as the Dar al-Safa (House of Purity) and the Dar al-Aytam (House of Orphans), as well as the graves of Muslims buried between Ja‘farabad and Musalla, using their materials for the construction of his fortress.57 It is not clear what made Shah ‘Abbas decide to bring Ya‘qub Khan down, the latter’s royal aspirations or his considerable wealth – or perhaps both. According to Faizi, ‘Abbas subsequently moved against the Khan with 12,000 soldiers.58 Qummi and Natanzi offer an elaborate story, according to which Shah ‘Abbas, angry at Ya‘qub Khan’s refusal to obey and pay homage to him, first sent an envoy named Kur Hasan Ustajlu to summon him to Qazvin. Kur Hasan was received with great flattery in Shiraz. Taking note of Ya‘qub Khan’s haughtiness, he tried yet failed to convince the latter to come to Qazvin. Ya‘qub Khan, afraid to report to the Shah in light of his previous behaviour, resorted to a policy of procrastination, offering various excuses not to come to the court. Having failed in his mission, Kur Hasan returned to the capital to report his findings. It seems that the Shah thereupon gave Ya‘qub Khan one last chance to return to royal grace. Yazdi reports how ‘Abbas issued an order announcing that, content with Ya‘qub Khan, he had made 12,000 dinars available, that the Khan’s request not to have to report to the court had been accepted but that he was to send troops to Khurasan without any delay or excuse. Elated, Ya‘qub Khan went hunting.59 The Shah thereupon decided to act. In Safar 998/late 1589 he left Qazvin, to arrive in Isfahan in February 1590. After spending some four months in Isfahan, during which time he dealt with its insubordinate governor, the ghulām Yuli Beg, he left again on 1 Sha‘ban 998/5 June, heading for Ganduman.60 On the way, he set up camp in the valley of Lanban (or Lanjan), where he spent a week or so preparing for a campaign. Meanwhile, a royal courtier based in Fars by the name of Abu ’l-Muhammad Inju set out to apprehend Ya‘qub Khan, rallying the inhabitants of Shiraz in the Friday mosque for consultation. Aware of his precarious position, Ya‘qub Khan first tried to mend fences, sending his deputy, Ummat Beg, to Qazvin with gifts. When the latter was detained at the court, a frightened Ya‘qub Khan departed from his newly built but as yet unfinished stronghold in Shiraz under the pretext of going on a hunting party; he repaired to Istakhr and on 13 Sha‘ban 998/9 June 1590 he retreated, with 400 retainers, to this allegedly unassailable fortress.61 The story of Ya‘qub Khan’s own ultimate demise, too, comes to us in slightly different versions. The later chroniclers, in particular, focus on the Shah’s ambivalence about this formidable warrior and narrate the denouement as a continuing cautionary tale of trust broken by betrayal and the punishment that inevitably follows. Having arrived in Fars, Shah ‘Abbas laid siege to Ya‘qub Khan’s stronghold and, after four months, managed to seize it.62 Natanzi, expounding on the legendary strength of Istakhr, claims — 195 —

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that, until that time, it had never been taken by an invading army, and calls Shah ‘Abbas’s success in doing so one of the amazing aspects of the saga of Ya‘qub Khan that had prompted him to write his chronicle.63 Following negotiations conducted by Ya‘qub Khan’s vizier, Mirza Jan Beg, ‘Abbas promised Ya‘qub Khan safe conduct and, according to Yazdi, even reconfirmed him as the vizier of Fars. Ya‘qub Khan accepted, left his fortress and presented himself before the Shah, who thereupon broke his pledge with the excuse that Ya‘qub Khan was behind on his payments to the central treasury. The Khan’s retainers, unaware of his arrest, were enticed to surrender as well. Each of these was presented with a letter embossed with Ya‘qub Khan’s seal, summoning him to the royal court in Shiraz. Upon arrival, each was led into the royal chambers, where, one by one, they were executed.64 Qummi offers a summary version of the execution, recounting how the Khan was captured and hung from a tree and beaten with a stick, and how, a day later, he was torn to pieces.65 Shah ‘Abbas’s ambivalence towards Ya‘qub Khan comes out most clearly in the version told by Faizi, who claims that the Shah initially forgave him, having often declared that he had no better servant than Ya‘qub Khan. In the end, though, ‘Abbas was persuaded by Khan Beg, one of Ya‘qub Khan’s former servants, that the Khan aspired to the mantle of kingship and was out to kill him. The shah decided to check him out, and discovered that, as Khan Beg had told him, Ya‘qub Khan did wear a coat of mail, a sign of his intent to rebel. ‘Abbas thus took action during a gathering of the dīwān-khāna. The event, which took place on 22 Dhu ’l-Hijja 998/23 October 1590, was livened up with the performance of rope dancers, who had been invited to display their skills for the entertainment of the participants. The Shah ominously announced that ‘Kingship is coming to Ya‘qub Khan and we will be his servant’. He then proclaimed that Ya‘qub Khan had ordered retainer so-and-so to be strangled with a rope, and this was done. In this manner all of his supporters were killed, one by one, until it was Ya‘qub Khan’s turn to be strung up. According to Faizi, he was hung by a rope, his body was put on a rack, his tongue was cut out, and his flesh was fed in morsels to the dogs.66 The popularising Tarikh-i ‘Abbasi offers a slightly different version, recounting how, once captured, Ya‘qub Khan was first thrown into a pit, after which his retainers were killed on the lower level of the dawlat-khāna while a party went on upstairs, with the celebrants unaware of the gruesome events unfolding beneath them. The Shah then sent word to the occupants of Istakhr that they should surrender. When they refused, an angry ‘Abbas ordered that Ya‘qub Khan be brought out of the pit and delivered to the Dhu ’l-Qadr. Their chieftains spat at him and taunted him in other ways, whereupon Shah Verdi Sultan cut out his tongue. He was next tortured to death. Some of the participants in the killing drank his blood, while others took pieces of his flesh home as kebab. His severed head was sent to Istakhr as a warning to those inside to give up their rebellion.67 Following these events, Fars was given to Bunyad Beg Dhu ’l-Qadr, after which the province remained in the hands of the Dhu ’l-Qadr tribe for a few more years. After an interim period during which Farhad Khan Qaramanlu held sway over the province, Fars in 1004/1595 was awarded to the ghulam Allah Verdi Khan. It was the first province to end up in the hands of the ascendant bureaucratic class. The region of Kirman, meanwhile, was divided into two parts; half of it went to Biktash Khan’s father, Wali Khan, the other half to Isma‘il Khan.68 Wali Khan would rule for the next — 196 —

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six years. His death in 996/1595 marked the end of Afshar supremacy in Kirman. Shah ‘Abbas, determined to break their power over the region, moved a large number of Kurds to Kirman. Control over the region fell to one of them, Ganj ‘Ali Khan. For the next thirty years he and his son, ‘Ali Mardan Khan, ruled not just Kirman but a huge swathe of south-eastern Iran that included Bam and Baluchistan, as well as Sistan, nominally controlling an area that stretched all the way from Qandahar to Nayriz and from Birjand as far as Minab, about 1 million km2 in all.69 The Afshar would cease to play a significant role in the region’s affairs until the late seventeenth century, when they were pressed into service again, this time to withstand the growing threat posed to Iran’s eastern borderlands by marauding Baluchi and Afghan tribesmen.70 Conclusion

Studying Safavid Iran in general and the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I in particular without being able to rely on accounts written by Western travellers, missionaries and merchants inevitably limits the number of viewpoints represented by the source material. This has had important consequences for the representation of the personality and policies of the greatest of the Safavid rulers, Shah ‘Abbas I, whose reign neatly divides between a first half, for which we have little more than Persian-language sources, and a second half, which is documented by a combination of Safavid chronicles and European eyewitness accounts. The image of ‘Abbas that has come to us is mostly distilled from the latter sources, highlighting the ‘imperial’ phase of his reign, when the ‘ruthless king’ was in the process of being transformed into an ‘Iranian legend’.71 As significantly, without the input of European observers, it is difficult to discern an overarching, long-term policy, let alone the outline of an imperial project, in the Shah’s actions. A good example is his thrust toward Fars and Yazd in 996/1588–998/1590, which a modern nationalist perspective might interpret as a preliminary move that would culminate in the extension of Safavid control to the Persian Gulf littoral in the early seventeenth century. Even the chronicles written after the Safavid army had actually moved to the Gulf and taken on the Portuguese do not portray Shah ‘Abbas’s southern campaign as part of such a project. Instead, like their predecessors, they cast this episode in Shah ‘Abbas’s search for domination and territory as the story of a titanic power struggle between the Shah and two Qizilbash chieftains, Biktash Khan and Ya‘qub Khan. In recounting this struggle, the Safavid chroniclers evince a keen appreciation for the ingredients of power, the forces that go into acquiring it, wielding it and maintaining it. Lofty references to his divinely guided status aside, they portray the Shah at bottom as a warlord, ready to do anything to maximise his power and wealth in a relentlessly competitive universe. They reserve explicit accusations of deceit and betrayal for his subordinates and adversaries; yet the Shah, too, inhabits this amoral universe, an arena in which ‘might makes right’, where only success counts, and where anything is permitted to attain and consolidate it – including foul play. The Persian-language chronicles evince a profound realism, even cynicism, in this, describing the ways of the world without any illusions about the animating forces. Power, to them, provides its own justification.72 Morality, or rather moralism, nevertheless and somewhat paradoxically, sits at the heart of the accounts of the struggle. Indeed, the entire episode discussed in this paper may be read as a — 197 —

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morality tale centring on the notions of gratitude, obedience and loyalty, the obverse, arrogance, greed, duplicity and betrayal, and the terrible price subordinates pay for being on the wrong side of this equation. This – what Melville calls the ‘competing thematic issues at stake: the absolute authority of the ruler; the dangers and temptations of power; the demands of justice; and the exemplary nature of the stories, whether to serve as a warning to over-ambitious ministers or fickle rulers easily swayed by court intrigue’ 73 – is what makes the story of Biktash Khan and, with its grisly ending, especially that of Ya‘qub Khan so riveting and may be the principal reason why these tales loom so large in the Persian-language sources. Biktash Khan tried to deceive Ya‘qub Khan and betrayed his uncle, ‘Abbas Sultan. He was in turn betrayed by his own father-in-law, Mir Miran. Ya‘qub Khan next deceived Biktash Khan. Shah ‘Abbas himself, it was seen, was not above treachery himself. He used Ya‘qub Khan to bring down Biktash Khan, thus reducing the role of the Afshar, and then proceeded to topple Ya‘qub Khan by way of deception and broken promises. In all this, tribal feuding played a highly visible and persistent role, but the struggle for power was above all a highly personal one, fought between men with massive egos and huge appetites for power and possessions. The Safavid state functioned and endured for as long as it did in large part because its leaders projected power in a pragmatic way, alternating ruthlessness with accommodation and meting out punishment by way of setting examples rather than by way of ‘systematic and methodical enforcement of the law’.74 Loyalty was the litmus test of the reliability and trustworthiness of any official, periodically reiterated and reinforced by way of gift-giving and supplicatory visits to the court. Those who broke this code and engaged in insubordination and revolt might be dismissed and ultimately forgiven and even rehabilitated, or they might be subjected to siyāsat, summary and severe punishment in the form of death. The violence involved was expected to the point where, half a century later, the Frenchman Jean Chardin could claim that Iranians saw and accepted their rulers as inherently violent.75 Notes







1 Given the different criteria on which it is based, this division does not contradict Charles Melville’s suggestion that ‘Abbas’s reign can be divided into three periods, beginning with his initial reign, from 995/1587 until 1007/1599, when Isfahan became his new capital, followed by the period until 1012/1620, the year of the foundation of Farahabad in Mazandaran, and the subsequent period until his death. See Charles Melville, ‘From Qars to Qandahar: the itineraries of Shah ‘Abbas I (995–1038/1587–1629)’, in Jean Calmard (ed.), Etudes Safavides (Paris, 1993), pp. 197, 199, 207. 2 Anthony Sherley, Sir Anthony Sherley His Relation of His Travels Into Persia (London, 1613), pp. 29–30. 3 John Cartwright, The Preachers Travels (London, 1611; repr. Amsterdam, 1977), p. 64. 4 The first retrospective assessment along these lines may have been from the hand of Jan Smidt, a Dutch envoy to Shah Safi’s court who left a lengthy description of his encounter with that ruler shortly after Shah ‘Abbas’s death in 1038/1629. He portrays the late Shah as a wise ruler who had been respected by all the country’s grandees. See Smidt’s diary, in H. Dunlop (ed.), Bronnen tot de geschiedenis der Oostindische Compagnie (The Hague, 1930), p. 731. John Fryer, who visited Iran a half century after the Shah’s death, reports that his name was ‘invoked when any commendable or famous action is performed; saying “Shaw Abas”, or “Shabas” as we are wont to say, “Well done”.’ See John Fryer, A New Account of East India and Persia being Nine Years’ Travels 1672–1681, 3 vols, ed. William Crooke (London, 1912), vol. 2, p. 245. 5 This is the image that, on balance, emerges from Roger Savory, Iran under the Safavids (Cambridge, 1980), pp. 95–103. Unsurprisingly, a similar image prevails in the work of modern art historians; a few recent examples are Sussan Babaie, Isfahan and Its Palaces: Statecraft, Shi‘ism and the Architecture of Conviviality in Early Modern Iran (Edinburgh, 2008); the various contributions to Sheila R. Canby (ed.), Shah ‘Abbas. The Remaking of Iran (London, 2009); and Kishwar Rizvi, The Safavid Dynastic Shrine: Architecture, Religion and Power in Early Modern Iran (London, 2010). 6 This does not mean that the chronicles do not provide any information about Shah ‘Abbas’s urban development, in particular, just that this part of his activities is not at the heart of their concerns. Robert D. McChesney brings the (scattered) information found in the chronicles on this topic together in ‘Four sources on Shah ‘Abbas’s building of Isfahan’, Muqarnas 5 (1988), pp. 103–34.

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7 For this concept, in reference to the founder of the Mughal dynasty, Sultan Babur, see Stephen Dale, The Garden of Eight Paradises: Bābūr and the Culture of Empire in Central Asia, Afghanistan and India (1483–1530) (Leiden, 2004), pp. 153, 292, 297, 349. 8 For this, see Sholeh Quinn, Historical Writing during the Reign of the Safavids (Salt Lake City, UT, 2000), pp. 44–5. 9 For a foundational study that presents the Safavid state as a religiously inspired national project, see Walther Hinz, Irans Aufstieg zum Nationalstaat im fünfzehnten Jahrhundert (Berlin, 1936). A major exception is Jean Aubin in his portrayal of Shah Isma‘il as ‘intelligent and barbaric’. See Jean Aubin, ‘L’avènement des Safavides reconsideré’, Moyen Orient et Océan Indien 5 (1988), pp.1–130. 10 Amir Sadr al-Din Ibrahim Amini Harawi, Futuhat-i shahi (Tarikh-i Safavi az aghaz ta sal-i 920 h.q.), ed. Muhammad Riza Nasiri (Tehran, 1383/2004), p. 233. 11 Mahmud Hidayat Allah Afushta’i Natanzi, Naqawat al-athar fi dhikr al-akhyar, ed. Ihsan Ishraqi (Tehran, 2nd edition, 1373/1994), p.75. 12 Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great (Tarikh-e ‘Alamara-ye ‘Abbasi), trans. Roger Savory (Boulder, CO, 1978), p.525. See also Sholeh Quinn, ‘Through the looking glass: kingly virtues in Safavid and Mughal historiography’, Journal of Persianate Studies 3, no 2 (2010), pp. 143–55. 13 Abu ’l-Mafakhir b. Fadl Allah al-Husayni Sawanih-nigar Tafrishi, Tarikh-i shah Safi (Tarikh-i tahawwulat-i Iran dar salha-yi 1038–1052 h.q.), ed. Muhsin Bahram Nizhad (Tehran, 1388/2009), xlvi–xclvii and pp. 5–6. 14 Muhammad Baqir Sabzawari, Rawdat al-anwar-i ‘Abbasi (Dar akhlaq wa shiva-yi kishvardari), ed. Isma‘il Changizi Ardahani (Tehran, 1377/1998) pp. 743–4. See also the discussion in Mansur Sifatgul, Sakhtar-i nihad wa andisha-i dini dar Iran-i ‘asr-i Safawi. (Tarikh-i tahawwullat-i dini-yi Iran dar sadaha-yi dihum ta davazdihum hijri qamari) (Tehran, 1381/2002), p. 497. 15 Sayyid Abu Talib Musavi Findiriski, Tuhfat al-‘alam dar awsaf wa akhbar-i Shah Sultan Husayn Safavi, ed. Rasul Ja‘fariyan (Tehran, 1388/2009), p.128. 16 For a map of the Shah’s travels, see Melville, ‘From Qars to Qandahar’. 17 Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, p. 578. 18 For Farhad Khan Qaramanlu, see Rudi Matthee ‘Farhād Khan Qaramānlū’, EIr. 19 Kathryn Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs: Cultural Landscapes of Early Modern Iran (Cambridge, MA, 2003), 349ff; and Rudi Matthee, Persia in Crisis: Safavid Decline and the Fall of Isfahan (London, 2012), pp. 36–40. 20 Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiah, pp. 349 ff. 21 Natanzi, Naqawat al-athar, pp. 7–8. 22 Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, ‘A place in the sun: travels with Faizî in the Deccan, 1591–1593’, in François Grimal (ed.), Les sources et les temps/Sources and Times (Pondicherry, 2001), pp. 272 ff. 23 Nasrullah Falsafi, Zindigani-yi Shah ‘Abbas-i awwal, 5 bks in 3 vols paginated as one (Tehran, 1369/1990), pp. 1010–18; LucienLouis Bellan, Chah Abbas I: Sa vie, son histoire (Paris, 1932), pp. 33ff; David Blow, Shah Abbas: The Ruthless King Who Became an Iranian Legend (London, 2009), p. 34; Savory, Iran under the Safavids; Hans Robert Roemer, Persien auf dem Weg in die Neuzeit: Iranische Geschichte von 1350–1750 (Beirut, 1989), and its English distillation for the Safavid era, ‘The Safavid period’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6, Peter Jackson and Laurence Lockhart (eds), The Timurid and Safavid Period (Cambridge, 1986), pp.189–350; and Andrew Newman, Safavid Iran: Rebirth of a Persian Empire (London, 2006). 24 Quinn, Historical Writing, pp. 95–124. 25 For this, see Audrey Burton, ‘The fall of Herat to the Uzbegs in 1588’, Iran 26 (1988), pp. 199–23; and Robert D. McChesney, ‘The conquest of Herat: 995–6/1587–8: sources for the study of Safavid/Qizilbash-Shibanid/Uzbak relations’, in Jean Calmard (ed.), Etudes safavides (Paris, 1988), pp. 69–108. 26 Mulla Muhammad Mu’min Kirmani. Sahifat al-irshad (Tarikh-i Afshar-i Kirman – payan-i kar-i Safawiyya), ed. Muhammad Ibrahim Bastani-Parizi (Tehran, 1384/2005), introd., p. 26. 27 Qadi Ahmad b. Sharaf al-Din al-Husayn al-Husayni Qummi, Khulasat al-tawarikh, ed. Ihsan Ishraqi (Tehran, new edition, 1387/2008), p.665. 28 Fazli Khuzani Isfahani, Afdal al-tawarikh, vol. 3, Christ’s College, Cambridge, ms. Dd.5.6, fol. 81b. 29 See Willem Floor, Safavid Government Institutions (Costa Mesa, CA, 2001), pp. 71–2, with a list of incumbents. 30 Mirza Big Junabadi, Rawdat al-Safaviyya, ed. Ghulamriza Tabataba’i Majd (Tehran, 1379/1999), p. 683. 31 Qummi, Khulasat al-tawarikh, p. 888. 32 See Richard Tapper, Frontier Nomads of Iran: A Political and Social History of the Shahsevan (Cambridge, 1997), pp.54–5. For references to the shahsevan phenomenon in the period following Shah ‘Abbas’s reign, see Matthee, Persia in Crisis, pp.16, 40, 147, 248. 33 Natanzi, Naqawat al-athar, p. 343; Mirza Beg Junabadi, Rawdat al-Safaviyya, ed. Ghulamriza Tabataba’i Majd (Tehran, 1379/1999), p.679; Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, p. 554. 34 Khuzani Isfahani, Afdal al-tawarikh, fol. 25b; Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, p. 579. 35 Qummi, Khulasat al-tawarikh, p. 903; Natanzi, Naqawat al-athar, p. 326. 36 Qummi, Khulasat al-tawarikh, p. 903. 37 Natanzi, Naqawat al-athar, p. 329. 38 Qummi, Khulasat al-tawarikh, p. 909. 39 Natanzi, Naqawat al-athar, p. 344. 40 Ibid., pp.344–5. 41 Junabadi, Rawdat al-Safaviyya, pp. 707–8. 42 Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, p. 580. 43 Mulla Jalal al-Din Munajjim Yazdi, Tarikh-i ‘Abbasi ya ruznama-i Mulla Jalal, ed. Sayf Allah Wahid Niya (Tehran, 1366/1987), pp.80–1. 44 Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, p. 582. 45 Yazdi, Tarikh-i ‘Abbasi, p. 81.

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46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61



62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70



71 72



73



74



75

Bellan, Chah Abbas, p. 34. Junabadi, Rawdat al-Safaviyya, p. 711, gives a number of 2,500 soldiers. Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, pp. 600–1. Qummi, Khulasat al-tawarikh, p. 903. Ibid., p.904. Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, pp. 600–1. Junabadi, Rawdat al-Safaviyya, p. 711. Ibid., p.712; Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, p. 599. Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, p. 601. Alam and Subrahmanyam, ‘A place in the sun,’ p. 292. Natanzi, Naqawat al-athar, p. 345. Yazdi, Tarikh-i ‘Abbasi, p. 76. Alam and Subrahmanyam, ‘A place in the sun’, p. 292. Yazdi, Tarikh-i ‘Abbasi, p. 90. For these dates, and remarks on the variant dates given in the chronicles, see Melville, ‘From Qars to Qandahar’, pp. 202–4. Natanzi, Naqawat al-athar, p. 346. Istakhr, which is believed to mean ‘strong(hold)’ in Old Persian, had been a fortress since Achaemenid times. See A.D.H. Bivar, ‘Estakr’, EIr. Alam and Subrahmanyam, ‘A place in the sun’, p. 292. Natanzi, Naqawat al-athar, p. 7. Qummi, Khulasat al-tawarikh, pp. 918–19; Yazdi, Tarikh-i ‘Abbasi, pp. 97–9. Qummi, Khulasat al-tawarikh, pp. 918–19. Alam and Subrahmanyam, ‘A place in the sun’, p. 292. Yazdi, Tarikh-i ‘Abbasi, p. 99. Ibid., p.105. Kirmani, Sahifat al-irshad, p. 63. That the role of the Afshar diminished overall in the Safavid polity is seen in the fact that in 1000/1591–2 they lost their nearcontrol over the position of qūrchībāshī. For a list of qūrchībāshīs, see Floor, Safavid Government Institutions, pp. 141–3. With reference to the subtitle of David Blow’s biography, Shah Abbas. This is in line with Homa Katouzian’s argument about Iran’s traditional political culture, that ‘legitimacy always belonged to the winner’ and that ‘the real test of holding farrah [divine grace] was success itself ’. See Homa Katouzian, ‘Legitimacy and succession in Iranian history’, Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 23, no 1–2 (2003), pp. 238, 241. Charles Melville, ‘The historian at work’, in Charles Melville (ed.), Persian Historiography, vol. 10 of A History of Persian Literature (London, 2012), p. 86. Peter Fibiger Bang, ‘Lord of All the World: the state, heterogenous power and hegemony in the Roman and Mughal empires’, in Peter Fibiger Bang and C.A. Bayley (eds), Tributary Empires in Global History (Basingstoke and New York, 2011), p. 186. Jean Chardin, Voyages du chevalier Chardin, en Perse, et autres lieux de l’Orient, ed. L. Langlès (Paris, 1810–11), vol. 5, p. 219.

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21 Reading Safavid and Mughal chronicles: kingly virtues and early modern Persianate historiography Sholeh A. Quinn

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n the sixteenth century, two powerful Islamic ‘gunpowder’ empires, the Safavids and the Mughals, produced historical chronicles in the same Persian language. In these texts, chroniclers utilised a number of different techniques in order to promote the primacy and legitimacy of their kings. Chronicles form the most important source for Safavid history and one of the most important sources for Mughal history. In recent years, scholars have made significant progress in understanding various aspects of these important texts.1 Despite these efforts, many questions regarding the nature of these sources await further exploration. One cluster of issues concerns methodology, asking questions such as how did chroniclers compose their histories? We already know to some degree how historians narrated their past. Studies on Timurid and Safavid historiography have outlined the nature of imitative writing, showing how a chronicler chose a particular earlier text as a model, which he then modified in various ways.2 By making that narrative conform to the chronicler’s present, he could not only make an earlier history relevant to the present, but also preserve knowledge for later generations. We are on less solid ground in understanding how chroniclers narrated their present. In some instances, they tell us when they spoke with eyewitnesses to ascertain the facts of a particular event. In other cases, chroniclers held positions at the court, which gave them access to documents that they incorporated into their narratives. But we know little in terms of why they chose certain information to include and what overall guiding principles they used to make their choices. Elsewhere, I have suggested that two chroniclers, the Safavid Iskandar Beg Munshi (d.c. 1042/1632), author of the Tarikh-i ‘alam-ara-yi ‘Abbasi, and the Mughal Muhammad — 201 —

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‘Arif Qandahari (d. 988/1580?), author of the Tarikh-i Akbari, may have been influenced by the ‘mirrors for princes’ literature when they each included sections in their chronicles listing the kingly attributes of their respective kings, ‘Abbas I (r.995/1587–1038/1629), and Akbar (r. 963/1556–1014/1605).3 While the lists of kingly virtues in each chronicle differ in terms of the number of attributes each king had, and how much space is devoted to each virtue, nevertheless there are striking similarities not only between the two lists, but also between the lists and the ideals of kingship as presented in the earlier corpus of ‘advice literature’ or ‘mirrors for princes’ texts, such as Nizam al-Mulk’s (d.485/1092) Siyasatnama (composed 484/1091).4 The purpose of this paper is to extend the previous research by examining specific portions of the Tarikh-i ‘alam-ara-yi ‘Abbasi and the Tarikh-i Akbari in order to determine the relationship between the lists of kingly virtues in the chronicle introductions and the information in the later annalistic sections of the narratives. Lists of kingly virtues

While lists of kingly virtues appear in only two ‘gunpowder empire’ era chronicles, the historiographical practice of including such lists predates the Safavid and Mughal periods. Earlier texts that may have served as precedents and influenced both chroniclers include Fazlallah Ruzbihan Khunji Amini’s (d. 927/1521) Tarikh-i ‘alam-ara-yi Amini and Rashid alDin’s (d. 718/1318) Jami‘ al-tawarikh. Muhammad ‘Arif Qandahari completed his chronicle, the Tarikh-i Akbari, in 988/1580.5 Qandahari was a scholar and high-ranking Mughal official. He lists approximately 34 items ( fiqras) in his section on the virtues and deeds of Akbar. Iskandar Beg Munshi, who served in Shah ‘Abbas’s court as a secretary, or munshī, included in his Tarikhi ‘alam-ara-yi ‘Abbasi (first portion completed in 1025/1616, second portion completed in 1038/1629) a similar list of 11 kingly virtues of Shah ‘Abbas. Despite the disparity of numbers of kingly attributes listed by each chronicler, together they fall into seven general categories: (1) personal virtues, (2) military power, (3) good fortune, (4) justice, (5) traditional kingly activities, (6) construction, and (7) wealth. It seems that Iskandar Beg and Qandahari used their lists of kingly virtues as a way to frame the rest of the information in their chronicles and as a guide to select what sort of information appears in the chronological portion of their texts. Iskandar Beg alludes to this when he explains that he included a list of Shah ‘Abbas’s qualities in the first volume of his chronicle in order to provide the reader with a preview of future events and to allow the reader to learn something about Shah ‘Abbas’s qualities that allowed the monarch ‘to order the affairs of his people in such a way that both princes and their counsellors will make this record their exemplar’.6 Here, Iskandar Beg tells his audience how they should contextualise the actual details in Book Two and Book Three, thereby providing a theoretical introduction or framework to his actual narrative of Shah ‘Abbas’s reign, and offering a clue as to how that chronological portion should be understood. A careful reading of sample chronological portions in the Tarikh-i Akbari and the Tarikh-i ‘alamara-yi ‘Abbasi demonstrates just how closely the ideals in the lists of virtues correspond with the type of information in the chronology. The year to be analysed here is the seventeenth regnal year of each king, Akbar and ‘Abbas. By this time, both kings had had time to establish themselves on their thrones, address initial — 202 —

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challenges, and embark on their own policies and projects. ‘Occurrence 28’ for Akbar started in late Safar 981/June 1573. The chapter focuses on the Emperor’s embarking towards and conquest of Gujarat. For Shah ‘Abbas, his seventeenth regnal year, the Year of the Hare, began in 1011/1603, when the King was engaged in the reconquest of Tabriz and Azerbaijan. Although both narratives emphasise military campaigns, many of the details surrounding the campaigns and the way each chronicler frames and explains the episodes reflects the norms described in the lists of kingly virtues. The seventeenth year in the Tarikh-i Akbari

Qandahari’s narrative of Akbar’s Gujarat campaign includes a number of themes and activities, many of which relate directly to the military expedition, but a number of others do not. These include accounts of Akbar hunting, his receiving gifts from visitors from neighbouring empires, and his dispensing of justice. Qandahari’s account opens with the chronicler stating that Akbar left Fatehpur Sikri in late Safar 981/June 1573 in order to visit the shrine of Shaykh Mu‘in alDin Chishti. But before describing the King’s visit to the shrine, Qandahari states that on the way, he issued a decree ( farmān) ordering that his men engage in a hunt for lions and tigers – a traditional kingly activity. Qandahari tells us that it was the beginning of the monsoon season and, as such, the weather was cool and the ground was covered in grass and flowers. Akbar hunted a great deal, so much so that ‘the hunting ground looked blood red like a ruby of Badakhshan’.7 The narrative of the brief hunting episode centres on Akbar’s confronting a lion ‘before whom even the lion (bābur) of the jungle bends his head like a cat’.8 Akbar proceeded to bring it down with his lance and kill it.9 Qandahari’s inclusion of this information, which in general stresses one of the traditional activities we associate with kingship – hunting – also corresponds with two of the kingly virtues that he lists earlier in his chronicle. In the ninth fiqra, Qandahari states that Akbar ‘is fond of games when he is full of delight in the forest. When he is engaged in hunting lions or stags and in releasing birds to fly, he exhibits great interest in gratifying hearts of hunters’.10 Similarly, in fiqra 32, Qandahari states that ‘The lion-hearted king occasionally diverts his full attention towards chase and hunt of tiger, of dreadful attacking power and sharp claws, which is called ‘chita’ (leopard) in Hindi language.’11 Thus, not only does the fact that he went hunting make Akbar appear kingly, but by elevating hunting to a kingly ‘virtue’ earlier in his chronicle, we can understand why Qandahari included this information in his account of the Gujarat campaign. Perhaps the most predominant kingly attribute as reflected in the ‘mirrors for princes’ literature is justice. The notion of a just king predates Islam and formed one component in the ‘circle of justice’. In this model, the king, the army, and the people are all dependant upon each other in order to maintain justice. In the Tarikh-i Akbari, Qandahari describes how Akbar arrived in Baroach and heard that the former administrator of Baroach, a certain Chinggiz Khan, had been killed by Jajjar Khan Habshi, one of the Gujarati amirs, for no reason. The mother of this Chinggiz Khan came and complained about Jajjar Khan. On the basis of her complaint, a date was set at which time Akbar would issue judgement on Jajjar Khan. Qandahari states that Akbar considered the case, and ordered that Jajjar Khan be punished by being crushed under the feet of an elephant.12 Upon initial examination, the murder of Chinggiz Khan by Jajjar Khan — 203 —

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Habshi appears an insignificant episode in the account of the subjugation of Gujarat. Certainly, many were killed in the battle itself and hundreds of people sought out Akbar on a daily basis. The inclusion of the episode makes better sense if we place it in the context of the kingly quality of justice. Qandahari stresses Akbar’s justice in at least two places in his list of Akbar’s virtues, stating that ‘He has won respect and obedience of the people by his justice and liberality; they are submissive while his sword is active,’ and ‘By the force of his justice, tyranny and injustice have fled a hundred stages away into the forest of non-existence.’13 In terms of the actual military conquest of Gujarat, the central episode in this campaign was the Mughal attack on the fort at Surat. Fortresses – including their construction, destruction, protection and attack – play a large part in Mughal and Safavid chronicles. Not surprisingly, one of Qandahari’s longest entries in his list of Akbar’s virtues discusses fortresses. Here, he describes the strength of Akbar’s fortifications: ‘He is the world-taker, the depth of the moat of his forts and strongholds reach the earth’s centre.’14 Qandahari goes on to note that Akbar managed to capture heavily guarded fortresses until ‘in short, the forts of the cities of Hindustan were conquered and held firmly’.15 The seventeenth year in the Tarikh-i ‘alam-ara-yi ‘Abbasi

In the Year of the Hare, the seventeenth year of his reign (1011/1602–1012/1604), the Safavid monarch Shah ‘Abbas embarked upon the conquest of Tabriz and Azerbaijan. This campaign included the King capturing forts in Nakhjavan and Yerevan. While the retaking of Tabriz was the central event of this year, Iskandar Beg, like Qandahari, intersperses his narrative with what could appear at the outset as irrelevant information, or even if relevant, then not immediately appearing to be of primary importance. For example, one of the points that Iskandar Beg makes in this chapter is that Shah ‘Abbas had very good intelligence, and this intelligence helped him with the conquest of Tabriz and other military goals he had at the time. Thus, Shah ‘Abbas heard about the size of the Ottoman army in Tabriz from his ‘efficient intelligence service’.16 And before taking the fortress in Nakhjavan, the King sent someone to gather intelligence about Ottoman forces there.17 These details correspond with the tenth discourse that Iskandar Beg lists in Book One of his chronicle, which deals with the theme of Shah ‘Abbas’s awareness of world affairs: ‘He [Shah ‘Abbas] knows in minute details what is going on in Iran and also in the world outside. He has a well-developed intelligence system, with the result that no one, even if he is sitting at home with his family, can express opinions which should not be expressed without running the risk of their being reported to the Shah.’18 Iskandar Beg also emphasises, in his entry for the Year of the Hare, the King’s good luck, or auspicious rule. For example, before deciding to retake Tabriz, we learn that Shah ‘Abbas’s intuition told him that now was the time to strike. After that, he consulted Munajjim Yazdi, his court astrologer, to choose the auspicious moment to set out.19 Similarly, the same year as the Tabriz campaign also saw the arrival of an embassy from Akbar, which brought the gift of a scabbard, a coat of mail and other costly jewels. This ‘gift of a sword’, Iskandar Beg states, ‘coming from a descendant of Timur, was seen as a happy augury of Shah’s ultimate victory in Azerbaijan and Shirvan’.20 The passage here corresponds with Iskandar Beg’s fourth discourse, devoted to Shah ‘Abbas’s good fortune, where he states that Shah ‘Abbas was the true ‘lord of — 204 —

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the auspicious conjunction’ (s.āh.ib-qirān), despite the fact that many previous monarchs had received this title.21 Here too, Iskandar Beg appropriates Timurid descent to work in favour of the Safavid monarch. One persistent element in both chronicles, and indeed we see this in many chronicles of this era, is the practice of the chronicler listing all the names of individuals whom the king appointed to various offices and positions. This information usually appears towards the end of a year’s entry or at the end of a military victory. Iskandar Beg is particularly consistent in doing this throughout his chronicle. We can perhaps better understand why when we look to his seventh discourse, which deals with the King’s policymaking and administration. Here, Iskandar Beg states that Shah ‘Abbas was a great administrator and that he particularly ‘tightened up provincial administration’: ‘Any amir or noble who was awarded a provincial governorship, or who was charged with the security of the highways, received his office on the understanding that he discharge his duties in a proper manner.’22 Conclusion

In our categorising of texts into genres such as chronicle or ‘mirrors for princes’, we perhaps forget the great overlapping of genres in these texts. All of the kingly virtues that Qandahari and Iskandar Beg emphasise have their roots in the earlier ‘mirrors for princes’ literature; however, they are not fully elaborated in the chronicles. Using the lists of kingly virtues at the beginning of these two chronicles, we can look back to the ‘mirrors for princes’ in order to understand why our chroniclers choose particular virtues. We can also look ahead to the chronological sections of the narratives themselves and better understand why certain information appears there. Utilising this approach to reading the chronicles makes the seemingly arbitrary pools of names, dates and places from which historians extract ‘facts’ take on a more deliberate form than previously thought, and reveals more about the nature of Persianate Safavid and Mughal historiography.

Notes

1 See, for example, the many articles written by Charles Melville, including ‘New light on the reign of Shah ‘Abbās: Volume III of the Afz.al al-Tawārīkh’, in Andrew J. Newman (ed.), Society and Culture in the Early Modern Middle East: Studies on Iran in the Safavid Period (Leiden, 2003), pp. 63–96. 2 See John E. Woods, ‘The rise of Timurid historiography’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 46 (1987), pp. 81–107 and Sholeh A. Quinn, Historical Writing during the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas: Ideology, Imitation, and Legitimacy in Safavid Chronicles (Salt Lake City, UT, 2000). 3 Sholeh A. Quinn, ‘Through the Looking Glass: kingly virtues in Safavid and Mughal historiography’, Journal of Persianate Studies 3 (2010), pp.1–13. 4 Ibid. 5 Hajji Muhammad Arif Qandahari, Tarikh-i Akbari: ma‘ruf bih tarikh-i Qandahari, ed. Hajji Sayyid Mu‘in al-Din Nadavi, Sayyid Azhar ‘Ali Dihlavi, Imtiyaz Ali ‘Arshi (Rampur, 1382/1962); translated by Tasneem Ahmad as Tarikh-i Akbari (Delhi, 1993). 6 Iskandar Beg Munshi, Tarikh-i ‘alam-ara-yi ‘Abbasi, ed. Iraj Afshar (Tehran, 1350 (1971)), p. 373; trans. by Roger Savory as History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great (Tarikh-e ‘Alamara-ye ‘Abbasi) (Boulder, CO, 1978), p. 514. vol. 3 index comp. Renée Bernhard. 7 Qandahari, Tarikh-i Akbari, pp. 155–6; trans. Ahmad, p. 190. 8 Ibid., p.156; trans. Ahmad, p. 190. 9 Ibid., p.156; trans. Ahmad, p. 190. 10 Ibid., p.37; trans. Ahmad, pp. 54–5. 11 Ibid., p.48; trans. Ahmad, p. 67. 12 Ibid., p.172; trans. Ahmad, pp. 199–200.

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13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Ibid., p.36; trans. Ahmad, p. 54. Ibid., pp.41–2; trans. Ahmad, p. 60. Ibid., p.42; trans. Ahmad, p. 60. Iskandar Beg, Tarikh-i ‘Alam-ara-yi ‘Abbasi, p. 640; trans. Savory, p. 831. Ibid., p.643; trans. Savory, p. 833. Ibid., p.1109; trans. Savory, p. 533. Ibid., pp.637–8; trans. Savory, p. 828. Ibid., p.647; trans. Savory, p. 837. Ibid., p.1102; trans. Savory, p. 519. Ibid., p.1106; trans. Savory, p. 527.

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22 Sir John Malcolm and the idea of Iran Ali M. Ansari

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lthough neglected by modern historians of Iran, Sir John Malcolm remains one of the most acute observers of Iranian society and culture. His continued relevance is in large part due to his enviable proximity to his subject; a proximity that was as much cultural as it was geographical. But it also reflects a striking, if somewhat disarming, degree of continuity in Iranian (political) culture. Major-General Sir John Malcolm joined the army at the age of 12 and spent much of his working career in the forging of British India, during which time he became close friends with one Arthur Wellesley, and it is indeed on his exploits in India that his fame largely rests.1 But in that capacity he was also employed as emissary to Iran, a country to which he paid three extended visits in 1800, 1808 and lastly in 1810 and which sufficiently stimulated his curiosity to result in two publications: his monumental History of Persia in two volumes, the first systematic treatment of Iranian history in the English language, first published in 1815 (a smaller folio edition being published in 1829), and the less well-known, though immensely rich, Sketches of Persia, first published in 1827, partly as a consequence of the enormous success enjoyed by Morier’s Hajji Baba of Isfahan. That acute satire on Iranian manners had been published in 1824, and if its success was to be applauded, its rapid adoption as the best single guide to the ‘Persians’ caused a good deal of consternation among many of Morier’s contemporaries – most vocally Harford Jones – and encouraged Malcolm to publish his own recollections of his travels in Iran.2 The reaction to Morier alerts us to the dangers of bracketing Malcolm and his contemporaries within a broad rubric of ‘orientalism’, which, since Edward Said’s eponymous polemic of — 209 —

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1978, has acquired negative connotations and undoubtedly further helped in the relegation of Malcolm (and his contemporaries) to the margins of contemporary scholarship. He is at best out of date and at worst a relic of an imperial age. Yet here I will argue that Malcolm remains relevant for the perceptive insights that he shed on Iranian culture, political and otherwise – many of which, despite periodic ‘revolutions’, remain pertinent today – and that he is best understood not as the product of empire, but as a child of the Enlightenment, which shaped both his vocabulary and world view.3 Viewed in this context, Malcolm’s cosmopolitanism, his determination to know the Iranians on their own terms, can be better understood and its consequences and influence better appreciated.4 Malcolm sought to understand the Iranians from within rather than simply observing them from without, and the extent to which he was able to achieve this is apparent in the tales and narratives that populate the Sketches, and that in many ways continued to underpin the British understanding of the idea of Iran even if the author himself was largely forgotten under a tide of new ‘Persianists’, armed with the rigorous method of emerging disciplines.5 Indeed one of the advantages Malcolm enjoyed was his cultural proximity to the subject matter and his ability and willingness to empathise with his interlocutors. By this, I do not mean that Malcolm was unaware of the faults of the Iranians, nor, as he saw it, the superiority of his own political culture. In a particular way, Malcolm was aware of the differences that separated the British (and Europeans) from the Iranians. But in a more general sense, Malcolm not only came from a preindustrial society, he was also in a social and geographic sense very much on the periphery of his world, though with clear ambitions to move to the centre. This not only gave him a sense of perspective and context that reinforced the cosmopolitan nature of his Enlightenment inheritance, it also gave him time. Malcolm was neither a professional historian nor did he occupy an age of growing urgency. Far from it; although rarely idle, Malcolm, a professional soldier, nonetheless found the time to acquire linguistic and, more importantly, cultural proficiency in a number of languages, most obviously Persian. Thus we find that on one particular sea voyage in 1808, Malcolm wrote to his wife that he had been ‘amusing’ himself with Persian poetry, in this case Sa‘di; he extolled the epic poetry of Ferdowsi, who was surpassed by no poet in the Western hemisphere, before adding, perhaps from exhaustion, that ‘When you read the best Persian Lyric Poets – you meet with great luxuriance – but there are a thousand weeds for one flower’.6 In achieving this, the fact that he had been posted to India, where the language and political culture remained Persian, was crucial.7 Indeed, perhaps one of the most acute pieces of advice he received was from the Iranian ambassador to India, Mohammad Nubbee Khan: ‘If you wish my countrymen to understand you, speak to their eyes not their ears.’8 Ritual mattered, and Malcolm understood that to impress his hosts a little patience would be required to impart the correct message, which was as much visual as oral. Preparations for his first audience began well before he came anywhere near the representatives of the ‘King of Kings’, maintaining visible discipline in his camp and an energetic routine, along with regular drills to ensure the ‘correct’ demeanour of his men.9 Above all he ensured that all his men were acutely aware of the particular etiquette that would be required of them, in particular, the art or indeed ‘science’ of sitting and rising. Malcolm added, ‘The regulations of our risings and standings, and movings and reseatings [sic], were, however, of comparatively less importance than the time and manner of smoking our Kelliâns and taking our coffee. It is quite astonishing how much depends — 210 —

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upon coffee and tobacco in Persia […] Men are gratified or offended according to the mode in which these favourite refreshments are offered.’ Malcolm continued to show in some detail how issues of status and rank mattered and were conveyed in subtle degrees of social behaviour, noting that while these may seem tedious and pedantic to the foreigner, they were of enormous importance in a country where a man’s social status depended on them.10 Malcolm also related how best to react when one was slighted. During a preliminary audience in Shiraz, Malcolm was directed to sit in a place somewhat lower than he had expected in accordance with his rank. Having taken his seat and indulged in some tobacco, Malcolm abruptly asked permission to take his leave and then, without actually awaiting a response, departed. As the officials hastened after him he explained his indignation at being treated with such disrespect, mounted his horse and rode off, with the officials in hot pursuit, gradually raising the level of the apologies, with Malcolm insisting that he would accept nothing less than a written apology. This was eventually granted and Malcolm returned. The audience continued, and Malcolm assured the transgressor, who had previous offered both his ‘eyes’ and ‘head’ in compensation, ‘that everything disagreeable was erased from the tablet of the Elchee’s [the ambassador’s] memory, on which nothing was now written but the golden letters of amity and accord’.11 This was political theatre writ large and Malcolm showed himself to be fluent not only in the Persian language but in the cultural environment it occupied. Able to navigate what must have seemed to outsiders (khārijī) to be a most Byzantine and often tedious set of social regulations, Malcolm earned the respect of his interlocutors, acutely aware that first impressions mattered. Of course for the Iranian elite, such rituals and nuances allowed them to discern ‘us’ from ‘them’, and, in the absence of any transparent legal regulation of society, to distinguish between outsiders and insiders. For travellers to Iran today, this informal system will be familiar. Another good example of Malcolm’s ability to navigate otherwise complicated political terrain was in the help he afforded to the drafting of an extensive preamble to a treaty between Great Britain and Iran, which was not only particularly florid in the language used to praise the various officials involved, as well as of course the respective monarchs, but also took care to ensure that the monarchs were approached as equals. In this Malcolm showed himself impressed with the skill of the Iranian scribes who, ‘after introducing the King of England’ skilfully limited him ‘to an undisputed sovereignty of the seas, that his power may not clash with that of the mighty Khoosroo [sic] of the day “whose saddle is the moon, and whose stirrup is the new moon” in his dominion of the earth’.12 The impressive list of titles accorded to Fath ‘Ali Shah also draws attention to another aspect of Malcolm’s account that is rarely noticed by historians of modern Iran, and the Qajar period in particular, and that is the idea of Iran itself and its depiction by Malcolm’s Iranian interlocutors. Malcolm was unusual in that he allowed his Iranian friends a voice, and there are numerous occasions throughout the memoir where he simply recounts a discussion and allows the Iranians themselves to both relate and explain their views without commentary or prejudice. He is not uncritical, but neither is he overly judgemental, and more often than not his comments are intended to provoke discussion. Above all, he never patronised the Iranians but regularly lauded their wit and intellectual dexterity, even if he found himself disagreeing with them. The result was an illuminating insight into early nineteenth-century Iranian attitudes from a diversity of backgrounds and social classes (although one must not exaggerate this), which suggested a much — 211 —

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more nuanced and subtle understanding of their world, at once proud yet not unaware of their difficulties and failures. It was perhaps this ‘self-awareness’, an attitude that would have appealed to the children of the Enlightenment, that led that most critical of observers, James Morier, to note that the Iranians were much more likely than the Ottomans to adopt and adapt themselves to the ideas of progress and, had it not been for their geographic distance from Europe, they would likely have been further ahead in the developmental stakes.13 Here we must address the question of vocabulary. Malcolm is criticised for his use of the word ‘barbarian’ when he talks of the Persians and this is usually regarded to be highly detrimental and condescending, presaging the more vitriolic ‘orientalist discourse’ that would follow. But this misunderstands the context of Malcolm’s intellectual inheritance, the historiography of the Enlightenment and the concept of ‘civilisation’ that resulted. Central to this discussion was Gibbon’s monumental study of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, which had appropriated and modified the classical distinctions of civilisation and barbarism. These retained many of their classical distinctions in generally denoting the ‘other’, though Gibbon found it difficult to apply the term to the Persians without qualification because the term clearly had acquired implications that could not apply. The Persians therefore remained ‘barbarians’, but were clearly not like other traditional barbarians in that they were civilised and had been corrupted.14 This corruption, decadence and decay had diminished their civilisation and therefore justified the distinction. The important point here was that the idea of civilisation was a process to be acquired and lost, and, moreover, as evidenced by the Iranian experience, one could have too much of civilisation. Furthermore, Malcolm, along with many of his contemporaries, concluded that the malaise afflicting the Iranians was political rather than social; that decadence and decay were the consequences of poor governance, not of an innate wickedness that affected Iranians as a people.15 This was a crucial distinction that informed much of Malcolm’s assessments. It was a narrative that would be contradicted by racial doctrines later in the century, but it nevertheless would have a profound influence on a generation of Iranian nationalists in the run-up to, and aftermath of, the Constitutional Revolution. Indeed the revolutionary nature of this thoroughly Enlightenment idea should not be underestimated.16 Similarly, while Malcolm always addressed his subject as Persia and the people as the Persians, he was well aware that the native term for the country was ‘Iran’.17 But since the audience he was addressing was English-speaking, he continued using the term that was familiar to them. Indeed, contrary to some later suggestions, the name and identity of ‘Iran’, albeit variously defined, was well known and popularly practised and, as Malcolm quite correctly surmised, it was an identity that revolved around a collective historical literature and mythology (most obviously the Shahnameh), the importance of which had to be appreciated if one was to begin to understand this particular political culture.18 Indeed at one stage Malcolm found himself protesting the importance of fables to an Iranian companion who struggled to disguise his contempt for such ‘children’s tales’. I quite understand, my good friend, the contempt you bestow upon the nursery tales with which the Hajee and I have been entertaining each other; but, believe me, he who desires to be well acquainted with a people will not reject their popular stories or local superstitions. Depend upon it, that man is far too advanced into an artificial state of society who is a stranger to the effects which tales and stories like these have upon the feelings of a nation; and his opinion of its character are never likely to be more erroneous than when, in the pride of reason, he despises such means of forming his judgement.19 — 212 —

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As even this brief interaction indicates, Malcolm’s Iranian interlocutors did not instinctively believe in all the tales they had inherited, nor were they averse to questioning and criticising their traditions and practices, even when they might relate to religion.20 A revealing passage relates to a visit to the ruins of Persepolis. When one Iranian commented that he had read in a history that it had been built by Solomon, another interjected that such comments had no merit and simply reflected Iranian vanity. He continued that it quite clearly had been built by Jamshid, the ‘first and most wonderful man of Persia’. Yet another added, ‘You Europeans […] believe that Alexander, to please a beautiful lady, set fire to this palace in a spirit of mischief; we Mahomedans [sic],’ he added with a hint of sarcasm, have the consolation to think this proud abode of unbelievers was destroyed when one of our first caliphs conquered Persia, through a spirit of holiness. It was a rule […] of the first pious propagators of our religion, always to give the infidels an earnest in this world of what they might expect in the next; so they and their profane works were included in one common sentence of destruction.21

On one thing, however, his companions appeared to agree, and that was a shared pride in an idea of Iran, however emotional, incoherent and contradictory it might occasionally be. When Malcolm dared to favourably compare the Greek hero Hercules with Rustam he was forced not only to beat a hasty retreat but to indulge in a panegyric of his own on the Iranian paladin and his trusty steed, which, in his own words, ‘restored me to the good graces of my friends’.22 On another occasion he related how Iranians greeted the arrival at a particularly fertile valley: ‘Iran hameen est! Iran hameen est!’ Yet these very same words were likewise mouthed sarcastically by the local governor who lamented the burdens of administering such rich territories inhabited by people who had no idea how to manage the resources God had given them. With more than a hint of melancholy he told Malcolm, ‘But God is just, as Sadee says: he gives fertile fields, roses and nightingales, with wicked men to one country, and deserts and screech-owls with righteous men, to another.’23 For Malcolm, as noted above, the problem was one of government and the proper regulation of society, and he sought to engage his Iranian colleagues on more than one occasion on the issue of the law, the role of women and social distinction. In an extended discussion on women and their effective exclusion from society, Malcolm put forward the argument that their absence deprived society of their moderating and indeed civilising influence. Only in the competition for a woman’s favours and approval could men’s tempers be tamed. In Malcolm’s words, ‘by making slaves of one half of the creation you make tyrants of the other’. Having listened patiently to Malcolm’s criticisms, one Jaffier Ali Khan rose for the defence, ‘and the ladies of his country could not have had a better advocate’. Jaffier Ali Khan proceeded, ‘Really sir, you form a very erroneous judgment of the condition of our women. In this, as in many other instances, where our religion or our customs are concerned vulgar errors pass from one to another till they are believed by all.’ He then enumerated the various privileges and rights enjoyed by women; noted that arranged marriages had both positive and negative aspects to them but were in general positive given that parents had the best interests of their children at heart, and in any case, could not an English father use means at his disposal to oblige his daughter to marry a man to whom she may have an aversion? — 213 —

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You English take your ideas of the situation of females in Asia from what you hear and read of the harem of kings, rulers and chiefs, who being absolute over both men and women of their territories, indulge in a plurality of wives and mistresses. These, undoubtedly, are immured within high walls, and are kept during life like slaves; but you ought to recollect, that the great and the powerful, who have such establishments, are not in proportion of one to ten thousand of the population of the country. 24

Matters took a tense turn when Malcolm raised the issue of polygamy and the Prophet’s wives. At this stage it was the Seyyed among the group who took up the challenge: We may believe that in permitting polygamy, [Muhammad] only followed the custom of the Jews; in whose Prophet, Moses, you Christians, as well as we Musselmans, believe. The limitation to four legitimate wives was intended as a check, no doubt, upon those habits of sensual indulgence, into which not only the affluent of the Jews, but the pagan Arabs had fallen […] But after all, the number who take advantage of the licence to have a plurality of wives is not near as great as you imagine […] Who can afford it?

The Seyyed concluded, You speak as if your pity were limited to our ladies; if you were more intimately acquainted with the condition of us husbands, we should have some share of your sympathy […] If you have any doubts respecting the equality of condition of their partners, do but listen now and then near their houses, and you will hear a shrill and sharp voice rating the supposed lord and master in a manner which will instantly relieve your mind from any anxiety you may now feel for the rights of the softer sex in Persia.25

On the question of social distinction and interaction there was an equally robust exchange. Malcolm, as befits a child of the (Anglo-American) Enlightenment, had unsurprisingly expatiated on the ‘freedom’ that existed in his society and contrasted it unfavourably with that which existed in Iran. His Iranian friends had pointed out that social classes mixed much more freely in Iran; ‘You speak of your consideration for inferiors, but you keep them at much greater distance than we do. Is this your boasted freedom?’ This resulted in an interesting explanation of the importance of class from Malcolm, who argued that it was the very equality of Englishmen under the law that required such strict maintenance of social distinction, in order, continued Malcolm, to retain that ‘respect’ that preserved the social order and allowed it to function.26 This informality of the Iranian system of social regulation extended to the question of the law, and, in Malcolm’s view, the absence of a clear legal system by which government might be regulated. Here too, his Iranian colleagues provided an answer both intriguing, while at the same time clearly inadequate to the needs of a developing state and government. The response to Malcolm’s query was quite simply as follows: ‘We have the maxims of Sâdeé [Sa‘di].’ Malcolm conceded from his own ‘observations’ that ‘these stories and maxims, which are known to all, from the king to the peasant, have fully as great an effect, in restraining the arbitrary and unjust exercise of power as the laws of the Prophet’.27 That this arbitrary power was inadequately restrained was apparent from the numerous conversations Malcolm was able to have with individuals who had witnessed, and more often than not participated in, the rise and establishment of the Qajar dynasty. Malcolm had much to say about the nature of the Iranian state and its problems in both the History of Persia and his Sketches. His reflections on both Agha Muhammad Khan and his nephew and successor, Fath ‘Ali Shah, — 214 —

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with whom he became acquainted, reveal aspects of the monarchy, the state and political culture that may not be immediately apparent from the many histories of Qajar Iran that have followed. Malcolm was neither overly critical or condescending of the nature of the state, but nor did he shy away from detailing what he often considered to be fundamental structural problems, principally, in his view, with regard to the nature and function of the law. It was a view that would be taken up and championed by the founding fathers of Iranian nationalism later in the century. In assessing the rise of the Qajars, Malcolm was of the view that the brutality of Agha Muhammad Khan was the price Iran had to pay for nearly a century of political turmoil.28 This brutality was tempered by an acute sense of man management; he was an individual capable of inspiring his soldiers while also retaining the allegiance of merchants and bureaucrats, most notably Hajji Ibrahim, who became his chief minister and confidant. For all the terror he inspired, Agha Muhammad Khan was not one to tolerate sycophancy, and frequently berated emissaries who embellished their reports with florid praise.29 Hajji Ibrahim was not exempt from this. Agha Muhammad Khan reproached him for approving of a rousing speech the King had given in anticipation of a war against Russia: ‘I will [never] run my head against their walls of steel, or expose my irregular army to be destroyed by their cannon and disciplined troops. I know better. Their shot shall never reach me; but they shall possess no country beyond its range. They shall not sleep; and let them march where they choose, I will surround them with a desert.’30 Hajji Ibrahim nevertheless stands in the great tradition of faithful and efficient bureaucrats ultimately undone by the paranoid ingratitude of their masters – in this case the nephew, Fath ‘Ali Shah, rather than the more notorious uncle, who by all accounts relied on Hajji Ibrahim. In an aside to Malcolm, Hajji Ibrahim noted his reason for supporting Agha Muhammad Khan in the internecine struggles for the throne. ‘My object has been to give my country one king; I cared not whether he was a Zend or a Kajir, so that there was an end of internal distraction. I have seen enough of these scenes of blood.’31 Fath ‘Ali Shah was by all accounts a far more placid and emollient character than his uncle, given to the pleasures of life and not immune from bouts of melancholy and reflection.32 He appeared to develop an affection for Malcolm and in a series of meetings gradually broke with the rigid formality that came to characterise his reign.33 Malcolm was even privy to the Shah’s somewhat adolescent sense of humour, and was frequently questioned on the nature of the world and the reality of Iran’s position in it.34 Like his uncle he was not averse to chastising courtiers who gave him an unduly optimistic picture of Iran’s power and influence, and he was remarkably sanguine on the propensity for dissimulation. On finding that Malcolm had contradicted the reports of his (Iranian) predecessor, Fath ‘Ali Shah retorted, ‘do not vex yourself, it is not your shame but ours; your predecessor was a Persian, and we all exaggerate – you speak truth.’35 At the same time, Fath ‘Ali Shah had inherited some less savoury characteristics from his uncle, including a tendency to avarice, which might have consolidated the treasury but did little to advance the economic development of the country. More problematic was his attitude to power, the absolute nature of which he appeared to enjoy despite its obvious failings. ‘Your king is, I see, only the first magistrate of the country […] Such a condition of power has permanence but it has no enjoyment: mine is enjoyment […] but then it has no permanence. When I am gone, my sons will fight for the crown and all will be confusion: there is however, one consolation, Persia will be governed by a soldier.’36 — 215 —

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Malcolm had of course long come to a similar if less sanguine conclusion. There could be no stability or prosperity when all government was personal.37 It was a view that in many ways was shared by others. Reflecting on the cruelty that had defined the rise of the Qajars, a veteran who had fought for the Zand noted ruefully that the Qajars ‘are a sad set, and we shall never have good times again while they keep the throne’.38 Malcolm had personal reasons to experience this. Having made many friends among the Iranians, he clearly lamented their lot as much as he admired their stoicism. Hajji Ibrahim faced his imminent dismissal and execution with an air of nobility and fatalism that distressed Malcolm.39 For all his own sense of duty and priorities he clearly appreciated the friendships he had developed, and recognised, as one of his companions was to note, that the Iranians were ‘not all so bad as you think us; we have some redeeming characters; these may be rare, but they still exist; but that, you English will as yet hardly believe’.40 This, among with the many other insightful and occasionally poignant anecdotes, seemed the perfect rejoinder to Morier’s characterisation of a feckless and mischievous people. The irony cannot have escaped Malcolm’s attention, that a country that boasted of having ‘advanced to an artificial state of society’, was increasingly inclined to accept and adopt a satirical ‘fiction’ over the scholarly assessments of others. Malcolm for his part must have been gratified at the generous reception of his History, at least in intellectual circles, gaining him access to such luminaries of the age as Sir Walter Scott, who wrote to Malcolm congratulating him on producing a history ‘so much wanted in our literature’. It says much of Malcolm’s affections that when the University of Oxford awarded him an Honorary Doctorate in 1816 he was presented to much acclamation as ‘Sir John Malcolm, KCB and Knight of the Persian Order of the Lion and Sun’.41 Notes





1 For a short biography of Malcolm, see Rodney Pasley, Send Malcolm! The Life of Major General Sir John Malcolm 1769–1833 (London, 1982). Malcolm’s family were originally from Fife, and his grandfather moved to Dumfrieshire. Malcolm was born in 1769 near the village of Langholm, ibid., p. 6. On the high esteem in which he was held by the Duke of Wellington, see ibid., p.5. See also A.K.S. Lambton, ‘Major-General Sir John Malcolm (1769–1833) and The History of Persia’, Iran 33 (1995), p. 97. The standard biography of Malcolm in two volumes was published by John William Kaye in 1856. 2 On the influence of Hajji Baba, see C.J. Wills, In the Land of the Lion and Sun or Modern Persia: Being Experiences of Life in Persia from 1866–81 (London, 2nd edition, 1893, new edition Mage Publishers, 2004), p. 3. For Harford Jones’ plea, see the preface to his own memoirs, Sir Harford Jones Brydges, An Account of the Transactions of His Majesty’s Mission to the Court of Persia in the Years 1807–11 (London, 1834), viii. On Malcolm’s own protestation, see Sir John Malcolm, Sketches of Persia (1st edition 1827; London, 1849, Elibron Classics reprint, 2005), xiii. 3 Sir John Malcolm, The History of Persia (1st edition 1815; London, 1829, Elibron Classics reprint, 2004), vol. 2, p. 451. See also ibid., pp.344, 391. 4 See Karen O’Brien, Narratives of Enlightenment: Cosmopolitan History from Voltaire to Gibbon (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 46–152. 5 On this point, see Lambton, ‘Major-General Sir John Malcolm’, p. 107. Contrary to Lambton I suggest that this may be considered a virtue. 6 Pasley, Send Malcolm!, p. 31. On Ferdowsi, see also Malcolm, Sketches, pp. 17, 204. 7 A number of Malcolm’s companions to Iran were resident in India, see Malcolm, Sketches, pp. 56–7, 62. 8 Ibid., p.26; see also Malcolm, History of Persia, vol. 2, p. 399. 9 Malcolm, Sketches, p. 38. 10 Ibid., p.63. 11 Ibid., pp.65–6. Note that Malcolm made the pretence of writing his memoirs anonymously and hence spoke of himself (the Elchee) in the third person. 12 Ibid., pp.80–2; the full text is worth reading. 13 J.A. Morier, A Journey Through Persia, Armenia, and Asia Minor to Constantinople, in the years 1808 and 1809 (London, 1812, Elibron Classics reprint, 2008), pp. 355–6. 14 On Gibbon’s view of the Persians, see J.G.A. Pocock, Barbarism and Religion, iv: Barbarians, Savages and Empires (Cambridge, 2005), p.11. See also in this respect François Furet, ‘Civilization and barbarism in Gibbon’s History’, Daedalus 105, no 3 (1976), pp.209–16. See also Malcolm, History of Persia, vol. 2, pp. 307, 346–7.

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15 Harford Jones Brydges, Account, viii; Malcolm, History of Persia, vol. 2, p. 353. 16 See in this regard A.K.S. Lambton ‘Justice in the medieval Persian theory of kingship’, Studia Islamica 17 (1962), pp. 100–2. Arguably this distinction is reflected in the idea of the Just King, in which the idea of good governance is personalised but by extension inherently fragile. Moreover, in a fundamental sense government was about management, not change, and the king was bound to maintain order among the wicked through fear; see, for example, Malcolm, History of Persia, vol. 2, p. 344. 17 Malcolm, History of Persia, vol. 1, p. 1. See also in this respect, Edward Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ed. D. Womersley (Harmondsworth, 2000), p. 1032. 18 See, for example, Sir John Chardin, Travels in Persia (London, 1927), p. 126. Chardin’s Travels were first published in French between 1686 and 1711. A two-volume English edition was published in 1724. 19 Malcolm, Sketches, pp. 190–1. 20 Ibid., p.60; on discussions on Arash the Archer see ibid., p. 198. On the propensity for alcohol, see Malcolm, History of Persia, vol.2, p.423. 21 Malcolm, Sketches, pp. 110–11; on their attitude to history, see ibid., p. 208. Here it is recorded that the Court had expected Malcolm to come dressed in the manner of the Sherley brothers. On the importance of Nawruz, see Malcolm, History of Persia, vol.2, p.404. 22 Malcolm, Sketches, pp. 113–4. 23 Ibid., pp.143, 232. 24 Ibid., p.164. 25 Ibid., p.166. Malcolm added for good measure that such levity from the Seyyed produced much ‘mirth’ among the group. On the importance of motherhood, see ibid., p. 167. 26 Ibid., p.239. 27 Ibid., p.69. 28 Malcolm, History of Persia, vol. 2, pp. 182–3. 29 Malcolm, Sketches, p. 82. Also, Malcolm, History of Persia, vol. 2, p. 209. 30 Malcolm, History of Persia, vol. 2, p. 201. 31 Malcolm, Sketches, p. 222. 32 On the shah’s melancholy, see ibid., p. 221. 33 Ibid., p.29. 34 Ibid., p.217. 35 Ibid., p.213. 36 Ibid., p.215. 37 Ibid., p.233. 38 Ibid., pp.126–8. 39 Ibid., p.223. 40 Ibid., p.87. 41 Pasley, Send Malcolm!, p. 86. This was but one of several honours bestowed on Malcolm, see Malcolm, Sketches, p. 228. For a detailed discussion of the Order, see Denis Wright, ‘Sir John Malcolm and the Order of the Lion and the Sun’, Iran 17 (1979), pp.135–41.

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23 Edward Granville Browne amongst the Qalandars1 Jan Just Witkam

T

he account by Edward Granville Browne (1862–1926) of his Persian journey in 1887–8, A Year Amongst the Persians,2 is a remarkable text in the genre of Orientalist travel literature. It is a directly appealing story, witty, informative and erudite, and each chapter builds up sufficient tension to make the reader wish to continue reading. Browne’s A Year Amongst the Persians

In the Year E.G. Browne relates his trip of slightly more than one year, from late September 1887 to 9 October 1888, from England to Iran and back. The journey brought him from England to Constantinople, then via Trebizond to Tabriz, Tehran, Isfahan, Shiraz, Yazd and Kirman and back again via Yazd, Kashan, Tehran and Russia to England. Despite his evident talent for travelling and writing about it, Browne did not become a traveller but went into a career of scholarship. Browne tells his story, not in an abstract way, but as a long chain of anecdotes, encounters and conversations. A recurrent theme in the Year, and in Browne’s subsequent early writings for that matter, is his fascination with Babism. For Browne the persecuted Babis may have resembled the first generations of Christians in Rome, with all the contrast between them and the cruel and corrupt rulers, both in Rome and in Qajar Iran. The journalist in Browne, because reporting was one of his many talents, may have been attracted by the first-hand stories that he received from his Persian interlocutors. — 218 —

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Another structure that can be observed in the composition of the Year is one of a crescendo. From a journey of physical hardship through eastern Anatolia and north-west Iran the experience slowly shifts to hardship on a more spiritual level. Of course, the oases that he found in the deserts through which he passed are described as well. From an observer Browne gradually became a participant, a process that reached its culmination during his stay in Kirman, his most eastern destination, where he lived almost without interruption between 4 June and 20 August 1888. Once the reader of the Year has arrived at the penultimate chapter, ‘amongst the K.alandars’, this build-up towards a climax becomes evident. Nowhere else, Browne writes, did he ‘make so many friends and acquaintances of every grade of society, and every shade of piety and impiety’ as in Kirman.3 Shortly after his departure from Kirman, on his homeward journey, he could remember the names of almost a hundred Kirmanis with whom he had been in contact during the more than two months of his stay in the town, and, indeed, of every shade they were. Browne devotes two full chapters to his stay in Shiraz and another two to his stay in Kirman. His Kirman experience was so different from his stay in other towns because it was only there that he did not stay with friends or acquaintances, but rented a house in a garden outside the city. Living independently provided him with the freedom that was necessary to receive whomever he wanted to see and whenever he wished to do so, and to further arrange his life according to his own ideas and not according to the whims of his entourage. That gave him a broad view of Kirmani society and it showed him the wide range from normal, law-abiding society to the free and sinful world of the wandering mystics, the Qalandar’s universe.4 It was in Kirman that Browne became an opium addict. He tells his readers about his encounters with Sir Opium, into whose realm he first ventured because he wanted to alleviate the pain of an inflammation of the eye. His confessional candour in this is complemented by his account of how he cured himself of the drug. In one of his small notebooks Browne quoted a poem about opium: ‫تساود ىب ضرم دوخ دوش ىداع وچ كيل * تساود ار ىضرم ره ام نويفا ترضح‬ His Excellency Opium is not the cure for every disease, But when he becomes a habit, he himself is a disease without cure.5

This is well in accord with the romantic views on opium given by De Quincey and Coleridge, and may, before his departure, have been Browne’s opinion as well. In his time the use of opium was considered much less opprobrious than it is now, yet how he decided to give up (and leave Kirman) is implicitly told as a story of English fortitude. However, Browne is honest enough to tell his readers that it was not only he who gave up, but also his faithful servant Hajji Safar, who initially broke the enchantments of ‘the flowery labyrinths of the poppy-land’6 for him. If we are to believe Theodore Dalrymple, giving up the habit of opium eating is not a big deal, and in fact Browne’s story of how he did so supports Dalrymple’s argument.7

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Browne’s travel notes

The Year is interesting enough. Browne reproduces his numerous encounters and conversations with Persians in a lively way, often using direct speech. No doubt they are stylised accounts, but they are told in a convincingly authentic way, and the Diary shows that the stylisation was often done on the day itself. Browne must have sat almost every day for an hour or so to write, often after a tiring journey or an evening of entertainment. In Browne’s account of his stay in Kirman this is also the case, but in this episode his actual experiences exceed his published accounts by far. This becomes clear from the Diary and, albeit to a lesser extent, from the other travel notes that Browne used for writing the Year. This Diary, and the travel notes, have survived and are, together with a few other materials, presently kept in the library of Pembroke College, Browne’s own college, in Cambridge. Browne’s extensive scholarly archive, consisting of manuscripts, and many notes and letters, is kept in Cambridge University Library. Additional materials were given to the University Library at several stages. Bosworth mentions the ‘original manuscript’ of Browne’s Year having been found in the Browne family papers and deposited in the Cambridge University Library. I have not come across it there, though.8 A preliminary outline listing of these materials is available in the Library. Over the course of a number of years several attempts were made in Cambridge University Library to describe the



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FIG. 23.1

Head of a young man with a round felt hat, head of an old, bearded man, seated figure of a young man with a cup in his hand, E.G. Browne, Diary, p.204, three drawings, pencil, paper.

FIG.

23.2 opposite left Head of a young man and standing boy in a round felt hat and slippers, E.G. Browne, Diary, p.205, two drawings, pencil, paper.

FIG.

23.3 opposite right Heads of nine young boys, head of a young man, head of an old, bearded man, head of a Sufi with an axe and a standing nurse, E.G. Browne, Diary, p.206, 12 drawings, pencil, paper.

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Browne papers, but this was never fully achieved and it never resulted in a publication. Such an inventory is an absolute prerequisite for a ‘Life of E.G. Browne’, which so far remains unwritten.9 I have profited from the preliminary lists and notes of the Browne papers made in the 1990s by Ms Jill Butterworth, the then Oriental librarian, an old friend. The Browne Diary and notebooks in the Pembroke library are marked LC II, 73 (subnumbered 1–4), LC II, 74 and LC II, 75. Of these LC II 73 (3) is the first volume of the Diary, starting with Browne’s arrival in Trebizond on 4 October 1887, whereas 1, 2 and 4 in LC II, 73 are other travel notebooks – not really diaries – but all with relevance to Browne’s Year. LC II, 74 (volume 2 of the Diary) covers the period between 25 November 1887 and 6 April 1888, and LC II, 75 (volumes 3 and 4 of the Diary) covers the rest of 1888 until Browne’s homecoming on 10 October 1888. That is followed on pages 508–[538] by an ‘Index of the Four Volumes of my Diary in Turkey and Iran from October 4th 1887 to October 10, 1888’, which Browne made after he had returned to England. He also compiled a ‘List of Persian and other friends & acquaintances’ arranged per locality in the order of his journey, which he included at the end of volume 4 of the Diary.10 Browne’s notes on the homeward journey are also in Pembroke Library LC II, 73 (4), which he may have intended to be volume 5 of the Diary. It is possible that the notes in LC II, 73 (4) were used by Browne to make a fluent story in a neat version at the end of volume 4 of the Diary.

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So, apart from a few lacunae, the Diary seems complete and Browne apparently only started writing upon arrival in Trebizond. Browne’s notes in the Pembroke library consist not only of the actual Diary that he kept during his trip but also of several smaller notebooks, containing, among other things, domestic and financial notes, which at some stages of the journey Browne kept in a meticulous way. These are kept in the Pembroke library as LC II, 73 (1, 2 and 4). These notes include daily household expenses, especially, though not exclusively, those for the Kirman episode. They show us in a rather down-to-earth way that the spiritual outbursts in Kirman needed a simple physical basis in order to exist. It is excellent to lead a life with your pantheistic friends on wine, spirits, tobacco and opium, but such a free life needs to be organised as well. Maybe Browne used his detailed household accounting as a means to remain in keeping with the world around him. While travelling Browne kept his Diary on an almost daily basis. He did so in an extensive way, not just by jotting down notes in telegraphic style, and the result is a nearly publishable text. The accounts in the Year largely correspond with those in the Diary, but there are two significant exceptions. First there is Browne’s relatively long stay in Tehran, from 24 November 1887 till 7 February 1888. In his account of Tehran in the Year Browne relinquishes the form of the diary in favour of a summary of his activities and a walk through the town. This makes the chapter on Tehran in the Diary an as yet unknown text. The other important difference between the Diary and the Year concerns the details of the Kirman episode. Travelling with Browne

Browne at first did not travel alone. He was accompanied ‘by an old college friend, who having just completed a term of office at the hospital, was desirous to travel’.11 However, irritations between the two travellers soon arose and in Tehran they decided to split up. Browne’s companion, Haviland, who in the Year is always referred to as ‘H –––’, departed on 29 December 1887 from Tehran, and Browne stayed on for a while there. In Iran they did not meet again. H ––– does not play a role of any significance in the Year, but in the Diary the way in which the friends part ways is more dramatic. In order to ensure himself some privacy Browne took several practical precautions. He could not, of course, have an eye on his Diary at all times. In order to protect his text, and thereby himself, against the possibly indiscreet eyes of his English companion, or his servants, or his Persian friends, or the Persian authorities, or European readers after his return to England he devised several ways of encoding, all quite straightforward in fact. Concrete references to Babi matters, and especially the names of Persian Babis, he wrote in nagri script, which he could assume that nobody, except maybe the odd Hindu, who was no party to this matter anyway, would be able to decipher. More intimate physical details and conversations he concealed by writing down in English, but in Persian script, making them in one stroke illegible for Persians and Europeans alike. Sometimes he would write such passages in Persian language but in Latin script, which produced the same effect. However, writing Persian in Latin script may have had a more innocent reason: the truthful rendering of the spoken language. Occasionally Browne also used the so-called treescript or cypress-script, the workings of which he explains in the Year.12 Sometimes he recorded — 222 —

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in Turkish thoughts that he wanted to keep private.13 An example is in his entry for Tuesday, 18 October 1887, on page 25 of his Diary. After his departure from Erzurum, Browne wrote, encoded in Persian script: ‫دولب مس دسپ ىا زا ىرتنسد تگ ده ىا ريف وت نگب‬ Began to fear I had got dysentery as I pissed some blood.14

This was information that he wished to keep to himself, as was a similar entry on his fear of being ill, which he recorded a few days later on Friday, 21 October 1887.15 The encoded notes on the irritations between Haviland and Browne forebode the later parting of ways of the friends, details about which are particularly scarce in the Year. On Thursday, 3 November 1887, while in Tabriz, he wrote in a rather depressed mood:

‫پوتس تنك تي دنا ىتس وت تنو ىا زا ريه كنپوتس توبا ود وت توآ ىا تهو وت زا دلزپ چم ىرو ساو ىا‬ ‫ديووا ىوت سشكنا زو ىه زا دناليواه تو وار ىا رثار – زيد ويف ىا نذ روم تيلوسنوك ىذ نا ريه‬ ‫ىم تذ ليف دنا دنم فا تیتس لبارزيم – ناهفصا وت تيرتس وگ دنا تا فا )؟( … ىه تهو مورف نارهط‬ ‫– رويليف تيلپموك ىا نيب زه || ىنروج‬ I was very much puzzled as to what I ought to do about stopping here as I want to stay and yet cannot stop here in the Consulate more than a few days. Rather a row with Haviland as he was anxious to avoid Tehran from what he[…](?) of it and go straight to Isfahan. Miserable state of mind and feel that my journey has been a complete failure.16

On Friday, 18 November 1887, Browne did not encrypt, but simply wrote in Persian:

‫دهاوخيم وا هك درك دياب هچ ميسرب نارهطب هك ىتقو هكنا ۂراب رد متشاد ـه اب عازن ىردق دعب‬ ‫تاداع بلاطو مهاوخ ىمن چيه ار نيا نمو دراد ناتسكنرف ىاهتمعن ليمو ميورب ىكنرف لتوه كيب‬ ‫– هجو چيهب متسين ناتسكنرف لها تبحمو‬ Later I had quite a row with H about what to do once when we would arrive in Tehran. He wants to go to some European hotel and likes European comfort, but I do not want that at all. In no way am I after the manners and predilections of the Europeans.17

But Haviland had his way and the two travellers took up lodgings in Hotel Prevost, one of the two Western-style hotels in Tehran at the time.18 On 6 December 1887, the row between the friends intensified and over the next few days the two friends had more exhausting quarrels and other mutual irritations; it finally became clear that they had to go their own ways. And so it happened. Haviland left on 29 December 1887.19 On Saturday, 31 December 1887, New Year’s Eve, which is never a good time to have an existential crisis, he wrote: ‘Wish very much I had gone with Haviland, now that it is too late’, to which he added in Persian script: ‫سنشفلس ىم فا تنمشنپ ىذ رفس وت نگب وان ىا دنا سذ زا فيل ىم نا كيتسم ىا لتيف وس ديم رفن ىا‬ ‫تا دنالواح ثو گنتيم رثونا ىم تنارگ لو سه ىب تا فا دنا ىم ويگروف دگ ىم – سندنكنا دنا‬ ‫سندكو نوا ىم وت ويد ىب وت گنرفس ىذ ون ىا روف دنم نا وان رفس ىا زا درفس رون وه ىا – ناهفصا‬ – — 223 —

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I never made so fatal a mistake in my life as this and I now begin to suffer the punishment of my selfishness and unkindness. My God, forgive me, and if it be His will grant me another meeting with Haviland at Isfahan. I have never suffered as I suffer now in mind (?) for I know the suffering to be due to my own wickedness.20

The next day, Sunday, 1 January 1888, he continued in this vein: ‫لتيف ىم رووا گندورب دنا لوس ىا گنئيس ىلدراه – ىد زريي وين لبيرون ىرو ىا لوه ىذ نا ده‬ ‫زا جربميك تا دنا رتكد ىا زا ثوب ريرك ىم دنيور وه ىا تذ ون ىموت سميس تسوملا تا – كيتسم‬ ‫درفس وه ىا دنا رفس وت ورسد ىا – دناليواح وت ىلدب دويهب دنا تكپسر فلس ىم تسول گنوه زا لو‬ ‫– چم ىد وت‬ Had on the whole a very horrible (?) New Year’s Day, hardly seeing a soul and brooding over my fatal mistake. It almost seems to me now that I have ruined my career both as a doctor and at Cambridge, as well as having lost my self-respect, and behaved badly to Haviland. I deserve to suffer and I have suffered today much.21

A fatal mistake made, a ruined medical career, a loss of self-respect, his Cambridge perspectives gone forever? What does it all mean? They were just staying in Tehran and had a difference of opinion on where to go next, so Browne tells us in the Year. What could have gone on between the two men and since when? Fortunately, there was plenty of distraction in Tehran. Already a week later, on Sunday, 8 January 1888, Browne, still in Tehran but all alone now, wrote: We walked down to the house of Doctor Muhammad. […] The entertainment was much like that of the other night, only more so: the wine and rák.í circulated freely, also the k.alyans [hookahs], & the tongues of the at first silent guests were loosened: Akbar Mírzá subsided into English, the others into a mixture of French & Persian for my benefit, I imagine. Towards the end, a wild sort of war dance in which we all took part, took place around the small minstrel boy, the dancers chanting monotonously ‘Bárak alláh kuchulú – Bárak alláh kuchulú’ (may God bless the little one) over and over again, & then they sat down, clapping their hands in time.

‫ىلگنديسكا – ردلا ىد – نوا دنا ىتيرپ ثوب زيوب رذآ وت تنزرپ ريو ريذ ىوب لرتسنم ىذ زديسب‬ ‫ون تن ود ىا – شاتسوم ىا فا سيرت تستنيف ىذ دنا زيا كلب جرال دنا زواربيآ دچرآ لفتويب ثو وس‬ ‫زجيپ روا تسوه روا فوا زنس ىذ ريو زيوب زيذ فا‬ Besides the minstrel boy there were present two other boys both pretty and one, the older, exceedingly so with beautiful arched eyebrows and large black eyes and the faintest trace of a moustache. I do not know if these boys were the sons of our host or pages.

And a bit further on in the Diary Browne, now in Shiraz, relates: ‘We sat & smoked cigarettes, & talked for a while: then the two slept, & the only one awake besides myself was the beautiful boy.’ ‫لتسوه فوا تروس تفس ىا ويگ ىه ىلتنزرپ دنا نشريمدا ثو مه تا گنزيگ مه وت تيسوپوا ريذ تس ىا‬ ‫تنم ىه توه ون تن دد ىا – نشنتا ىم تكرتا وت‬: ‫مه چورپا تيم ىا تذ ىم مروفنا وت دشو ىه ىثوه‬ – ‫گنئس ىم دسردا ىه ىلتنزرپ – مه تا كول دريد ىلدراه ىا تذ ىطويب سه ثو موكرووا وس ساو ىا تب‬ ‫تا – تا كنرد ىم وت فراعت رتفآ دنا مه تارب ىت مس ده ىه نذ – ديناوخب ار طخ نآ ديناوت ىم بحاص‬ ‫ىه چيوه وت ؟ديباوخ ىمن مه دكسا دنا ىم ىب تس دنا تنو دنا رگنول ىنا تاريب تن دوك ىا ثگنل‬ ‫زاو ىا لت سسنالگ سه ثو ىم چروكس وت دوينيتنوك ىه تب – دسيس نشيسرونوك روآ دنا – ون ديلپر‬ — 224 —

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I sat there opposite him, gazing at him with admiration and presently he gave a soft sort of whistle to attract my attention. I did not know what he meant: whether he wished to inform me that I might approach him, but I was so overcome with his beauty that I hardly dared look at him. Presently he addressed me saying s.āh.ib mī tawānīd ān khat.t.-rā bi-khwānīd? [Sir, can you read this writing?]. Then he had some tea brought (to) him and after ta‘āruf [polite formulas] to me: ‘Drink it’. At length I could not breathe any longer and (he) went and sat by me and (I) asked him namīkhwābīd? [Don’t you sleep?], to which he replied ‘No,’ and our conversation ceased, but he continued to scorch me with his glances till I was shivering like one stricken with a […] (?) sword. When the shāhzāda [prince] who was sitting next (to) me woke, the boy himself taking pity (on) me called the shāhzāda’s attention to it, and the others gradually waking I was given an ‘abā [mantle] to keep myself warm with. When all were awake, qālyān [hookah] and chāy [tea] were brought and general conversation ensued, the rain continuing with vigour till about 5 hours it stopped and we gradually left the garden and after waiting I bade for the horses, mounted and rode home. During the ride I in vain kept my horse near the beautiful boy in hopes that he would give me some sign or his name and abode by which I might hope to see him again, but either because he had not the opportunity or the wish to make further advances, he said nothing and made no sign, and I arrived home about 6 having lost my heart to this Turk-i Shirazi.22

The conversations in Shiraz remained full of liberties that Browne excluded from his Year, and which he kept to himself in his Diary. On Thursday, 11 April 1888, he recorded from one of his companions: ‫زوه تسگنوي ىذ ثو وول نا ىلدم زاو ىه تذ زاو س هدازهش ىذ ثو پشدنيرف زه فوا نزير ىذ ذس ىه‬ ‫’وا لامج وحم‘ تيم زتس ىه مه ثو ىلبمسا نا نا زا ىه نوه تذ دنا ازريم تياده وا تيانع زا مين‬ – ‫سيطول لوفوآ ريو س هدازهش ىذ تذ دس وسلا ىه‬: ‫نروت نا ره وه لآ دنا هدنج ىا نا تگ دوو ىذ تذ‬ ‫دتيل را كتس دسوي ىذ تذ دس ىلتنروك زاو تا تذ دنا ’ىراك شوشحم‘ روف ىلپمس تب ىنوم ويس وت تون‬ ‫مور ىذ تينمويلا وت دعقم سدشرم نا لذنك‬

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He said the reason of his friendship with the shāhzādas [princes] was that he was madly in love with the youngest whose name is ‘Inayat or Hidayat Mirza and that when he is in an assembly with him he stays mute mah.w-i jamāl-i ū [annihilated by his beauty]. He also said that the shāhzādas were awful lūt.īs [faggots]: that they would get in a junda [harlot] and all have her in turn not to save money but simply for mah.shūsh-kārī [‘getting worked up’]23 and that it was currently said that they used to stick a lighted candle in Murshid’s maq‘ad [behind] to illuminate the room.24 Browne in Kirman

If Browne had not suddenly been called upon for his medical qualities, the merry-go-round in Shiraz could have lasted for quite a while. However, on 13 April 1888, an urgent telegram arrived and his help was requested for a Mrs Decroix, a European lady who was stuck in Dihbid, five stages north-east of Shiraz. She was in labour, but had not yet succeeded in delivering the child with the help of a local midwife.25 The message brought Browne down to earth again; he hastened away from Shiraz and arrived in Dihbid still in time to be of some use. That done, Browne decided to go on, first to Yazd, where he stayed from Saturday, 5 May till Friday, 24 May 1888, and from there he proceeded to Kirman, which was to become his furthest destination in Iran, and where he arrived on Tuesday, 4 June 1888. In Kirman Browne evidently had arrived in a small world of his own, together with a Persian in-crowd of only a few regular visitors. He rented a house and a garden outside the town and he lived there with little contact with the townspeople. This freedom, Browne says himself in the Year,26 made his relatively long stay in Kirman the most unrestrained one. It gave occasion to several wild episodes. For details of these we need to go to the Diary, because the Year at best implies only some of these to a reader who is able to read between the lines. Amongst the Qalandars

The Qalandars in the Islamic realm have, been compared, not incorrectly, with modern-day hippies. The two chapters in the Year about Kirman tell the reader about Kirman society and about Browne’s life there between 4 June and 20 August 1888, when he enjoyed the freedom of his isolated garden villa. Two of Browne’s companions stand out in the Kirman episode; they are both given pseudonyms by Browne. The first of the two Kirmani protagonists is Ustá Akbar (actual name Usta ‘Askar), a parcher of peas and Browne’s local Babi contact and informant. The other is Sheikh Ibrahim, whose actual name was Shaykh Sulayman. This Sheikh Ibrahim in Browne’s accounts gains almost mythical dimensions: ‘He was, indeed, one of the most extraordinary men whom I ever met, and presented a combination of qualities impossible in any but a Persian Anarchist, antinomian, heretic, and libertine to the very core, he gloried in drunkenness’, and so on.27 Not all of the unpublished features of Browne’s Kirman episode are documented in the Diary. There is in fact a hiatus of about two weeks between the last date in volume 3 and the first date in volume 4 of the Diary; this hiatus covers the period between Sunday, 23 June and Sunday, 7 July 1888. In its present state the Diary does not seem to be incomplete, because the pages have consecutive numbering.28 It is possible that Browne did write about these — 226 —

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weeks, but that he lost or destroyed the pages. Browne’s household records of these two weeks are available in the smaller notebook29 and according to those records nothing extraordinary seems to have happened. It is evident that Browne was gradually going native. In his Diary he started adopting the Islamic lunar calendar, and, instead of writing in English in Persian script, he started to write his secret passages the other way around, in the Persian language but in Latin script. On Monday, 29 July 1888, Browne recorded a lengthy conversation with Usta ‘Askar about how to meet a dancing boy: ‘He then beckoned me to come out into the garden, & continued, Agar murád-i-tú ín ast ki úrá bi-bíníd, ú barátan bi-khwánad ú bas, yak rúz mí-áramash bi-kháné-iAsad Ulláh Khán, ammá agar wará-yi án matlabí dáríd, úrá tak mi-áram ínjá túyi dúláb. Pardé az man makun, : har chi mí-khwáhí bi-man bi-gú, hájat bi-k.alláshí níst,: agar ‘áshik.-i-ín pisar shudé íd, ú mí-khwáhíd úrá mach kuníd, yá pahlúyi ú bi-khwábíd, yá úrá bi-kuníd, úrá tak ú tanhá ínjá mi-áram shab ínjá báshad: du si jám-i-shiráb bi-ash bi-dih tá yawm bi-shavad, va harchí mi-khwáhí bi-kun. [If it is your wish to see him, that he sings for you and nothing else, then I will bring him one day to the house of Asadallah Khan, but if you have a wish that goes beyond that, then I will bring him here alone in a chest, but don’t hide anything from me. Whatever you want, tell me, there is no need for dissimulation. If you haven’t fallen in love with that boy, and you wish to kiss him, or to sleep with him, or to do him, then I will bring him here sole and alone so that he can stay here for the night. Give him two or three cups of wine till daybreak and do whatever you want.] He talked most in the same strain, saying, ‘Agar dukhtar-i-khushgil mí-khwáhí, hast: yakí rá dar ismi-i-khud mí-gíram, wa úrá bi-kháné-i-khud mí-áram: shumá ánjá shab mi-á’íd, wa hích kas nakhwáhad fahmíd. Agar bacha mí-khwáhíd, yak bacha-i-bisyár khushgil ast ki gáh gáhí bi-dúkán-iman mī-áyad wa merá iltimás kunad, ‘ki merá bi-kháné-i-khud bi-yár’ ammé úrá na-khwástam. [If you wish to have a nice girl, that is available. I take one in my name, and bring her to my house. Then you come there at night, and nobody will find out. If you want to have a boy, there is a very nice boy that from time to time comes to my shop and begs me: “Please, bring me to your house,” but I did not want him.] I could not help thinking of Sintram & the little Master,30 or indeed of Mephistopheles himself, wa-larzish ba badan-i-man uftád, wa ighwá shaded bád-guftam bi-ūstá, ‘Khudá na-kunad irtikábi-hamchunín ma’síyatí bi-kunam. Ín pisar-rá dust-mídáram, wa úrá maghar-i-jimál-i-hak.k. mídánam. Chetaur beytu’l-muk.addas-rá mulawwat.. bi-gardánam?’ Guft, ‘Beytu’l-Muk.addas-rá mách mí-kuníd?’ Guftam, ‘Balí’. Guft, ‘Kheylí khúb, meyl-i-khudatán ast. mí-khwáhíd úrá bi-kuníd, namíkháhíd,31 makuníd. […himself, and my body started to tremble because of the forceful temptation. I answered Usta ‘May God prevent that I commit such a sin. I love this boy, and I know him just for his true beauty. How can I transform a Holy Place into a brothel of sodomy?’ He answered: ‘You want to kiss the Holy Place?’ I said: ‘Yes.’ He said: “Very well, it is just as you want it. If you want to do him, do him, if not, then don’t.’]32

But it was becoming increasingly clear that Browne’s time in Kirman was almost up. He had to report back in Cambridge at the beginning of the new term, as the telegrams that he received reminded him. On 3 August 1888, he wrote: — 227 —

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& I determined to go into town & see Ustá ‘Askar, wh. I did…3 1/2 hrs before sunset. He was not in his shop, & I went to his home, & found him out of sorts & depressed. Had taken a k.alyán. …Ákhir bi-ú guftam, ki lá budd án darvísh-bacha-rá báyad díd: bi-har tauré ki shumá maşlah.at na-dáníd. Ín guft, asbáb-ash tá durust mi-kunam. Yá shumá-rá mi-baram dar kháné-i-Muhammad-i-Tiryák-mál. Yá bacha-rá bá ú ínjá mi-áram yak shabí, áwáz mí-khwánad, ‘ishk. mi-kuníd. [Finally I said to him: ‘I absolutely have to see that derwish boy: by all means that you do not even think decent.’ He said: ‘I make his things in order. Either I bring you to the house of Muh.ammad the opium rubber, or I bring the boy together with him here for one night, so that he can sing, and you can make love.’]33

On Thursday, 16 August 1888, after several delays, Browne finally fixed a date to leave Kirman. In the days before his departure his mind was very much occupied by thoughts of the derwish boy, and his last day in Kirman was by all standards a chaotic one. On Sunday, 10 Dhu l-Hijja (1305) 19 August 1888,34 the day before his actual departure from Kirman, Browne recorded a large part of the day in his Diary:35 Akhir Ustá raft, ú khandán-ú-khurram bar gasht. Guft, ‘Baché-rá dídam, wa ba-ash saríhan guftam ki sáhib ‘áshik.-i shumá shudé-ast, wá rúzhá-yí garm bi-shahr mí-ámad, ú gardish mí-kard, tá chashmash kharáb shud, wa ba’d az án mí-khwást khudashrá bi-kushad az beráyí ‘ishk-i-tú, wa hálá raftaní ast wa mí-khwáhad yak daf ’a-i-dígar shumá-rá bi-bínad, wa tú bar hál-i ú hích tarah.h.um namíkuní, wá án rúz ki wa’da dádíd nayámadíd, wa agar bi-pidar-i-shumá bi-gúyam túrá rútak mí-zanad. Baché guft, ‘tak. sír-i-man níst: tak.sír-i-Muhammad ast: man namítawánam tanhá biyáyam, ki mardomán pusht-i-sar-iman harf mí-zanand, bá má agar pidar-i-man ínjá mí-búd, har rúz písh-i-sáhib mí-raftam.’ [Finally Usta went away, and he came back, laughing and in a good mood. He said: ‘I have seen the boy, and I have said to him very clearly, “The Sahib has fallen in love with you. He has come during the hot days to the town, and has been walking around looking for you till his eyes went sore, and then he wanted to kill himself for love. Now he has to go away and he wants to see you one more time. You have shown no mercy upon him, and on the day that you promised to come, you have not come, and if I tell this to your father he will hit you in your face.” The boy said: “It is not my fault. It is Muhammad’s fault. I cannot come alone, because otherwise people will talk about me behind my back. If my father had been there, I would have come to the Sahib every day.”’] […] Then, finally, the sun disappeared and Usta said: ‘In the name of God, let us go.’ I asked for one more song, that line of Hatifi: ‘May I sacrifice for you, both my heart and soul.’ They reluctantly rose to go. Ustá bi-baché guft, ‘Píshtáb-i-sáhib-rá na-khwásté-íd,’ Baché guft, ‘Sháyad ki sáhib ánrá lázim dáshté báshad, wa dígar agar ánrá bi-khwáham az beráyí shumá mí-khwáham, na az beráyí khudam,’ Man guftam, ‘Agar sar mi-khwáhíd, ínak sar: wa agar píshtáb mi-khwáhíd, ínak píshtáb,’ Guftand , ‘Kheyr, namíkhwáhím: mí-khwáhím ‘ishk.-i-shumá-rá tajribé bi-kuním,’ Ákhir yak túmán ba-bacha darvísh dádam, wa raftam, wa tá dúr shudan kheylí pas nigáh kardam, wa Muhammad wa Asad Ulláh wa darvísh baché dar derwázé ístádand, ú nigáh kardand.’ [Usta said to the boy: ‘Didn’t you want to have the pistol of the Sahib?’ The boy said: ‘Maybe the Sahib is in need of it himself. And if I want to have it, then that is because of you, not because of myself.’ I said: ‘If you want to have my head, here it is. And if you want to have the pistol, here it is.’ The others said: “No, we do not want it. We wanted to test your love.” Finally, I gave the derwish boy one toman, and then I went away. And till very far away I kept looking back, and Muhammad, Asadallah and the derwish boy stood there and they looked at me.] — 228 —

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That was the final day of the Kirman episode, and Browne left the world of the Qalandars behind him for good, it would seem. He did not forget his Kirmani friends as soon as he returned to England; he kept corresponding with Shaykh Sulayman, at least for a while, and some of the incoming letters have indeed been preserved.36 Several letters from Shaykh Sulayman mention Derwish Shukrallah and other Kirmani friends. They also missed him, as they as well must have had an excellent time when the Englishman was in Kirman.

Notes









1 In the period of July–September 2009 I had the pleasure of being invited to be a temporary fellow of Pembroke College. I am most grateful to the Thesaurus Islamicus Foundation in Jeddah that made it materially possible for me to stay in Cambridge in that period under such favourable conditions. My sincere gratitude for my stay in Cambridge and the introduction to college life at Pembroke goes to my friend Professor Charles Melville, to whom I gladly dedicate this essay. I gratefully acknowledge the important help that I received from Dr Firuza Abdullaeva of Cambridge University, and through her also from Mr Saeed Talajooy, in gaining a better understanding of several passages in the Persian texts quoted by me from Browne’s Diary. The selection that I have made from their invaluable suggestions is my sole responsibility. 2 I used a reprint of the 1927 edition: Edward Granville Browne, A Year Amongst the Persians: Impressions as to the Life, Character & Thought of the People of Persia received during Twelve Months’ Residence in that Country in the Years 1887–1888. With a Memoir by Sir E. Denison Ross and a Foreword by Sir Ellis H. Minns (London, 1959), to which I hereafter refer to as Year. For this article I have also made use of the online version of the Year in the Bahai Academics Resource Library, although that version is not quotable as most of the accents and transliteration marks have been left out. This is available at http://bahai-library.org/books/ ayatp/ (accessed 10 April 2013). The centenary of the publication of Browne’s Year was celebrated by C. Edmund Bosworth, ‘E.G. Browne and his A Year Amongst the Persians’, Iran 33 (1995), pp. 115–22. I refer to the set of Browne’s travel diaries as the ‘Diary’. 3 Year, p.475. 4 See on the idea of Qalandar: Tahsin Yazıcı, ‘K. alandar’, EI2, and idem, ‘K. alandariyya’, EI2. On pages 610–12 of the index to the Diary, Browne has given his Kirmani friends (Nos. 161–253 in the list of people he met) a mark depending on the degree of their addiction to opium: x = opium smokers; x1 = occasional; x2 = habitual, moderate; x3 = excessive; 0 = not opium smokers; ? = unknown. 5 Said ‘at Najīābād’ in his ‘Medical Memoranda’, Pembroke College, Library LC II 73 (2), f. 3a. 6 Year, p.476. 7 Theodore Dalrymple, Romancing Opiates: Pharmacological Lies and the Addiction Bureaucracy (New York and London, 2006). 8 Bosworth, ‘Browne’, p. 121, note 1. 9 Browne is, biographically speaking, far from uncharted territory. There exists a whole range of shorter memoirs about him, but none of these is really a biography and none of the authors had access to the Browne papers. It is hoped that John Gurney’s promised two-volume biography will finally see the light of day. 10 Diary, [605]–[613]. Numbered 1–277, the list contains some three hundred names in all. 11 Year, p.20. 12 Year, p.428. ‘Diary’, pp. 409, 412 (15 June 1888). 13 Diary, p.99. 14 Here and in the following I quote the original and add a transliteration in Latin script or a translation into English. 15 Diary, p.28. 16 Diary, pp.55–6. 17 Diary, p.89. 18 George N. Curzon, Persia and the Persian Question (London, 1892), vol. 1, p. 38, says that this hotel was ‘kept by a Frenchman named Prévot, who was formerly confectioner to the Shah’. 19 Diary, pp.146, 149, 157, 160, 161, 163, 168, 180, 182. 20 Diary, p.188. 21 Diary, p.189. 22 Diary, pp.340–341. 23 I am not sure of the meaning of the word mah.shūsh-kārī, which I have tentatively and decently translated as ‘getting worked up’. Mah.shūsh evidently has an etymological connection with h.ashīsh, the herb. I tend to think that the implication is that the princes whetted their appetite, and maybe not only that, with a shared prostitute as a starter for their main dish, pederasty. Several of my Iranian friends, when asked about the semantics of this expression, could not enlighten me in this. In the online version of the Lughatnama by Dihkhuda s.v. mah.shūsh, the word is said to mean sūkhta shuda, ālūda shuda, makrūh (hell burnt, ritually unclean, reprehensible), but to me these seem to be moral or legal judgments rather than lexicographical equivalents. 24 Diary, p.346. 25 The episode is told in the Year, pp. 370 ff., where the name of the lady is not given. The Diary gives her name several times and the telegram mentioned in the Year is pasted between pages 347 and 348 of the Diary. 26 Year, p.475.

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27 Year, pp.520–1. 28 Diary, vol.3 ends with p. 431; Diary, vol. 4 begins with p. 432. The page numbers were possibly only added after Browne had returned to England. 29 Library of Pembroke College, LC II 73 (4), notes for 13–27 Shawwāl (1305) (23 June–7 July 1888). 30 A reference to the romantic fable, Sintram and His Companions, by the German author Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué (1777– 1843), which in its English translation became immensely popular in Victorian England. 31 The Diary has, if I remember well, míkháhíd, but that does not make sense. 32 The entire text is in Diary, pp. 456–7. Here only a few fragments are given. 33 Diary, p.461. 34 The last day in Kirman is also in Year, pp. 590–1. 35 Diary, pp.470–2. Year, p. 592. This passage in the Diary is much longer than I reproduce here. 36 Browne papers, loan from Pembroke College to Cambridge University Library, box 1, packet 12 in particular. Other similar materials can be found elsewhere in the Browne papers.

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24 From Zulaykha to Zuleika Dobson: the femme fatale and her ordeals in Persian literature and beyond Firuza Abdullaeva

‫قشع رد دوب یقدص هچ ار اخیلز‬ ‫قشع رد دوسرف دوخ رمع رسکی هک‬1 1

Zulaykha such a sincerity had in love That all her life she sacrificed to love2

‘I

had often wondered what happened when Zuleika went to Cambridge. And now I know beyond any shadow of a doubt,’ said Sir Max Beerbohm (1872–1956), about a pamphlet called Zuleika in Cambridge, published in 1941 by Sir Sydney Castle Roberts (1887–1966), Secretary of Cambridge University Press, Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge University and Master of Pembroke College, which became home to and a greenhouse of such prominent British Orientalists as E.G. Browne, A.J. Arberry, M.C. Lyons and C.P. Melville. Sir Sidney Roberts did not seal a long chain of the ‘Zuleika’ stories. Quite the opposite, his spoof of Beerbohm’s novel3 inspired a group of Cambridge undergraduates to produce a play, which later was turned into a musical by Peter Tranchell (the music), James Ferman (the text) and Osbert Lancaster and staged in 1957 in the Saville Theatre in London. This production was recently revived as a radio play. Beerbohm’s extremely popular story about a foreign female crashing into the closed male society of Edwardian Oxford became an English ‘ajibat al-makhluqat. He wrote this, his only novel, in Italy right after his marriage to an American Jewish actress, Florence Kahn. It gave rise — 235 —

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to much discussion of the author’s ambiguous sexuality, but never raised the question of the name of his main heroine, Zuleika. Was it merely a coincidence that her appearance in Oxford caused a mirror scene of mass suicide similar to the one described 800 years earlier in a Persian poem, where a future beloved of Zulaykha, exposed at the Egyptian slave market, created a mass panic, with a hundred thousand crushed in the crowd in the effort to see his beauty? They all died experiencing the highest level of ecstasy and spiritual elevation,4 exactly like the Oxford undergraduates during Eights Week who expired with the name Zuleika on their lips.5 Beerbohm, the author of this most Oxfordian novel, never got his degree at Merton. It is unlikely he could ever have met Hermann Ethé (1844–1917), who at that very time was working in the Bodleian Library, preparing for publication this poem of Yusuf and Zulaykha with the mass suicide scene, which he ascribed to Ferdowsi.6 Most likely the peerless femme fatale Zuleika Dobson was conceived in the fertile waters of yet another wave of literary Orientalism that was raised by his romantic predecessors. One of them might have been Byron and his Bride of Abydos (1813), painted by E. Delacroix. It is, however, possible that Beerbohm could have read at least one of the two English translations of the Zulaykha story that had been published by that time.7 Despite the title of this paper I will go beyond Zulaykha – a pretty woman, a symbol of love, lust and spirituality – and travel through ages and civilisations to try to trace the main features of the oikotypical myth related to her image based on the juxtaposition of two main elements (fire and water), putting the story between the two phenomena of the universality of human behaviour and the intertextuality of literary culture based on it. Various sources preserve the image of a married woman who falls hopelessly and sometimes mortally in love with a handsome youth from her husband’s household. Being rejected, she accuses him of her own sin and sends him to jail and even execution, which often turns into an ordeal resulting in vindication of the innocent and punishment of the evil. This story was one of many proving the concept of women’s wiles, sinfulness and guile8 that were dominant in popular tales à la One Thousand and One Nights. A list of some of these women was given by Yohannan,9 with excerpts from English translations of the relevant surviving texts. The list included Phaedra in Euripides’ Hippolytus (428 bc) and its later interpretations by J. Racine (1677) and K. Rexroth (1951), the Arab Sudaba from Ferdowsi’s Iranian epic Shahnameh (ad1010) (Plate 4), the Biblical and Qur’anic Potiphar’s wife (Fig.24.1)/ Zulaykha (Plate 5), the Buddhist Tishya-Rakshita, the medieval Spanish wife of King Alcos, the Japanese Tamate Gozen and Thomas Mann’s interpretation of the ‘Josef ’ novels. When the texts are illustrated, the images evolve into a more complicated stage of visual intertextuality when the story from one source is depicted by means of the iconography borrowed from a similar but different story (Plate 6). Undoubtedly there are many more to add, like Homer’s Anthaea (c.eighth century bc), Xenophon’s Manto and Cyno (second century ad), Heliodorus’s Demainete and Arsake (third century ad), and the Phaedra of Seneca (c. ad60), as well as M. Tsvetaeva (1927) and S. Kane (1996), quite apart from the many musical versions ranging from the operas of J.-P. Rameau (1733) and H.W. Henze (2007) to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat (1968/2005). The archetype of this image can be identified in various models known from the mythology of Ancient Egypt to modern folklore of the extreme North, Far East and Indian America.10 Persian literature at the peak of its Golden Age received its finest version from Jami (1414–92).11 However, its origins can be traced back much further. — 236 —

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From the Egyptian story about Anpu’s wife to the Transoxanian legend of Siyavush

The universal myth12 of a married woman fatally attracted to a youth in her household might have originated in a real legal case of a man falsely accused of raping a married woman that took place in Egypt. That nobody was punished was unusual and it made the case memorable.13 The Papyrus D’Orbiney (1185bc)14 contains the earliest surviving version of the Zulaykha story. The first part of the papyrus is a rather straightforward narrative about Bata working in his much older brother Anpu’s household.15 Anpu treated him as his son. Once while ploughing along the river Nile Anpu sent Bata home to bring more grain. When Anpu’s wife saw him, she was impressed by his strength and suggested to him to ‘come and stay with her’, which infuriated him. Frightened, in the evening she accused Bata before her husband of raping her. The enraged Anpu decided to kill his brother, who had run away having been warned by the cow. Anpu chased Bata until they reached the Nile so that Bata happened to be on one shore and Anpu on the other. Bata prayed to Ra, and the river became so wide and full of crocodiles that Anpu could not cross it. Bata told Anpu what had happened between him and Anpu’s wife, then

FIG.

24.1 Joseph fleeing from Potiphar’s wife, J.-M. Nattier, 1711, oil on canvas.

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took a reed knife, cut off his phallus, and threw it into the water, where the catfish swallowed it. Then Bata went to the ‘land of the Acacia’, and Anpu went home and slew his wife.16 The second part is more symbolically complicated and is not relevant to our subject, apart from the fact that Bata, being already ‘like a woman’, was nevertheless given a wife by the gods. Later she became Pharaoh’s wife and tried to kill Bata by cutting the acacia tree as she knew from him that his soul was in the tree. However, she happened to swallow a chip from the tree and gave birth to Bata again. Thus he, her former non-male husband, becomes her son. The cult of the Iranian Bata, Siyavush, which is usually associated with the legendary motherland of the Aryans, and the Soghdian and Khwarazmian culture of Transoxiana in particular,17 according to Biruni, reached Khwarazm in the thirteenth century bc.18 According to the Iranian legends recorded by Ferdowsi, Siyavush is a prince whose stepmother, Sudaba, attempts to seduce him. Sudaba,19 his father’s chief queen, appears in the Shahnameh as an Arab princess originally totally dedicated to her husband, the Iranian king Kay Ka’us, who had invaded her country and forced her father to give him all his wealth including his beloved daughter. Rejected by Siyavush, she accuses him of rape and he is obliged to undergo an ordeal by fire to prove his innocence; nonetheless, he is still forced into exile. The trial by ordeal in literature

From the earliest evidence, the trial by ordeal was considered a judicium Dei: a procedure based on the premise that God (or gods) would help the innocent by performing a miracle and bringing salvation (as in Ephesiaca). It is possible that such ordeals were effective in preventing crimes. Guilty defendants would confess or try to avoid them, as in Gurgani’s romance when Vis’ impotent husband, Mubad, threatens her with a fire ordeal, and she and her lover Ramin flee. However, miracles could also be interpreted as sorcery (as in Æthiopica and the Shahnameh). If we agree that Mubad married his mother, and Ramin was both his brother and son,20 this story can be seen as closer to the Zulaykha version, especially to that of Jami, who depicts Zulaykha’s Egyptian husband as an old impotent man, incapable of consummating his marriage to his young wife.21 Medieval inquisitions often applied both trials (by water and fire) to a suspect.22 However, originally execution or trial by water was considered a lighter option, as a burnt man, even if innocent, could not be reborn.23 Thus fire punishment is not mentioned in the Code of Hammurabi (1792 –50 bc), while execution by drowning for adultery and rape is mentioned several times.24 A reflection of this belief in the Shahnameh could be an episode when Shaghad betrays his half-brother, the greatest hero Rustam, and causes his death. Shaghad’s corpse was burnt in a bonfire together with 40 relatives of the King of Kabul who were also involved in the plot. However, the King himself was not burnt, probably being protected by his farr, his divine charisma (Plate 7). According to Dick Davis, Siyavush’s ordeal, which is portrayed by Ferdowsi as a trial by fire, was originally paired with the ordeal of the trial by water.25 The use of both water and fire as a means of purifying the body and soul has been known from ancient times in Indian burial ceremonies.26 As in the rest of the whole Indian and Iranian mythological systems, elements that were once related later stood in mutual opposition, with deities turning into demons and vice — 238 —

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versa (for example, Avestan pairikā, most likely borrowed from Sanskrit ‘witch’, would become New Persian parī ‘fairy’, just as Avestan daēva in the meaning shared with Vedic Sanskrit of ‘divine, being of shining light’ would become div, ‘demon’). As Yohannan stated: ‘a century or so ago, when comparative studies in language, literature, and religion were in their infancy, it was a favourite notion that most of the stories current in the West had originated in India, whence they had been distributed westward by Crusades, navigators, commercial travelers, and itinerant Moslem narrators […] This theory is not so popular today.’27 However, it seems that rather than India, Egypt was the origin of the legend in question. A very interesting witness that builds the bridge between the Egyptian and its later AraboMuslim version can be found in a cult of Osiris-Canopus, which was located in Hellenistic times outside Alexandria.28 There Osiris was worshipped in the form of a rotund vessel containing Nile water, and in this capacity he was given the epithet Hydreios. J. Ray establishes the traces of this cult in the Arabic tale of al-Zir,29 an ‘ayyār-type protagonist who has a much younger brother (sic) and whose name means ‘water-jar’. Many of his exploits are concerned with water, wells, and the like.30 The institution of juridical ordeal originally consisting of two parts, with a preference for the water trial rather than the fire one, brings the origin of the story to Egypt, where the cult of an Osiris-like deity with Siyavush-like31 functions associated with the river and water was practised until late antiquity. This geographical attribution of the earliest version is supported by the evidence from Hellenistic fiction cited above. From Persian Siyavush and Sudaba to Persian Yusuf and Zulaykha

The absence or replacement of the well or water trial by the fire ordeal in the story of Siyavush could originally be due to the influence of the Indo-Iranian shared tradition and, by the time of Ferdowsi, due to the association with Zoroastrianism. It is also possible that Siyavush started to be associated with fire as the character antagonistic to Sudaba (< Anahita), whose cult was unambiguously associated with water. J. Russell’s parallel of hippophoric names of both Siyavush and Hippolytos could mean that the oikotype of this myth,32 absorbed by a different linguistic tradition, recognised the significance of the etymology of the protagonist’s name. There is no point speculating on whose name was the original. It is unlikely that this choice of replacing the water ordeal with the fire ordeal belongs to Ferdowsi. The poet, under the influence of protographs and the rich corpus of oral folk tales, did not mind repetitions, using the same standard sets of labours (killing dragons, witches, demons and beasts) for several knights, like Rustam, Isfandiyar, Iskandar, or Bahram Gur. However, he omits the whole cycle of Iskandar/Alexander’s exploration of the universe: there is no flight to the sky in Alexander’s usual eagle-driven flying machine, which Ferdowsi ascribed to Kay Ka’us (Avestan Kay Us),33 or diving to the bottom of the ocean in a submarine, which, for example, in Nava’i’s version is his final and the most important earthly mission.34 These paired expeditions of Alexander in the later literature can continue the juxtaposition of Kay Us’ ascent to the sky and Dahman Afrin’s descent from the sky to earth.35 It is possible to perceive Siyavush’s crossing of the Oxus into exile as his water ordeal, dividing his life in his native Iran from his Turanian existence.36 However, the water ordeal is unambiguously present in the Shahnameh but ascribed, like Alexander’s flying expedition, to a — 239 —

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different character. This is Bizhan, the story of whose love for Turanian princess Manizha has been the focus of Charles Melville’s attention for the last few years.37 There is strong evidence that Ferdowsi started writing his Shahnameh by adapting this Parthian romance.38 There are other parallels: Sudaba’s determination to be with her beloved against her father’s will is very similar to the behaviour of another character in the Shahnameh, Manizha, a Turanian princess of Parthian origin. In Tabari’s version Sudaba is a sister of Manizha, possibly to justify her malice, as a daughter of Afrasiyab.39 During its evolution the pagan nature of the ancient hero was absorbed by the Muslim tradition on the basis of the common idea of martyrdom. As a result of such a synthesis the mystical, sacrificial element became predominant and created a Jesus-like figure who readily accepts his execution, performing the role of a victim in a ritual sacrifice.40 The fire trial is absent in the Joseph/Yusuf story but the idea of the temporary death (before revival), through the execution or ordeal by water may be reflected in the episodes when a hero was put into the well. The idea of the water ordeal might be reflected in the mystical image of Joseph’s well with water or without (the jail pit of Bizhan), which gets one more Sufi dimension of a metaphor used in the story of Alexander and his exploration of the universe, where his journey to the bottom of the sea opens to him the well or tunnel connecting or dividing this world and the other. Having understood this enigma, he accomplishes his earthly mission and dies. Two Hellenistic stories: Theagenes and Chariclea; Habrocomes and Anthia

Such motifs can also be traced in the Greek sources, namely Heliodorus’ Æthiopica and Xenophon’s Ephesiaca, where among the unimaginably complicated adventures of a young couple throughout the Classical world there are all the topoi of unsuccessful seduction, false accusation, murder (or attempted murder) of the unwanted partner, and execution turning into miraculous ordeal, proving the innocence of the victims. Among those who go through such ordeals are both male and female chaste characters who are besieged by lustful suitors at every stage of their lives but manage to preserve their innocence until finally meeting with their beloveds. While V. Minorsky definitively proved the Parthian origin of Gurgani’s Vis and Ramin,41 D. Davis has postulated Greek influence on Parthian cultural life, referring to Plutarch’s description42 of the wedding celebration organised by the Parthian general Suren for his son, who was marrying an Armenian princess. The event coincided with Suren’s victory over Crassus, whose head was brought to Suren while the court was watching Euripedes’ The Bacchae. The actor used Crassus’ head to perform the scene with the severed head of Pentheus.43 So Greek was still used at the Iranian courts like French in medieval England, or Imperial Russia. The popularity of these Eastern elements in Greek might be due to a ‘fashion’ for the exoticism of unknown lands, similar to that of Shakespeare, who often placed his plays overseas. Davis cites G. Bowersock’s idea about Hellenism often clothing local Asiatic cultural motifs in the Greek language.44 However, it could be a reverse phenomenon, like Montesquieu’s use of Oriental clothing to dress up French realities in his Persian Letters.

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Heliodorus’ Æthiopica45

The protagonists are a handsome youth, Theagenes, and his beloved Chariclea. Heliodorus’ Ethiopia has a very strong Persian flavour: Chariclea’s mother is called Persinna and her father – Hystaspes. Obviously, Persia was closer than Ethiopia to Heliodorus, who was from Syrian Emesa. Several episodes resemble those from Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh: Chariclea, born to ‘Ethiopian’ parents, has white skin and is exposed by her mother to avoid scandal but survives, being brought up among the Greeks as a Greek (cf. Moses/Cyrus/Zal). When Theagenes’s father remarries, his stepmother Demainete approaches him, calling him ‘my young Hippolytus’ (sic). Rejected, she accuses him of trying to kill her husband. When her scheme is revealed she commits suicide. Chariclea and Theagenes meet again, only to be separated at the court of the Persian satrap in Egypt whose wife Arsake, sister of the Persian king, falls in love with Theagenes. Arsake has already tried to seduce a young Egyptian priest, Thyamis, who prefers the career of a bandit to the opportunity of sleeping with the satrap’s wife. Theagenes brings Chariclea to the Egyptian court not as his bride, but as his sister. Arsake makes advances towards him, and wants to marry his ‘sister’ to the son of her lady-in-waiting Kybele. Theagenes has to reveal the secret; a furious Arsake orders him to be taken to jail and tortured. Kybele tries to poison Chariclea but dies herself. Chariclea, accused of murdering Kybele, is condemned to death by burning in a gigantic bonfire. Chariclea willingly climbs on top of the flaming pyre and in front of the crowds prays to the Sun46 and Earth, revealing Arsake’s sin and malice, creating a miracle: the flames flow around her like a splendid halo without burning her. Arsake accuses Chariclea of sorcery but is executed herself. Xenophon’s Ephesiaca47

Xenophon placed his story in his native Ephesus, but his protagonists Habrocomes and Anthia travel all over the civilised world. After many tribulations, they are sold into slavery in Egypt. Anthia escapes a forced marriage to a Cilician lawyer only to become a bride of an Indian prince. Habrocomes survives the advances of Cyno, an old and ugly wife of his Egyptian master, whom she kills, hoping to marry her handsome slave. Terrified by the prospect, Habrocomes flees but is captured and accused of the murder of Cyno’s husband. He is brought to Alexandria, where he is condemned to crucifixion on the bank of the Nile. On the cross Habrocomes prays, and on the Nile a storm arises which carries him downstream until he is recaptured and brought to the Egyptian satrap, who this time orders Habrocomes to be burned alive. Habrocomes prays again. The waters of Egypt rise and douse the flames. The satrap of Egypt considers this to be a sign of divine intervention and frees him. Cyno is crucified in his stead. *

*

*

These two episodes in very long novels, which are full of adventures, already contain the fully formed story of a chaste youth resistant to lustful temptations on his long way through ordeals to his only love, a tale which became very popular in the Judaic, Christian and Muslim traditions.48 Thus adultery and death (murder or suicide, or their attempts) are present in all typological — 241 —

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models of the tale, starting from the legend of two brothers: Bata is to be killed by his brother but, in the end, it is Anpu’s wife who is killed. Bata is killed later by his wife and is reborn by her although he has killed the man in himself, becoming a woman, or genderless, or both. Later models range from women killing their husbands, like Xenophon’s Cyno or N. Leskov’s Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, to those who threaten either to kill their husbands or themselves, like Demainete in Æthiopica, or Zulaykha in several exegetical sources.49 Originally, the woman could be the youth’s mother, and this was later replaced by his stepmother, or his mistress, who had bought him as a slave and adopted him as her son, as in such Islamic literature as Tabari (Ta’rikh) or Jami. Tabari calls Potiphar’s wife Ra‘il,50 which shows an attempt to deal with this confusion of the maternal–filial relationship between Zulaykha and Yusuf, going back to the Biblical Joseph and his mother Rachel. The story gained a special flavour in urbanised societies when heavily populated harems became a common feature of the family structure of the upper class. No men were allowed to be there except the young sons of harem inhabitants. The unimaginable love story in Sasanian and Muslim milieux about a mistress and her disobedient male slave further contaminated with incestuous mother–(step)son relationships circulated among the pre-Islamic elite. The episode of Zulaykha being reproached by her Egyptian lady friends could be a reflection of the social disapproval of such a relationship. The inner contradiction of the story created confusion and contradictory perceptions of the Zulaykha-like image in different social milieux. Nasir al-Din Tusi went as far as prohibiting women from learning ‘the best story in the Qur’an’ since ‘hearing the parables of that tale may lead them astray from the law of chastity’, which he considered to be as dangerous as drinking wine.51 Equally, ‘decent ladies’ were warned against reading a ‘scandalous chronicle of the Parthian court’,52 Gurgani’s Vis and Ramin, by the author of the most obscene poetry in New Persian, ‘Ubayd Zakani (d. 1370): az khātūn ki qissa-yi vīs-u rāmīn khānd mastūrī tawaqqu‘ madārīd – ‘don’t expect chastity from a lady who has read Vis and Ramin!’53 By the fifteenth century Zulaykha’s image had gone through a long evolution from an immoral and aggressive witch (and ‘bitch’ < Greek Cyno54) to a saintly virgin and an object of the prophet Yusuf ’s physical and spiritual passion, masterfully presented by Jami and pseudoFerdowsi. The poet exchanges the importance of his protagonists’ roles: it is Zulaykha who is conversing with the angels and having prophetic dreams, it is she who suffers, going through all the stages of her t.arīqa, losing her youth, wealth, beauty, sight, idols and gods (Plate 8). When they meet again, it is Yusuf who is fully enjoying the lifestyle of a celebrity, while Zulaykha is depicted as a real ascetic, living only for the sake of her love for him. When he realised that this old beggar must have been that splendid woman who used to be an object of many kings’ desire, Yusuf, with divine assistance, granted Zulaykha back her sight, beauty and youth, and thoroughly prepared her for their wedding night: she was 40 and he made her 18, although he did not make himself younger for her. Jami uses the richest palette of his erotic imagery to describe the moment of their marriage consummation,55 which none of the English translators of the Victorian era dared to put on paper.56 Yusuf dies quietly in his bed, surrounded by his family and disciples. Zulaykha is not among them. Knowing that she will not survive the moment of separation, she hides herself during the funeral and only afterwards goes to his grave. She tears her eyes out of their sockets, plants — 242 —

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them like narcissus bulbs into the earth and dies with joy in her heart, while her soul leaves for paradise, where she is going to regain her divine sight to be able to see her Beloved again. Such a happy ending Jami provided for this ancient story about a woman who sacrificed her life for love and who, after so many travels and hardships, left Oxford for Cambridge. Notes













1 Jami, Mathnawi-yi Haft Awrang, ed. Aqa Murtada and Mudarris Gilani (Tehran, 1337), p. 729. Translations are mine unless specified. 2 Some parts of this paper were presented at the ECIS conference in Krakow (September, 2011), where I got very useful feedback from Anna Krasnowolska and Maria Subtelny, whom I would like to thank as well as Shahin Bekhradnia and Andrew Peacock, the first and last readers of a draft version. Some aspects of this subject I discussed in my contribution ‘The legend of Siyavush or the legend of Yusuf?’, in O.M. Davidson and M. Simpson (eds), Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh: Millennial Perspectives (Ilex Foundation, Boston, MA, Center for Hellenic Studies, Washington, DC, forthcoming). 3 M. Beerbohm, Zuleika Dobson, or an Oxford Love Story (London, 1911). 4 H. Ethé, Yusuf and Zalikha by Firdausi of Tus (Amsterdam, 1970), p. 269. 5 Beerbohm, Zuleika Dobson, p. 148. 6 Yûsuf and Zalîkhâ, by Firdausi of Tûs, Critical Edition by Hermann Ethé, Fasciculus Primus (Oxford, 1908). For discussions about the author of this poem, see A. Dadbeh, A. Keeler and C. Kia, ‘Joseph in Persian literature, Qur’anic exegesis and Persian art’, EIr. 7 Yúsuf and Zulaikha, a poem by Jámí, trans. from the Persian into English verse by R.T.H. Griffith (London, 1882); The Book of Joseph and Zuleikhá, Historical Romantic Persian Poem by Mulianá Abdulrahmán Jāmī, trans. into English verse by A. Rogers (London, 1892). 8 On female sexuality in Muslim culture identified in the Qur’an (12.28) as guile (Arab. kayd al-nisā’ > Pers. makr-i zanān) and interpreted in Islamic exegesis, see G.K. Merguerian and A. Najmabadi, ‘Zulaykhā and Yusuf: whose “Best Story?”,’ International Journal of Middle East Studies, 29, no 4 (1997), pp. 485–508; see also N.I. Prigarina, ‘Krasota Yusufa v zerkalah persidskoy poezii i miniatyurnoy zhivopisi’, Indologica, Orientalia et Classica (in memoriam T. Elizarenkova), 20 (2008), pp. 389–418. 9 J.D. Yohannan, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife in World Literature: An Anthology of the Story of the Chaste Youth and the Lustful Stepmother (New York, 1968). 10 See Y.E. Berezkin’s database ‘Thematic classification and distribution of folklore and mythological motifs according to geographical areas’. Available at www.ruthenia.ru/folklore/berezkin (accessed 8 April 2013). I thank Victoria Kryukova and Pavel Basharin for bringing this database to my attention. 11 Jami’s poem inspired several later authors, one of whom was Azar Bigdeli (d. 1780). 12 On the universality of such stories based on oikotypical myths see, for example, O.M. Freidenberg, ‘Tselevaya ustanovka kollektivnoy raboty nad syuzhetom o Tristane i Izolde’ (Tristan and Isolda: from a love heroine of feudal Europe to the goddess of matriarchal Afroeurasia: collective work of the Sector of Semantics of Myth and Folklore), in V.P. Neroznak (ed.), Sumerki lingvistiki (Moscow, 2001), pp. 325–39. 13 In the Codes of both Hammurabi (c. 1780 bc) and Nesilim (c. 1650–1500bc) a married woman was considered to be equally guilty with the man who raped her in her house and had to be executed as well by being thrown in the river, although her husband had the right to save her if he wished to do so: M. Smith, ‘Ancient Law Codes’, in M.D. Smith (ed.), Encyclopaedia of Rape (Westport and London, 2004), p. 15. 14 P. BM 10183. See Egyptian Tales, trans. from the papyri and ed. by W.M. Flinders Petrie; illustr. by Tristram Ellis (London, 1895). 15 Anpu, identified as Anubis, God of Mummification and the Afterlife in jackal shape, the most important god of the Dead, was replaced by Osiris during the Middle Kingdom. Bata was originally a female deification of the Milky Way, later understood as a cow goddess, represented as a double-faced symbol of the cosmos, the essence of the human soul ba, and was associated with Life, later contaminated with Hathor. 16 M. Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature (Berkeley, CA, 1976), vol. 2, p. 206. 17 See, for example, E. Morano, ‘“If they had lived…”A Soghdian-Parthian fragment of Mani’s Book of Giants’, in W. Sundermann, A. Hintze and F. De Blois (eds), Exegisti Monumenta: Festschrift in Honour of Nicholas Sims-Williams, Iranica 17 (Wiesbaden, 2009), pp.325–30. 18 On Siyavush (Avest. Syāvaršan), see A.A. Starikov’s commentary in Ferdowsi, Shahname (Moscow, 1994), vol. 2, p. 574. 19 The etymology of this name is not entirely clear. It is possible that the New Persian sūdāvar ‘profitable, useful’ >sūdāva/sūdāba (Burhān-i Qāti’, ed. Muhammad ‘Abbasi, Tehran, 1336, p. 676) came from the combination of the Arabic Su‘da ( ) and the Avestan Sutawanhu (‘useful’) which was later shaped according to the Rudaba pattern, see A.A. Starikov, Shahname, vol. 1 (Moscow, 1993), p. 641. It can also be related to ‘water’, and hence be associated with Anahita. 20 Fakhroddin Gorgani, Vis and Ramin, trans. with an introd. by D. Davis (New York, 2008), xiv; see also P.O. Skjærvø, ‘Next-ofkin marriage in Zoroastrianism’, EIr. 21 To be fair to these impotent old men it should be said that both Vis and Zulaykha refused to have physical relationships with them. In the case of Mubad, Vis was directly responsible for his male incompetence by means of magic. 22 B. Hamilton, The Medieval Inquisition (London, 1981). 23 As it is stated in a New Kingdom (sixteenth–eleventh centuries bc) charm: ‘Neither will you be able to beget, nor will one give birth for you, as you will be killed by fire, which will destroy your ba [‘soul’], so that it cannot roam on earth anymore, so that you cannot wander on the clouds, so that you will not be seen, so that you will not be perceived, because you have been destroyed

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as your shadow ceases to exist’ (Thesaurus Linguae Aegyptiae, K. Stegbauer (ed.), Projekt ‘Digital-Heka’, Leipzig, Schlangenzauber Neues Reich, Cairo JE 69771, Spruch 8 (Rückseite, 18–26)). This was probably not considered when Bin Laden’s body was thrown into the sea. 24 The Code of Hammurabi, translated by L.W. King, Yale Law School, The Avalon Project (Documents in Law, History and Diplomacy), Lillian Goldman Law Library, 2008. Available at avalon.law.yale.edu/ancient/hamframe.asp (accessed on 10 April 2013): ‘If a man betroth a girl to his son, and his son have intercourse with her, but he (the father) afterward defile her, and be surprised (in flagrante delicto), then he shall be bound and cast into the water’ (no 155); see also Nos 129, 133, 143. It should be mentioned that neither the surviving Avestan texts, nor the Sasanian Law Code (A. Perikhanian, Sasanidskiy sudebnik (Erevan, 1973); M. Macuch’s ‘Mādayān ī hazār dādestān’ in EIr) contain relevant references to the subject. 25 D. Davis scrupulously lists the images or connotations of both water and fire in the description of the episode of Siyavush’s ordeal, see Davis, Panthea’s Children, p. 86; Ferdowsi, The Legend of Seyavash, trans. with an introduction and notes by Dick Davis (London, 1992), xxiv. 26 Raghunananda Bhattacarya, Divyatattva: Ordeals in Classical Hindu Law, critically edited with English translation by Richard W. Lariviere (New Delhi, 1981). 27 Yohannan, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, p. 2. 28 J. Ray, ‘Osiris in Mediaeval Egypt’, in C.J. Eyre et al. (ed.), The Unbroken Reed: Studies of the Culture and Heritage of Ancient Egypt in Honour of A.F. Shore (London, 1994), p.276. 29 The Arabian Epic: Heroic and Oral Story-telling, vol. 1, introd. M.C. Lyons (Cambridge, 1995). 30 Ray, ‘Osiris’, p. 274. 31 Siyavush combined the features of both Anpu (Anubis>Osiris) and Bata. 32 J. Russell, ‘Two Armenian toponyms’, Annual of Armenian Linguistics 9 (1988), p. 48. 33 Y.S.D. Vevaina, ‘Hubris and Himmelfahrt: the narrative logic of Kay Us’ ascent to heaven in Pahlavi literature’, in M. Macuch, D. Weber and D. Durkin-Meisterernst (eds), Ancient and Middle Iranian Studies. Proceedings of the 6th Conference of Iranian Studies, held in Vienna, 18–22 September 2007, Iranica 19 (Wiesbaden, 2010), pp. 231–43. 34 A.M. Piemontese, ‘Sources and art of Amir Khosrou’s “The Alexandrine Mirror”,’ in The Necklace of the Pleiades (Amsterdam and West Lafayette, IN, 2007), pp. 42–3; F.I. Abdullaeva, ‘Kingly flight: Nimrud, Kay Kavus, Alexander, or why the angel has the fish’, Persica 23 (Leiden, 2009–10), p. 23; F. Melville, ‘A Flying king’, in R. Stoneman, K. Erickson and I. Netton (eds), The Alexander Romance in Persia and the East, Ancient Narrative (Supplementum 15) (Groningen, 2012), pp. 405–9. 35 Vevaina, ‘Hubris’, p. 239. 36 D. Davis, The Shahnameh and Persian Literature (lecture given at Cambridge University on 8 December 2010). 37 Charles Melville with the contribution of Firuza Abdullaeva, ‘Text and image in the story of Bizhan and Manizha: I’, in C. Melville (ed.), Shahnameh Studies I (Pembroke Papers 5) (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 71–96. 38 Possibly the original version of Vis and Ramin was a part of the romantic cycle about the descendants of Manizha. See V. Minorsky, ‘Vis u Ramin: a Parthian romance’, in V. Minorsky, Iranica: Twenty Articles (Tehran, 1964), p. 153. 39  T.abarī, I, pp. 598f; E. Yarshater, ‘Afrasiab’, EIr. 40 The scene of the Execution of Siyavush with the depiction of a gold bowl to collect his blood during the decapitation has been one of the most popular among the illustrators of the poem since the fourteenth century. See also Peter Chelkowski, Ta`ziyeh: Ritual and Drama in Iran (New York, 1979). 41 V. Minorsky, ‘Vis u Ramin’, pp. 151–200. 42 Plutarch, The Life of Themistocles, trans. A.H. Clough (London, 1932). 43 D. Davis, Panthea’s Children: Hellenistic Novels and Medieval Persian Romances (New York, 2002), p. 12. 44 Ibid., pp.14, 88, 102; G. Bowersock, Hellenism in Late Antiquity (Ann Arbor, MI, 1990), p. 7. 45 Heliodorus, An Aethiopian Romance, Englished by Thomas Underdowne (Anno 1587), revised and partly rewritten by F.A. Wright, with an intro. by Charles Whibley (London, 1895). 46 Heliodorus called himself a Phoenician of Emesus, son of Theodosius, and descended from the Sun, see Heliodorus, An Aethiopian Romance, p. 289. 47 The Ephesian Story by Xenophon of Ephesus, trans. from the Greek by P. Turner with illustr. by E. Fraser (London, 1957). 48 ‘We relate to you, [O Muhammad], the best of stories in what We have revealed to you of this Qur’an although you were, before it, among the unaware’ (Qur’an, Surat Yusuf, 12:3). 49 ‘Arā‘is al-majālis fī qis.as. al-anbiyā’, or Lives of the Prophets as Recounted by Abū Ish.āq Ah.mad ibn Muh.ammad ibn Ibrāhīm alTha‘labī, trans. and annot. by William M. Brinner (Leiden, 2002), p. 175; see also Merguerian and Najmabadi, ‘Zulaykhā and Yusuf ’, p.486. 50 Abu Ishaq Ahmad b. Muhhammad b. Ibrahim al-Tha‘labi, Kitab Qisas al-anbiya’ al-musamma bi-l-Ara’is (Cairo, 1960), vol. 1, p.332; W.M. Brinner, Qis.as. al-anbiyā, pp. 148–85, Najmabadi, ‘Zulaykhā and Yusuf ’, p. 494. 51 Nasir al-Din Tusi, Akhlaq-i Nasiri, ed. M. Minuvi & Aliriza Haydari (Tehran, 1978), 219; Nasirean Ethics, trans. G.M. Wickens (London, 1964); Merguerian and Najmabadi, ‘Zulaykhā and Yusuf ’, p. 501. 52 E.E. Bertel’s, Istoriya persidskoy i tadjikskoy literatury (Moscow, 1960), p. 283. 53 ‘Ubayd Zakani, Kulliyat, ed. ‘Abbas Iqbal Ashtiyani (Tehran, 1332/1953); Bertel’s, Istoriya, p. 283. 54 It should be a mere coincidence that the legendary Median Cyno/Kyno was ‘surrogate’ mother of Cyrus the Great, who as a baby was exposed and then nursed by a female dog. 55 Jami, Mathnawi, p. 727; Hakim Nuruddin Abdurrahman Jāmī, An Allegorical Romance Yusuf and Zulaykha, ed. abridged and trans. by D. Pendlebury (London, 1980), p. 127. 56 Jámí, Yúsuf and Zulaikha, trans. Griffith (1882); Jami, The Book of Joseph and Zuleikhá, trans. Rogers (1892) (see note 7). Griffith stopped his translation right before Jami’s description of the consummation of Zulaykha and Yusuf ’s marriage. Rogers translated the poem until the very end, having, however, warned readers that he had omitted 32 lines that were ‘unsuited to European ideas’ (p. 208).

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25 A pictorial aetiology of Ferdowsi as a transcendent poet Olga M. Davidson

T

here are many stories that aim to explain how the poet Ferdowsi surpassed in poetic ability and accomplishments all the other poets of his era. The mode of explanation in such stories tends to be aetiological, by which I mean that the given story is designed to validate the importance and prestige of the poetry of Ferdowsi not so much in his own life and times but rather in the here and now of its reception. The example I have chosen to analyse in this essay is the version of the story as told in the preface to a celebrated manuscript of the Shahnameh. But I will focus not on the prose narrative of this preface, interspersed with quotations attributed to Ferdowsi and to his poetic rivals, but on the picture that accompanies it. This picture, like the prose narrative in which it is embedded, highlights the transcendence of Ferdowsi as a poet: he is not just a court poet but a poet who transcends his own life and times. As the picture aims to show, Ferdowsi is true to his name: he is a poet of paradise. The manuscript in question is the so-called Gulistan Shahnameh, produced in Herat for the Timurid prince Baysunqur, son of Shahrukh, in the year 833/1430.1 This manuscript reflects the reception of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh in an era when the cultural expansiveness and diversity of his poetry was celebrated as an expression of the Timurid Empire in all its glory, and this glory was understood to be a manifestation of the same kind of cultural expansiveness and diversity as was manifested by the poetry itself. The mentality of such a chicken-and-egg relationship between poetry and empire led to an impetus for making the Shahnameh even more expansive and more diverse than it already was. The result was the Baysunquri Recension of the Shahnameh, as — 245 —

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reflected in the Gulistan manuscript. This text, which incorporates a wealth of regional variants, contains over 58,000 lines.2 By contrast, the Moscow edition of Bertel’s and his colleagues contains around 50,000 lines.3 The term ‘Baysunquri Recension’ is justifiable in that the added verses represent an ambitious attempt by the compilers of the text to include variants from a vast array of different Persianate regions. Furthermore, these variants provide historical evidence for the ongoing reception and transmission of the Shahnameh.4 The cultural expansiveness and diversity of the Baysunquri Recension of the Shahnameh is reflected in the Gulistan Shahnameh’s preface, which collects a wealth of multiple stories about the collecting of variants of the Shahnameh. These stories centre on the initiatives of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazna, who is figured as a virtual prototype of Baysunqur himself as collector of variants in his own right. What appears most remarkable about the preface to the Baysunquri text of the Shahnameh is that its narrative aims to validate the different additional verses stemming from different regions by giving explicit details about provenience and about regional rivalries that centre on different claims about provenance. The mass of additional verses in the text of the Baysunquri Shahnameh, I argue, can be viewed as accretions that evolved organically during the lengthy process of reception and transmission in the oral and performative traditions of the Shahnameh as epic poetry – traditions that spanned a wide range of different regions in the Persianate world. Thus, the narrative of the Baysunquri Preface can be viewed as the multiform story of this reception and transmission – and it is this story that I am calling here an aetiology. So the narrative of the preface to the Gulistan manuscript of the Baysunquri Recension of the Shahnameh serves to motivate the rationale of the Recension. Or, to put it in terms of the title of my essay, the narrative of the preface aetiologises the Recension. A similar formulation can be applied to the narratives of other prefaces composed for other manuscripts of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh. A case in point is the so-called Old preface, attested in the London manuscript of the Shahnameh (= L, British Museum), dated ad1276. In general, it can be said that these prefaces, all centring on the life of Ferdowsi, serve the function of motivating the different receptions of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh in different historical contexts.5 With that said, I come to the focus of my essay. The preface to the Gulistan manuscript of the Baysunquri Recension of the Shahnameh contains a single illustration.6 The illustration (see Plates 9–10) shows a bearded figure approaching a beautiful garden. He is Ferdowsi, and he is still outside the garden, about to make his way inside (the stream separating Ferdowsi from the other figures here suggests the liminality of crossing into the garden of poetics). Coming toward him from the inside of the garden is a bearded figure who turns out to be, as we will see in a moment, the court poet ‘Unsuri. He is evidently approaching Ferdowsi, as if to greet him. Further off to our left, inside the garden, are two bearded figures who are seated on the ground and having a lively conversation with each other. Further back, off to our right, are two beardless figures, who are standing. One of these two figures, who turn out to be slave boys, holds a wine jar while the other holds a wine cup. This pictorial narrative corresponds to a set of moments in the prose narrative of the Baysunquri Preface, and I quote the relevant parts of one such set: — 246 —

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Ferdowsi stopped and settled down in a garden in the vicinity of the town [Ghazna] and sent someone to the town to let some of his friends know that he had arrived. He then did his ablution ritual before performing his religious worship. By chance the poets of Ghazna – ‘Unsuri, Farrukhi, and ‘Asjadi – had decided to get away from their rivals [= four other poets] and enjoy a gathering in that garden, each bringing along a pretty slave boy with him. When Ferdowsi had finished his prayers, he decided to join them for a while. When they realized this, the [three] poets said to each other, ‘the presence of this dry-as-dust ascetic will ruin our planned merriment; it is incumbent upon us to get rid of him.’ One of them suggested that they should pretend to be hog-drunk and treat him roughly to make him go away. ‘Unsuri vetoed this. Another one said, ‘Let’s each recite a line of a quatrain in a difficult meter and ask him to compose the fourth line to complete it. If he agrees, he can join the company; otherwise it will serve as a good excuse to get rid of him.’ When he [Ferdowsi] reached them, they acknowledged his presence and explained the conditions to him.7

The prose narrative has set up a situation where Ferdowsi is competing with only three poets, not seven, though there are seven potential poetic competitors mentioned elsewhere in the narrative of the preface.8 At the second mention of the seven rival poets, all are named: ‘Unsuri, Farrukhi, Zaynabi, ‘Asjadi, Munjik Tirmidhi, Hurami the Harp Player, and Abu Hanifa Iskaf. Ostensibly, three are selected out of the seven in the garden scene because ‘Unsuri, Farrukhi, and ‘Asjadi are ‘poets of Ghazna’, as we saw in the narrative just quoted. But a deeper reason for the selection of these three out of the seven poets is that, this way, the three poetic lines of these three poets in an unfinished quatrain can become the foils for Ferdowsi’s capping fourth line in a finished quatrain: [‘Unsuri said] The moon cannot match your effulgent face, [‘Asjadi said] Nor indeed can the rose in the flower garden [Farrukhi said] Your eyelashes can pierce through any armour [Ferdowsi said] In the manner of Giv’s spear when he fought against Pashan.9

As the narrative of the preface proceeds from here on, Ferdowsi eventually wins out over all seven poets, including the rival poet par excellence, ‘Unsuri himself, who figures as the chief court poet of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazna. But Ferdowsi does not oust ‘Unsuri as court poet, because he transcends such a conventional role: and his transcendence is made visible in the paradisiacal setting of the beautiful garden as noted in the narrative and as painted with special care in the only illustration that is featured in the preface. In the prose narrative, Sultan Mahmud sums it all up at a banquet where all the poets show off their skills as court poets and where Ferdowsi demonstrates his transcendent skills as a universal poet: ‘The Sultan was filled with joy and exclaimed, “May God shower you with bounty, Ferdowsi! For you have made our banquet in the Sultan’s court appear like the Garden that is Paradise [ ferdows].” And from that time on he was named “Ferdowsi”.’10

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Notes





1 On the manuscript’s historical and art-historical background, see R. Hillenbrand, ‘Exploring a neglected masterpiece: the Gulistan Shāhnāma of Bāysunghur’, Iranian Studies 43 (2010), pp. 97–126. 2 Ibid., p.105. 3 Ferdowsi, Shāhnāma, ed. E.E. Bertels et al., I–IX (Moscow, 1960–71); O.M. Davidson, Poet and Hero in the Persian Book of Kings, 3rd edition (Cambridge, MA, 2013), p. 61; eadem, Comparative Literature and Classical Persian Poetics, 2nd edition (Cambridge, MA, 2013); eadem, ‘Some Iranian poetic tropes as reflected in the “Life of Ferdowsi” traditions’, in M.G. Schmidt and W. Bisang (eds), Philologica et Linguistica: Festschrift für Helmut Humbach (Trier, 2001), pp. 1–12. 4 O.M. Davidson, ‘Interweavings of book and performance in the making of the Shāhnāma of Ferdowsi: extrapolations from the narrative of the so-called Bāysonghori Preface’ (2013, forthcoming). 5 O.M. Davidson, ‘The testing of the Shāhnāma in the “Life of Ferdowsi” narratives’, in L. Marlow (ed.), The Rhetoric of Biography: Narrating Lives in Persianate Societies (Cambridge, MA, 2008), pp. 11–20. The major ‘Life of Ferdowsi’ narratives of these prefaces are edited by Riyahi: M.A. Riyahi (ed.), Sar-chashmaha-yi Ferdowsi shinasi (Tehran, 1993). My analysis here is part of a projected book in which I provide a commentary on the entire text of the Baysunquri Preface to the Shahnameh of Ferdowsi (and also on the texts of two other such prefaces), along with a translation in collaboration with Mohsen Ashtiany. See Hillenbrand, ‘Exploring a neglected masterpiece’ for a reference to an earlier phase of this project. All the translations provided here stem from that larger project. 6 There is a full-page reproduction of this illustration (Ms 716 folio 007v) available on the Cambridge Shahnameh Project website at shahnama.caret.cam.ac.uk/new/jnama/card/ceillustration:507134948 (accessed 17 March 2013). 7 My system of citation shows BP (Baysunquri Preface), followed by the page number of the transcribed text as printed in the edition of Riyahi, Sar-chashmaha. This quotation is from BP p. 381. 8 BP, pp.374 and 381. 9 BP, p.381. 10 For variant versions of this quatrain, see E.G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia (Cambridge, 1909–28), vol. 2, pp. 129–30. BP, p.386.

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26 The Armenian poet Frik and his verses on Arghun Khan and Bugha Theo Maarten van Lint

A

poet known as Frik, a name rather unfamiliar to Armenian ears, lived and worked in the thirteenth to fourteenth centuries. While the exact dates of his birth and death remain unknown, sometime around 1230–1310 seems plausible. His work betrays not a little about his sources of conflict and meditation: the Mongols, clerical misconduct, lack of Christian unity, his own greed and other vices, and God.1 In the following pages some of Frik’s reactions to Mongol dominion will be discussed, in an attempt to contribute to a better understanding of the Armenians’ experiences and views of Ilkhanid rule. They are offered to Charles Melville as an expression of friendship, and in esteem for the author of a continuously inspiring and growing body of scholarship. Frik’s work is steeped in an acute and lingering awareness of social, economic and political injustice, reflected upon in Christian religious terms, shot through with moments of protest and of despair. His more traditionally religious poems, such as exhortations, are written in a measured classical Armenian, which gives way to a supple, immediate and imaginative middle Armenian, the vernacular of the time, in poems addressing social, economic and political problems, which give his work a lasting attraction. His poems express suffering, grief, despair and protest, as well as repentance, faith and hope. While it may seem superfluous to rehearse the hazards attaching to a direct transposition of the events related in the poems to the historical person of the poet, nevertheless, such a straight connection between poetry and reality was made with some abandon in scholarship on the period of Mongol rule over Armenia. The temptation was particularly strong for scholars wishing to establish the dates and details of Frik’s life and work in order to — 249 —

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draw factual information from the poetry. It may well be possible to draw a modicum of accurate information from the poems, but we cannot be sure about the precise relationship between the work and the facts of its author’s life. Among Frik’s conjectured biographies is that of a fairly well-educated layman, who seems to have been economically well placed, but had lost his possessions. This is explained by the loss of wealth caused by unreturned credit provisions the poet may have made to masaschis, craftsmen providing the Mongol armies with battle dress, horses and arms. Due to the proliferation of counterfeit promissory notes and difficulties redeeming them (real or false), the masaschis were deprived of means to pay off their loans. Roaming the land for income, they sometimes took the law into their own hands, thus presenting examples both of the afflicted and the oppressors.2 As a consequence, Frik would have fallen into poverty (and possibly even had to abandon his son in lieu of tax-payments).3 In support of this view three lines from his Lament on Repentance may be adduced. These are immediately followed by lines that put this in a moral perspective, using a simile from falconry:

Լամք ’ի ածել ես աշխարհի, լուկ վազեցի հետ շատ շահի: Զինչ Տէրն երետ հերիք չածի, ա՛յլ մեծութեան սիրտ ունէի, Ժողովեցի շատ մի բարի` ըռզակ արի զինք Թաթարի: Լաւ չ’ի դատել այնչափ տարի, երբ իմ հոգոյս ռոճիկ չարի, Զինչ որ մարդկան խորհուրդ լինի, ամենըն հողմ է եւ քամի: Այն բազային եմ նըմնաի, որ փոքր որսի ոչ հաւանի, Ով որ ածէ զաչն այլ մեծի, բէստէ կենայ զաւրն անաւթի:

I was tightly bound to this world, I only pursued much profit. I wasn’t satisfied with what God gave, but craved after greatness, I gathered a lot of goods, I took possessions for myself from the Tatar. It would be better not to have judged so many years, when I did not heed the remuneration of my soul, Whatever human counsel there is, it is all wind and air. I am like that falcon, that does not fancy the small hunt, He who casts his eye on greater things, see, he will always remain hungry.4

In this poem Frik chides himself for his greed. In another, a Lament on the Rise of the Infidels against the Christians and their Looting of the Holy Places; on the Lack of Unity of the Christians, he complains bitterly about the opposition, even the hatred of Christian peoples and denominations for each other, and has little time for bishops who read the Holy Books with the purest voice, but take bribes and whisper about money to each other during mass – a desecration angels would be appalled by and which is a devilish enterprise, the poet maintains. This behaviour of priests, bishops and kings induces ordinary Christians to follow their evil example. All nations born of Adam and Eve are subject to sin, but for such unrepentant behaviour God gives the unbelievers free rein to slaughter the Christians.5 Frik here goes beyond the staple explanation for evil befallen the faithful, which unfailingly is a consequence of their own sinfulness, in that he points explicitly to the nature of these sins. In some of his best-known poems, Against Fate — 250 —

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(Enddēm falakin), and the one known generally as the Complaint or Grievance (Gangat) he addresses God directly, wondering why he allows the Armenians and the poet himself to suffer so much sorrow.6 The poem presented here deals with the plot hatched in 1289 by Bugha against the Ilkhan Arghun and its suppression.7 The conspiracy is also mentioned in Step‘anos Orbelian’s contemporary account, the Chronicle, and his main work, the History of the Province of Siwnik‘ (1299), a valuable primary source for the later thirteenth century. Mongol rule over Armenia is treated in a variety of Armenian sources.8 The poem combines the social aspect of Frik’s work with that of a description of the poet’s vicissitudes, which brought him from prosperity to utter desolation. It further touches upon the politics of Ilkhanid rule and their consequences for Armenia, and gives a staunchly positive evaluation of Arghun’s reign. It is sustained by a Christian religious world view, and includes pleading with God for the adversities to end. Following the translation, some remarks on its structure and contents will be made.9 1

Recited by the same Frik on Arghun Khan and Bugha

5

Glory to God the ever living The righteous and true Judge See, what astounding things happened With Bugha and Arukh.10

10

Bugha, how did you wish to deceive The king that God appointed, Whom all Christians together Had beseeched from God?

15

God established Arghun Khan Who could overcome Arghun Khan? What harm did Arghun do? – I know, he was Abagha’s son.



He who pulled you up on high And gave you every good thing In exchange for that what did you plot Who could ever keep silent about that?

20

He who digs a hole for the innocent Falls into the abyss himself As soon as the Lord-Sultan comes to know of it, Your deeds will have killed you. — 251 —

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25

They committed no transgression Who were slaughtered by you, You weren’t any less than Arghun: Your awesomeness was greatly feared.

30

You were Bugha, became Prince of Princes Commander you were of the cavalry, I don’t know what you wanted to be You were not one of Chengiz-Khan’s sons.

35

What had not been given to you from above, How could you ever attain that? Saturn strongly pulls one up Then strikes you down onto the ground.



Pay heed, world all together To the miracles of the Heavenly One, See what God has done In retribution of the mighty one.

40

He cast the exalted one from the throne He crushed the dragon’s head He who opposes kings Prepares his own destruction.

45

Indeed Satan came up with this Against God, his Creator, Who fell down from glory Was undone in the abyss.

50

When God casts from before his eyes The co-worker of Satan He makes visible to all the shame That he brought upon Bugha.

55

The Lord struck down from heaven The Prince of Princes Bugha and Arukh, Indeed, all the leaders Who conspired with them.

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11



It is you, Lord, who exact revenge You look into the depths of the abyss, You hear the voice of supplications And the sighs of the deprived one.

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60

You have mercy on the destitute Yours are orphan and widow Lord, you saw from heaven What your servants have suffered.

65 13

There is not a well or river left That those who caused my tears12 did not drink dry, There are no mountains or fields left Where the masaschis did not tread.

14 70

In winter on the plain, they cried as they went And in summer at the pasture they were boiled, For twenty years we suffered torture So that our bones and skin are dissolved.

75

All we have left is our breathing Mind and senses are not present in us, Had Jalal al-Din remained, He would have counteracted against the matter.15

[…] […]

The Lord reprimanded with threatening eyes And house and goods were scattered […] […]

80

In such a way God repaid Grigor and his race, That all mankind witnessed How the companions16 cursed them.

17 85

Saint John was vexed with him, With that impious leader over ten thousand, He did not remember God at all, Did not have fear in his heart.

90

Thus God destroys him, who is obliterated with all his kin. Killer of the Lord, denier of God, Insolent and shameless, that dog Sofi.

95

He runs from door to door Until he falls into the pit, Truly, they did not do so much damage, That the matter was pleasing to God. — 253 —

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The great David proclaims to The people of Babylon, That he is blessed who stones The sons of the evil-doer.

100

Let us exclaim ‘Woe’ to ourselves: How did we see our enemy? I know, there were such people, Who rejoiced in our misfortune.

105

When we sat down in the square Everyone laughed at us. We looked so benevolently That they even hung their heads.

110

Let man not place his hope on money And let him not laugh in vain; The wheel of fortune gives a dekan in time Then cruelly tosses it to the wind.18

115

You who speak badly about a sinless man, You must look after his deeds, Then I also want to say this, What the masaschis have done.



They placed all their hope on passing vanity And boasted in their minds, saying: We will make very much money Let’s go and hang orphan and widow.

120

They have dealt crookedly with their friends And have brought down many people’s houses, They said very wicked things Through their sins they angered God.

125

With what God had given them, They were not contented in gratefulness, They disregarded it all, To go after the desire of their hearts.

130

The Lord struck them with the whip That they did not know what they had done; When he found that they were admonished And repented in their minds

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135

The Lord had mercy once more, He punished the adversary, In such a way God slaughtered them As they desired evil for the masaschis.



We have become prisoners like Israel Fallen into the hands of Bugha, Hope was cut out of our hearts: ‘What remedy will there be for our case?’

140

We have remained grievous and miserable, Saying: ‘When will our desire be realised?’ On both sides we were debtors, Once in this world, once in the other.

145

They were deprived of their goods They wept much against God, From the depths of their hearts they lamented In supplication they said this:

19 150

‘Lord, do not remove us from this life, Until our debts have been paid,’ Let all masaschis that there are Gather all together,

155

That we may supplicate the Lord God, That he show Arghun Khan That these tears are not right, That the companions have shed.



The caring one orders T‘ach‘ar, Ghazan and Sadadawla: ‘Quickly look after your business, Otherwise they will be void together with you’.

160

Curses are no good to anyone, They quickly seize the sons of men, God has paid attention from heaven And clearly hears the sinner.

165

Although he judges a little, He tests his beloved, The Lord, who gave Jonah to the whale, Set him free firmly on dry land. — 255 —

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170

Do not allow these last of sinful sinners To be taken away by the river of sin, Frik has cast his face down And soaked the earth with his tears.

175

Lord do not give us retribution after Our works, for our evil deeds, You are sinless and without blemish, How would he who is of clay not sin?



My words are good and my deeds bad, Do not judge me to what I deserve, The doctor does not work for the healthy, After all, you came because of the sick ones.

180

You descended from heaven, Because of one single sinner, We exist through your mercy, So that you put an end to our evil.

185

My days have passed with this masas, There is no limit, no bottom in sight; My pains are enduring and went into my bones I have no patience anymore.

190

Lord, for the sake of your Divinity Assist us in judgment, Deliver us from torments, Reveal Your face.

The metric structure of Frik’s poem is based on the number of syllables per line, as is usual in Armenian poetry. The metre is a common one. The poem is divided into quatrains with lines of eight syllables and each line has two feet of four syllables. The rhyme is axax, where a indicates a rhyming end of a line, and x a non-rhyming end. This presentation, which is common in manuscripts and printed editions alike, obscures a possible interpretation of the poem’s formal mathnawī-type organisation which is much better known from Arabic and Persian poetry, namely in dubayts with monorhyme and caesura. This matters insofar as the presentation of a poem imparts visual information about the type of tradition with which it associates itself. Armenian poetry, like every other branch of Armenian literary culture, has always been presented as part of an ultimately Western, or European, tradition, and while much is to be said for that – the manuscript evidence is eloquent – it places less emphasis on the affinities aspects of Armenian culture have with those that surrounded it in historical Armenia, many of which, although not all, were Muslim. Diwan, the title of Archbishop Tirayr’s collection of Frik’s poems, is a rare, and modern, designation for a collection of medieval or early modern Armenian poetry, pointing to affinities with an Islamic Middle Eastern tradition, and has been critically put in perspective by Cowe in an article on models for the interpretation — 256 —

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of medieval Armenian poetry, in which he pointed out that the use of the word in Armenian was restricted to denoting administrative and judicial centres.20 Frik’s poem, formally, is closest to a genre that started out with Grigor Magistros Pahlawuni’s eleventh-century retelling of the Bible in his thousand-line poem, based on the Arabic qas.īda, for the benefit of the Muslim vizier Abu Nasr al-Manazi.21 The Armenian genre is recognisable by the considerable length of the poems – they may be much longer than their Arabic models – and by the monorhyme in –in. It treats Biblical themes, or presents political laments over the loss of a city or a region. Frik’s poem presents an interesting elaboration of the basic scheme of the political lament. It is not formally called a lament or elegy, and does not call for all to bewail the fate of the fallen region or city, but starts out by reproaching Bugha, the alleged instigator of the conspiracy, chiding him for his insolence, and saying that it is he who is the cause of suffering for the poet and those with whom he identifies. The attention then shifts to the masaschis and the havoc they in turn wreaked, and evolves into an exhortatory poem warning against the pursuit of riches. Several stanzas then graphically depict the destitution of the Armenians and those involved with the masaschis. These are followed by lines of prayer that God may change the heart of Arghun to undertake compassionate action on their behalf. The coda inspires hope, putting trial and tribulation in the perspective of faith, albeit sorely tried, and ending with a prayer to see God’s face revealed. The poem is as much an indictment as a lament; it is an exhortatory sermon and a prayer for deliverance. While divisions cannot be considered absolute, the poem may conveniently be divided into nine parts:

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Stanza 1 2–8 9–13 14–23 24–26 27–33 34–39 40–46 47

Doxology and announcement Bugha’s rebellion is unjust and irreligious God intervenes and strikes down Bugha and companions God’s power is eternal and manifest: the masaschis in Armenia Biblical patterns for righteous behaviour under punishment The pursuit of riches is vanity: the masaschis’ greed God’s mercy after repentance God hears prayer, tests and redeems Final prayer to God for redemption

Lines 4–7 8–35 36–55 56–95 96–107 108–35 136–59 160–87 188–91

The poem’s opening eight stanzas (lines 1–35) describe a tension between earthly and heavenly power. Frik is in no doubt about the legitimacy of the Mongol ruler, Arghun Khan: it was God who placed him on the throne, and he adds even that he was the Christians’ choice. This gives an insight into the understandable interest that the subjects of the Mongols took in the political intrigues that were played out among the mighty rulers. Frik’s views on Bugha are very different. Bugha was elevated by Arghun to unprecedented heights, as a consequence of having played a central role in liberating him from prison, one assumes. Unlike Arghun, who as the son of Abaqa (line 15) was a Chinggissid, Bugha was not (line 30).22 Unlike his predecessor Tegüder Ahmad, Arghun did not choose to become a Muslim. Moreover, in 1283 Arghun rose in revolt against Tegüder over the latter’s rapprochement with the Mamluks. Both these facts must have played a role in the Armenians’ positive assessment of his rule.23 Interpreting the turn of events in the third part (lines 36–55) within a framework of biblical references, Frik turns Bugha into an emblem of the devil, both in his plotting and scheming, and — 257 —

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in his spectacular fall from the most exalted heights to the deepest abyss. He is compared to the dragon that is crushed underfoot. These are well-known images from the Bible (cf. Luke 10:18, Gen. 3:15), and from hagiography. Likewise, Luke 1:52 is invoked: ‘He has brought down the powerful from their thrones.’ Bugha’s sin was greed for power beyond the exalted position to which he had been elevated. In the fourth part (lines 56–95) God is invoked as the one who takes revenge and protects the destitute. The plight of the Armenians is depicted; they have in the course of 20 years – opinion differs as to what defines this period – suffered intolerably and are now utterly spent. The description is heart-rending, and conveys some factual information, in that the nomadic trekking between summer and winter camps had serious consequences for the sedentary Armenians. In a description worthy of Old Testament divine wrath, God interferes by destroying the offender Sofi and obliterating his kin. Here one might think that a tacit transition is made from Bugha and his conspirators to the masaschis and their nefarious influence on Armenia, but in fact they are seen as connected, as section seven makes clear (lines 136–159). This has the effect of separating Arghun from the evil that the Armenians had suffered – it was not his doing. This is in line with what Step‘annos Orbelian states in his History of the Province of Siwnik‘, when Arghun had been taken prisoner before he became Ilkhan: ‘But in that night the God of the Christians turned the hearts of the magnates towards Arghun, whom they freed from the bonds of prison and declared king, and who slaughtered all his enemies, putting them to the sword.’24 Step‘annos Orbelian here confirms the divine protection the Armenians believed God gave Arghun. Frik mentions ‘Grigor and his race’, meaning Saint Gregory the Illuminator who converted the Armenians to Christianity. The next stanza mentions Saint John the Baptist, whose uncompromising call to those in power to remember God and live morally in this instance does not cost him his head, but announces the destruction of that latter-day Herod, Sofi. The brief fifth section (lines 96–107) provides an instance of the guidance biblical precepts offer believers in their plight, inducing them to suffer gladly. Next (lines 108–127) a central message is expounded: the pursuit of riches is vanity. We have seen that Frik chides himself for his greed, which had brought him nothing but misfortune, and he may well be realising his own involvement in the matter when describing the masaschis and their transgressions. The wheel of fortune turns and riches may return to rags. With the lines from the Lament on Repentance in mind the following quatrain (lines 112–115) seems crucial in this poem, creating a fluid – and shameful – connection between the masaschis and their ambitions, on the one hand, and the poet’s own past behaviour, of which he now reaps the grapes of wrath, on the other. The means by which the masaschis and their companions seek to obtain their wealth goes against the nature of God: ‘Let’s go and hang orphan and widow’ (line 119). In stating this they ominously pit themselves against God, described earlier as ‘You have mercy on the destitute / Yours are orphan and widow’ (lines 60–1). The seventh section (lines 136–159) leaves little room for maintaining a distinction between Bugha and the masaschis. It is devoted to God’s mercy in his acceptance of repentance – here the poet will have had occasion to pause as well. God’s mercy assumes political character in that Arghun is induced to order Taghachar, Ghazan and Sa‘d al-Dawla to put their house in order, or they may also be swept away.25 The epithet given to Arghun, ‘the caring one’ (hogc‘oł anun, literally ‘caring name’), while a usual technical term for plenipotentiaries of various ranks, here may be — 258 —

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taken in its more literal sense, as analogous to an earthly representative of God, the protector of the destitute and carer for orphans and widows.26 Although Arghun is cast as a righteous king, no apocalyptic elements are associated with the Armenians’ perception of his rule.27 Section eight (lines 160–187) stresses the merciful aspect of God, who tests sinners, but ultimately redeems them and delivers them from perdition. This is exemplified in Christ’s humbling himself in descending to earth. Yet the flame of Frik’s plight once again burns with his despair before, in the last quatrain, which forms the ninth and last section of the poem, the poet pleads with God to free ‘us’ from torments and to reveal Himself in assistance to his people. Frik’s poem combines a range of aspects of human experience: that of an individual given over to sin followed by insight and repentance, whose sins bring along torment from within as well as from without. It can be read as an injunction to maintain a balance between ambition and one’s allotted station, following the Delphic meden agan, ‘nothing in excess’. Overstepping this mark characterises three of the protagonists in the poem: Bugha, the masaschis and Frik, who are all characterised by greed – for power or for money. The poem also reflects the experience of the Armenians as a whole, whose suffering had reached unbearable limits. The poem’s descriptions range from the psychological to the social and economic; they are cast in religious terms and experienced in a religious frame of mind, but not a totally passive one. We see the Armenians, and in particular the poet himself, as active participants in social and economic life, and pleading for changes in the governance of their land, the persistent nadir of which has brought them to the brink of despair and annihilation, casting this particular Mongol ruler Arghun as a Godgiven overlord, from whom deliverance from oppression through God’s guidance may rightly be expected. Notes



1 The most complete edition of Frik’s work, comprising 51 poems, with comprehensive study, is Tirayr Ark‘episkopos (Melik‘Muškambaryan), Frik. Divan (New York, 1952) (T). This edition can be usefully compared with the edition of 44 poems in M. Mkryan and E. T‘orosyan, Frik. Banastełcut‘yunner (Frik. Poems) (Erevan, 1941) (MT), which uses the manuscript of Tirayr’s book, deposited in the Matenadaran in Etchmiadzin, plus a number of other manuscripts and early printed editions, occasionally giving rise to illuminating variant readings. Manuk Abełyan, Erker (Works), vol. 4 (Erevan, 1970), pp. 288–342 and pp. 456–66 presents a survey of the work in its literary and historical context, avoiding the excesses of the materialistic and anti-religious interpretation prevalent in Mkryan’s introduction to MT and in Frik. Žołovacu (Frik. Collection) (Erevan, 1937). Ašot Hovhannisyan, Frik ∂ patmak‘nnakan luysi tak (Frik in historical-critical perspective) (Erevan, 1955) was not available to me. H.G. Žamkoč‘yan, ‘Patma-banasirakan ditołut‘yunner Friki ew nra tałeri masin’ (Historico-philological Observations on Frik’s Poems), Patma-banasirkan Handes, no 1 (Erevan, 1958), pp. 194–244 (Ž) remains an important study, which critically considers previous scholarship and offers stimulating new insights. A.T. Łanalanyan, Frik. Tałer (Frik. Poems) (Erevan, 1982) brings a selection of 28 poems, the only volume published in the Soviet period after MT’s more comprehensive edition. Brief surveys with some critical assessments of Frik’s poems are given in Srbuhi Hairapetian, A History of Armenian Literature From Ancient Times to the Nineteenth Century (Delmar, NY, 1995), pp. 373–383 and 588–90;The Heritage of Armenian Literature, vol. 2: From the Sixth to the Eighteenth Century, Agop J. Hacikyan, et al. (eds) (Detroit, MI, 2002), pp. 524–528; also S.P. Cowe, ‘Medieval Armenian literary and cultural trends (twelfth–seventeenth centuries)’, in R.G. Hovannisian (ed.), The Armenian People from Ancient to Modern Times, vol. 1 (London, 1997), pp. 293–325, at pp. 317–18. Frik’s work is treated as well in two further studies by Cowe, both important for the classification and interpretation of medieval Armenian poetry, ‘Models for the interpretation of medieval Armenian poetry’, in J.J.S. Weitenberg (ed.), New Approaches to Medieval Armenian Language and Literature (Amsterdam, 1995), pp. 29–45, and ‘The politics of poetics: Islamic influence on Armenian verse’, in J.J. van Ginkel, H.L. Murre-van den Berg, T.M. van Lint (eds), Redefining Christian Identity: Cultural Interaction in the Middle East since the Rise of Islam (Leuven, 2005), pp. 379–403. R.W. Thomson, A Bibliography of Classical Armenian Literature to 1500 AD (Turnhout, 1995), pp. 121–2, lists further bibliography. 2 This presentation is based on the assessment of the situation given in Ž, pp. 195–204, where also the terms masas and masaschi and their usage are explained, discarding various earlier Armenian interpretations. 3 Abełyan, Erker, pp. 462–6 addresses the latter issue, and concludes that judgement must remain suspended on the factual correctness of what he considers a hypothesis.

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23 24 25



26 27

Ž, p.203; T, p. 288: poem 8, ll. 8–10, and 11–14. T, pp.274–80 (poem 6). T, pp.371–8 (poem 27), pp. 529–40 (Appendix, poem 6). T, pp.38–43 and, with apparatus, pp. 422–8 (poem 35). T, p. 38, states that the poem is attested only in Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS Arm. f.16, ff.155–9. This contribution thus elaborates on Charles Melville, ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, in K. Fleet (ed.), The Cambridge History of Turkey, vol.1, Byzantium to Turkey (1071–1453) (Cambridge, 2009), p. 77: ‘Kazvini’s demise coincided with the rise to power at court of the Jewish vezir, Sa‘d al-Daula, who had replaced the Mongol Buka in June 1289.’ N. T‘amamyan, ‘Ałrun xani dem kazmakerpvac davadrut‘yan ev dra grakan arjagank‘neri masin’ (On the coup organised against Aghrun Khān and its literary reflections), Patma-banasirkan Handes 2 (2006), pp. 115–25 draws a useful picture of the episode, discussing the Armenian sources, including evidence from colophons and epigraphy, and comparing them with the history of Rashid-al-Din. Step‘anos Ōrbēlean, Patmut‘iwn nahangin Sisakan (History of the House of Siwnik‘ ), ed. K. Šahnazareanc‘ (Tiflis, 1910), p. 430, describes Arghun’s handling of Bugha’s conspiracy. See also Bayarsaikhan Dashdondog, The Mongols and the Armenians (1220–1335) (Leiden, 2011), pp. 179–81, and, for Frik’s treatment of the matter, Hairapetian, A History of Armenian Literature, pp.374–5. Dashdondog, The Mongols, pp. 6–26 gives a survey of Armenian sources on the Mongols. Abełyan, Erker, pp. 305–14 gives an interpretation of the poem, reflecting an earlier phase of scholarship on Frik’s work. Zaroui Pogossian, ‘Armenians, Mongols and the end of times: an overview of 13th century sources’, in S. Vashalomidze, M. Zimmer and J. Tubach (eds), Representation of the Mongols in the Caucasus: Armenia and Georgia (Wiesbaden, 2012) gives an interpretation in the context of a wider assessment of Armenian thought about the Mongols. I thank Dr Pogossian for making her text available to me before publication. See Wheeler M. Thackston, Rashiduddin Fazlullah’s Jami‘u’t-tawarikh: Compendium of Chronicles: A History of the Mongols. Part Three. English Translation and Annotation (Cambridge, MA, 1999), pp. 261–77, 568–71. T reads , with stressed , presumably metri causa. However, the poet here shifts the stress pattern: both (You) and (Lord), the first and third syllable of the first foot, are fully stressed, while the fourth is not. It breaks up the flow of the rhythm with good reason, alerting the readers and the audience to the importance of the message conveyed. The line scans ´- ´- / ´- – ´, with caesura within . Ŕ.A. Łazaryan and H.M. Avetisyan, Mijin hayereni baŕaran (Middle Armenian Dictionary), 2 vols (Erevan, 1987–92) (MHB) vol.1, 301b translates with ‘eyes’, quoting only this line. This translation seems to ignore the meaning of the causative suffix. T reads , inconsistently: in line 115 it reads . Thus MT, p. 211, with ; T, p. 424 has: / ; Łanalanyan, Frik Tałer, 75 has / . It is unlikely that the reference is to Jalal al-Din Khwarazmshah, whose death in 1231 occurred almost 60 years before the events described in the poem. MHB vol.2, p. 460 (pl. ) < Turkish ortak ‘friend, companion; colleague’, quoting this line. The observation by Ž (p.201) that T emended to is correct only for line 155. T and MT have , as a personal name. A dekan (also dahekan) is a silver or gold coin of varying value (MHB vol. 1, p. 171). As MT, T reads . Another one is Aršak Č‘ōpanean’s Nahapet K‘uč‘aki Diwan∂ (Paris, 1903). I leave out of consideration the poetry of Armenian ašułs (cf. Turkish âşık), who would call their notebook dawt‘ar, a loanword from Arabic daftar through Persian mediation. Cf. Cowe, ‘Medieval Armenian literary and cultural trends’, pp. 31–2. A critical edition with translation and study are given in Abraham Terian, Magnalia Dei. Biblical History in Epic Verse by Grigor Magistros. (The First Literary Epic in Medieval Armenian). Critical Text with Introduction, Translation and Commentary (Louvain, 2012); a brief survey in Th.M. van Lint, ‘Grigor Magistros’, in David Thomas and Alex Mallet (eds), Christian–Muslim Relations. A Bibliographical History, vol. 2 (900–1050) (Leiden, 2010), pp. 703–13. Dashdondog, The Mongols, p. 179, for Bugha’s role in freeing Arghun, with bibliography; Pogossian points out that Frik here adopts Mongol rules of legitimacy. For an account of events, see Dashdondog, The Mongols, pp. 175–81. Step‘annos Ōrbēlean, History of the House of Siwnik‘, pp. 425–6. On T‘ach‘ar (Taghachar), see Melville, ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, pp. 78 and 81–2; on Sa‘d al-Dawla, see Melville, ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, p. 77; Dashdondog, The Mongols, p. 180. Cf. MHB II, 44, s.v. hogc‘oł, hogc‘ōł. On contemporary apocalyptic ideas in Armenian literature, see Pogossian, ‘The Armenians’.

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27 An epic for Shah ‘Abbas Gabrielle van den Berg

T

he Safavid state could not have been established without the support of the Türkmen and extremist Shi‘i Qizilbash, who formed the military aristocracy, but whose power was reduced in subsequent years and ended by Shah ‘Abbas (r.1587–1629). By the time of Shah ‘Abbas, the heterodox origins of the Safavids had been successfully pushed into the background and Twelver Imami Shi‘ism had been gradually imposed on a Persian population largely made up of Sunnis. Popular religious texts certainly played a role in this process, even though the religious authorities tried to ban popular literature and rituals. According to Jean Calmard, however, the ulema of the time seem to have been lenient towards popular epics related to ‘Ali: Safavid religious authorities may have been less cautious with epics related to ‘Ali, who held the most prominent position, both in Twelver doctrine and Safavid-Qizilbash rituals. Legendary accounts about his military exploits or miracles continued to be apparently openly composed although they sometimes contained heterodox assessments. In this respect, we may mention a poem composed under the form of a mathnawī by Farigh Gilani in 1000/1591–2, when Shah ‘Abbas was conquering Gīlān. Besides the usual fabulous or phantasmagoric themes, this text presents ‘Ali as a sort of halfgod and contains in its introduction Hurūfī elements alongside with a praise of Shah ‘Abbas, in whose reign a further consolidation of Imāmism operated.1

Calmard leans on and refers to the Italian Iranologist Alessandro Bausani for his information on Farigh-i Gilani, a poet whose full name was Husayn b. Hasan Farigh-i Gilani.2 Farigh composed, — 261 —

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in the metre khafif, a mathnawī, which he dedicated to Shah ‘Abbas I on the occasion of his conquest of Gilan in the auspicious year 1000/1591–2. The mathnawī is entitled Kitab-i Farigh or Farighnama, or the Book of Farigh; it is also sometimes referred to as Diwan-i Farigh. It is a collection of legendary stories about the life of ‘Ali, interspersed with prayers and invocations. The Book of Farigh exists in a number of manuscripts3 and in a lithographed edition dated 1274/1858.4 Apart from this, fragments of Farigh’s work amounting to 60 folios are also present in a collection of poetry from 1245/1830, preserved in the Institute of Oriental Manuscripts (the former Institute of Oriental Studies, Russian Academy) in St Petersburg and originating from Central Asia.5 I have seen two manuscripts only – an incomplete seventeenth-century manuscript from the British Library6 and a photocopy from a manuscript of Tehran University, estimated as being from the thirteenth/eighteenth or fourteenth/nineteenth century.7 A manuscript copy, dated 1264/1847–8, is preserved in the National Library of Tabriz (Kitabkhana-yi milli) and is available digitally, accessible, with some difficulty, via the Internet.8 In these manuscripts, the opening line of each new story is written in red ink, and at the end of each story the name of the poet appears. Therefore, the stories are easy to recognise as separate entities. All the stories have an introduction of a couple of verses, after which follows the story itself, usually starting with the formula rūz-ī az rūzhā – ‘Once upon a time’. Each story is concluded by a devout prayer and a supplication by Farigh. ‘Ali is invariably painted in these stories as the mushkilgushā, ‘the solver of problems’. Although the role of ‘Ali in the stories indicates the Shi‘i inclination of the author and his audience, there is never a pronounced Shi‘a–Sunna opposition discernible in the stories. There is not the hostility towards the Sunna that is so characteristic of some kinds of popular Shi‘i literature such as ta‘zīya. The martyrdom of ‘Ali or his sons is never touched upon; the battle at Karbala is not mentioned. ‘Ali is the picture of a wise king, who has supernatural qualities which come to the fore if need be: then ‘Ali suddenly turns into a strong champion with superhuman fighting skills, or as a completely selfless hero who is ready to sacrifice himself for some seemingly trifling thing. The settings of the stories differ: very often it is a desert or a plain in which the figures of the story are wandering around or travelling; or it is a palace or a city mosque. The figures in the stories are stereotypes and in many cases they have not been given a name, but are referred to as ‘the beggar’, ‘the baker’, ‘the goldsmith’ and ‘the young lover’. ‘Ali is pictured as the helper of beggars and lovers. The unnamed heroes of the stories who figure besides ‘Ali are specifically those who are desperately in love. The capacity to cherish an ardent love for which everything must make way is sincerely admired and respected by ‘Ali: this ardent love is a metaphor for complete devotion in a religious sense. Perhaps the strongest image of ‘Ali as a problem-solver appears in the story about ‘Ali and the young lover who wanted ‘Ali’s head. In this story ‘Ali meets with a young man who desperately needs the head of ‘Ali to gain the hand of his beloved. The story is typically begun by Farigh in the following manner: How the king first gave his own head And then fulfilled the wish of that dervish After thanking God and praising the Prophet; If you strive for eternal prosperity — 262 —

a n epic f o r s h a h ‘ a bb a s

As long as you have a tongue to speak, Speak nothing but the praise of ‘Ali! Oh Farigh, do not seek for anything except the road to his love! Then the heaven will stop to think of him, Then the angel will speak to honour him. The king who gave up his head at the time of prayer, The moon who gives gold at the time of generosity, The one who gives his head in benevolence When will a friend despair of him? About that ocean of generosity, that mine of munificence About the qibla of religion and the Ka‘ba of purpose Listen to a story that is famous That is the light in the eye of the soul of the Shi‘a!9

After this introduction, the story unfolds: ‘Ali is travelling in the desert and meets with a strong man, who attempts to kill him. ‘Ali is much stronger, and is on the verge of stabbing the man to death, when he perceives an enamoured sigh. He asks the man where this sigh of a man who is in love comes from. The man tells ‘Ali about his beloved and her cruel father, a king named Haris, who will only give up his daughter in exchange for the head of ‘Ali. The man addresses ‘Ali and says: ‘I met you and I never met a stronger man before. Please release me and let me go to cut off the head of ‘Ali.’ ‘Ali then reveals his identity and offers him his head. At that very instant, the man finds the light of Islam in his heart. ‘Ali accompanies him to the court of the cruel King, takes the women and children to Medina and kills all the King’s soldiers single-handedly. The young lover and his beloved both embrace Islam and all ends well. In the British Library manuscript copy of the Kitab-i Farigh this story is one of 32 stories. This manuscript is defective at the end – still, this may well be the total number of stories, as it is probably only the colophon that is missing. The stories collected by Farigh Gilani in his book were probably not invented by him: it is very likely that he made use of existing stories, themes and motives. Praising the person and the deeds of ‘Ali in poetry has been done from an early date onwards: there is a lively tradition of manqabat poetry in classical Persian. The name of ‘Ali as a symbol for courage, generosity and knowledge is found in the earliest specimens of Persian poetry. Legends about ‘Ali, based on historical accounts or tradition, are very numerous but quite scattered in different works. These legends can be found in verse by poets who may or may not have been of Shi‘i origin. The story about ‘Ali and the young lover, though much more concise, is also part of the Kamalnama of Khwaju Kirmani (d.1329), and it illustrates the importance of sacrificing the self in a mystical sense.10 The heterodox sentiments expressed by Farigh Gilani may be found most readily in the introductory part of the Kitab-i Farigh. On folios 3r and 3v of the British Library manuscript Or. 1222 we find the following verses that are part of the praise of the Prophet and ‘Ali: Mustafa is the heaven of the true law. Murtada is the sun of the true religion. Mustafa is the pearl of the ocean of perfection. Murtaza is the manifestation of the splendour of beauty. — 263 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Mustafa is the king of the land of ‘but for thee’.11 Murtada is the brightest moon of the spheres. Mustafa by purity the expanse of decree, Murtada by loyalty the ocean of consent, Mustafa the keeper of constant affluence, Murtada the distributor of Paradise and Hell.12 Mustafa and ‘Ali are from one spirit – they are one Noah appearing as two arks.13 Many times the Prophet said – that ‘Ali is like a head on my body. When the Prophet of God, the king of ‘but for thee’ – the cause of the creation of heavens Called himself the body and ‘Ali the head – What can I say then to describe those two leaders? It is better that I do not make mistakes in words – in that manner I will not separate my head from my body.14 I consider Mustafa and ‘Ali as one – not for one moment will I separate them.15

A few pages later, Farigh addresses Shah ‘Abbas directly and gives the date of the poem as 1000ah. Oh king what can I say – I seek a prosperous life with God. This is what I ask from you in prayer – This is how I plant the seed of desire. That you may be seated on the throne of fortune – So that you will see the face of the Lord of Time, So that you may be the substitute of the Lord of Time – So that you may be eternally the King of the Shi‘ites. You elevate the rank of the Shi‘ites – You empty the world of Sunnites! To you ‘Ali Abu Talib gives the rule over East and West! Kings will be the slaves of your court – They have put their head in servitude on your road. The circambulation of the heavens is as you order it – The soul of the humans of this world is your sacrifice. The wisdom of the honoured God will give you – Whatever you wish for in this world! The enemy will not show himself – If he will, your sword will cut off his head. As long as the light in heaven remains clear – As long as the rose of the moon will stay in this garden. The shadow of your umbrella will pass the heaven – The foundation of your power will pass the angel. May the palm tree of your life be green and fresh – May your pure heart be happy and free of care! Your friends, men and women – In prosperity and singing until the trumpet of Israfil sounds, Your enemies, great and small – May they be subject to arrow, dagger and sword! Since Farigh’s invocation is done with a sincere heart – Please oh Lord, oh Master, pay heed to him! The year of this blessed speech – Is the year 1000, counted as it should be Because in this year the king of the great world – Has surrendered Gilan in his justice.16

On the following folio (6v) we find the first story, on how ‘Ali defeated a dragon when he was just four months old. In the beginning of the third story, about a demon whose shackles cannot be broken but by ‘Ali, Farigh informs his readers of the source of his work, saying that his work is based on the stories and a prose narrative handed down to him by his friend Muhammad b. Ibrahim from Rudbar, a town in Gilan:

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a n epic f o r s h a h ‘ a bb a s

I had a friend in Rudbar – who planted the seed of love for the king in the soul, He was my close friend and brother – in heart and soul the same. A servant in the alley of Lord Qanbar – he knew lots of stories of religious heroes by heart. He also brought me a story – saying: turn these words into poetry for you know how to do it.17

Also in other parts of his work, notably in the 22nd story of the Kitab-i Farigh, entitled or introduced by the verse ‘paydā kardan-i najaf-rā shah sultān – muhammad khudābanda birāh’,18 the story of how Muhammad Khudabanda, the father of Shah ‘Abbas, who ruled from 1578–81, discovered the grave of ‘Ali in Najaf, Farigh brings up this Muhammad from Rudbar: In the year 1562 I went from Baghdad to Gilan, When I arrived in Rudbar, I suddenly saw my favourite friend, My intimate and close friend, a good man: his name was Muhammad the praise-singer. He planted the words of love in such a way in my heart that I would give up my soul Our conversation was so pleasing that I stayed there for four years. One day he recited a sweet story, much more valuable than pearls or silver. Those words were very famous, but they were like scattered pearls. He said string these words into poetry and mention my name as well So that of my and your name and fame a reminiscence will remain in this world.19

The references to an oral source for the stories are quite vivid and underline the popular origin or nature of the stories as well as the currency of these stories in Gilan at the end of the sixteenth century. This is only a brief overview of the Book of Farigh, which in any case deserves closer investigation. The Hurufi elements mentioned by Alessandro Bausani and repeated by Jean Calmard are not very visible, unless the introduction of the book, where a certain emphasis on the importance of names is expressed, should be interpreted as such. However, according to Hamid Algar, Hurufism cannot be classified as a variety of ghulat or extremist Shi‘ism, for it shows no particular interest in elevating the rank of Imam ‘Ali b. Abi Talib above the ordinary.20 But if there is anything to be concluded from this all too brief introduction to the Kitab-i Farigh, it is the certainty that what Farigh of Gilan wants to convey in his book is the elevated position of ‘Ali. Notes

1 J. Calmard, ‘Popular literature under the Safavids’, in A. Newman (ed.), Society and Culture in the Early Modern Middle East – Studies on Iran in the Safavid period (Leiden, 2003), pp. 315–38, at p. 325. 2 A. Bausani, Persia Religiosa (Milan, 1959), pp. 365–81. 3 Five listed in Ahmad Munzavi, Fihrist-i nuskhaha-yi khatti-yi farsi (Tehran, 1969), vol. 4, pp. 3010–11. 4 C.A. Storey, Persian Literature, vol. I, part I (London, 1927), p. 214, no 272. 5 O.F. Akimushkin, Opisanie persidskikh i tadzhikskikh rukopisey instituta vostokovedeniya, vyp. 10 (Poeticheskie sborniki, albomy) (Moscow, 1993), p. 145, no 23:I (C 1385), Majmu‘a-yi ash‘ar, pp. 145–7. 6 British Library, Or. 1222. See description in: C. Rieu, Catalogue of the Persian Manuscripts in the British Museum, vol. 2 (London, 1881), 669b–670a: 193 folios with 14 verses per folio. 7 No 2860. I am very grateful to Charles Melville for having brought a xerox copy of this manuscript for me from Tehran in 1999. 8 No 3057, described in Munzavi, Fihrist, vol. 4, pp. 3010–11. 9 Or. 1222, f.53r. 10 Khvājū Kirmānī, Khamsa, ed. S. Niyāz Kirmānī (Kirman, 1370/1991), pp. 132–4. 11 Referring to the hadīth qudsī : ‘lawlāka mā khalaqtu ’l-aflāka’ – ‘If not for thee, I would not have created the spheres.’ 12 Or. 1222, f.3r, vss 3–7. 13 Or. 1222, f.3r, vs. 14.

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14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Or. 1222, f.3v, vss 6–10. Or. 1222, f.3v, vs. 14. Or. 1222, f.6r, vss 2–14 and fol. 6v, vss 1–5. Or. 1222, fol. 6v, vss 6–8 and 10. Or. 1222, fol. 109v, vs. 4. Or. 1222, fol. 110r, vss 2–10. Hamid Algar, ‘Horufism’, EIr.

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28 A note on form and substance in classical Persian poetry1 Homa Katouzian

Our life is poetry, legend and myth Akhavan Sales2

T

he purpose of this note is to discuss broadly but briefly the substance and form of classical Persian poetry, their interconnection and their reflection in the post-classical period. Thus it is not a short history and critique of classical Persian poetry, though there are references to that history, poems as well as poets. The three main forms of classical poetry are the qas.īda (a rather long ode, satire, eulogy or elegy), the ghazal (a relatively short lyric poem), and masnavi/mathnawī (usually a long narrative epic, romantic, didactic or mystical poem); other frequent forms are rubā‘ī (quatrain), dubaytī (doublet) and qit.‘a (fragment). Structurally, the qas.īda could be organised as musammat, tarjī‘band, tarkībband and mustazād, consisting of a number of stanzas. The mathnawī, ghazal and rubā‘ī were also written in the mustazād form but these are quite rare. There are still other less popular forms such as amplified poems or the genre of emulation (tad.mīn), which were rarely used by masters. The Persians adapted Arabic quantitative metres to their own literary traditions, but did so such that Persian metres could nevertheless be distinguished from Arabic (for example, by introducing a super-long syllable to the long-short syllable ‘arūd. scheme). Besides, different types of quatrain (the fahlavī, rubā‘ī and dubaytī) were essentially Persian forms, and the ghazal and mathnawī were largely developed in Persian poetry. Usually it is thought that the mathnawī and rubā‘ī have been known to the Iranian oral literary tradition since pre-Islamic times. The — 269 —

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idea of the ghazal was adopted from Arabic classical poetry although it has had its own evolution and usage on Persian soil. The substance of classical poetry is wide-ranging through various genres. The qas.īda with its main form as a rather bombastic court panegyric can have variations of elegy, satire, lampoons, parody and disparagements; it may include advice and admonition, and thus concern itself with morality and politics; or it may be about nature, festivals, or historical events, sometimes dedicated to some particular subjects, such as poems about wine drinking and wine making (khamrīyāt), friendly pieces addressed to close friends or other poets (ikhwānīyāt), and prison ballads (h.absīyāt). In the much shorter and more intimate genre of ghazal or pure love lyrics, the poet would reflect his emotional, passionate ecstatic or depressed state in experiencing human and/or mystical love. The qas. īda Form and structure

All classical poems are both metred and rhymed. There are many different metres, and the rhyming scheme differs from one poetical form to another. A qas.īda is a long poem, usually made up of between 16 and 60 distiches (bayts), although some qas.īdas are as long as 160 distiches and more. It is monorhymed, the rhyming scheme being in the form of AA–BA–CA, and so on, and is usually in longer metres. For example, the opening two distiches of a qas.īda by Manuchihri Damghani: ‫یبش‬   ‫وسیگ‬ ‫ورف‬ ‫هتشه‬  ‫هب‬ ‫نماد‬          ‫رجعم نیسالپ‬ ‫و‬ ‫نزرگ هنیریق‬  3 3‫یبش‬ ‫نوچ‬ ‫هاچ‬ ‫نژیب‬ ‫و گنت‬ ‫کیرات‬       ‫وچ‬ ‫رد نژیب‬ ‫نایم‬ ‫وا هاچ‬ ‫ نم‬     A night as dark as long black hair The netlike sky its scarf and coronet A night, close and dark as the well of Bizhan And I in its well just like Bizhan

where the first line (bayt) has a double rhyme in both parts of the verse (mis.rā‘): so called h.us.n-i mat.la‘ (the beauty of beginning). The heyday of the qas.īda was the tenth to twelfth centuries; thereafter, it declined, to rise again during the Restoration in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Motives, themes and substance

The substance of the qas.īda was almost invariably serious and solemn. Panegyrics and eulogies were one of the main purposes of the Persian qas.īda from its first appearance in the tenth century. Through it, the poet described the positive qualities and/or the military and other achievements of the subject of praise: the shah, a vizier, a military commander, or indeed a contemporary senior poet. An example is Manuchihri’s qas.īda in praise of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazna’s (971–1030) Poet Laureate ‘Unsuri (d.c.1040) in the form of a lughaz (‘riddle’) which, however, is resolved in the middle of the long poem. This almost invariably involved a good deal of exaggeration — 270 —

f o r m a n d s u b s t a n ce i n cl a s s ic a l pe r s i a n p o e t r y

and idealisation, attributing quite extraordinary abilities and feats of achievement to the subject. Qas.īdas that are in praise of someone or some stylised event seldom begin directly with their main purpose. For example, ‘Unsuri or Farrukhi (d.c.1037), writing in praise of Mahmud of Ghazna and his conquests, would begin their qas.īdas with a prelude about love, nature, or wine drinking, and then skilfully ease into the opening of the actual ode, rather like the way that the third and fourth movements of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony connect without interruption. Such preludes were seldom used when the motive of the poem was not praise, even in elegies, although they might still begin with a preface. Another category of qas.īda consists of those with a religious and/or didactic motive. They were seldom written in the eleventh century and are relatively rare even in other periods. Nasir Khusraw (1004–88), the leading Ismaili campaigner, is the exception that proves the rule on both these counts. Sana’i Ghaznawi (d.1131) wrote a number of such qas.īdas, though less vehemently than Nasir Khusraw, ever since he stopped writing court poetry and began to incline towards Islamic mysticism. Sa‘di (1208–83/91?) was an occasional writer of this type of qas.īda. Another group of qas.īdas is called h.absīyāt, or prison ballads, written by the poet while being held in jail, often in dire conditions. Mas‘ud Sa‘d Salman (1046–1121) spent no less than 18 years of his life in four different prisons, which made him the Poet Laureate of prisoners in the long history of Persian poetry. Khaqani Shirvani (1122–90), another great poet of the twelfth century, wrote in jail: 4

‫مدحبڝ‬ ‫نوچ‬ ‫ددنب هلک‬ ‫هآ‬ ‫دود‬ ‫یاسآ‬ ‫نم‬   ‫قفش نوچ‬ ‫رد‬ ‫نوخ‬ ‫دنیشن‬ ‫مشچ‬ ‫بش‬ ‫یامیپ‬ ‫نم‬4 At dawn when my smoke-like sigh raises a tent, My night-traversing eye is blood-lit like the sunset

Nasir Khusraw was not exactly imprisoned but he lamented his banishment to a Pamiri village in this way: 5

‫هدزناپ‬ ‫لاس‬ ‫رب‬ ‫دمآ‬ ‫هک‬ ‫هب‬ ‫مناگمی‬   ‫نوچ‬ ‫و‬ ‫زا‬ ‫رهب‬ ‫؟[هچ‬ ] ‫اریز‬ ‫منادنز هب هک‬5  Fifteen years have I been in Yumgan, Why and what for [?], because in prison am I

As was noted above, the motives for writing a qas.īda, such as praising wine, addressing friends, and so on, were numerous. For example, the qas.īda form was also used for mystical reflections – sometimes even for philosophising, though not philosophy – mainly in the twelfth century, once again, Sana’i being a good example. But it was superseded with the increasing use of mathnawī and ghazal for writing mystical poetry. Occasionally, the qas.īda was used for the description and appreciation of nature. The master of stylised and majestic nature description was Manuchihri Damghani of the eleventh century in the preludes to some of his panegyrics, such as that which opens with the two distiches quoted above. Some, such as the great twelfth-century qas.īda writers Anwari and Khaqani, displayed their knowledge of the sciences, but especially cosmography, which has consequently rendered some of their poems complex and difficult for the uninitiated. The qas.īda could also be a reflective or nostalgic poem employing rich imagery and metaphors. Towards the end of his life Rudaki (858–c. 941), the first great classical poet, wrote a remarkable qas.īda nostalgically describing the pleasures of the past and lamenting the decline of old age. It opens with the following two distiches: — 271 —

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‫ارم‬ ‫دوسب‬ ‫ورف و‬ ‫تخیر‬ ‫ره‬ ‫نادند هچ‬ ‫دوب‬  ‫ دوبن‬ ‫ال نادند‬ ‫ لب‬ ‫غارچ‬  ‫نابات‬   ‫دوب‬ ‫ دیپس‬ ‫ میس‬ ‫ هدز‬ ‫ ناجرم و رد و دوب‬ ‫هر اتس دوب‬ ‫…دوب ناراب هرطق و دوب یرحس‬6 6 Every one of my teeth rotted and fell! Teeth were they not, glowing lights, so to tell They were pure white silver, reef and pearl, They were the Morning Star, drops of rain

As was mentioned above, the qas.īda was a serious, solemn and usually long poem, particularly those written in the eleventh- and twelfth-century Khurasani style, and less so in the following long period of its decline, until the nineteenth-century bāzgasht (‘Return’ or ‘Restoration’) movement, when poets like the Poet Laureate Fath ‘Ali Khan Saba, Qa’im Maqam Farahani, Qa’ani Shirazi and Fathullah Khan Shaybani ‘returned’ to the old times and wrote Khurasani-style qas.īdas. The Poet Laureate Bahar in the first half of the twentieth century was the seal of the great Khurasani-style qas.īda writers. Rumi’s storytelling style was emulated in the collection of tales and anecdotes Jalayirnama by Qa’im Maqam (1779–1835), though this was in a mathnawī form, as was Saba’s imitation of Sa‘di’s Bustan in the long poem addressed to his own son. Other genres like h.absīyāt and ikhwānīyāt or fraternities (poetic letters and commentaries about the poet’s friends), were also revived. The mathnawī

The mathnawī was the most popular form of classical poetry. The earliest rather few examples in New Persian belong to the late tenth century and – with the major exception of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh (completed in 1010) – began to spread widely from the twelfth until the sixteenth century, then declining and later rising again in the nineteenth to early twentieth centuries. Form and structure

The mathnawī is, like all classical Persian poetry, a metred and rhymed poem. In principle, it can assume any Persian metre, although mathnawī metres are usually short. One of the most popular mathnawī metres is mutaqarib muthamman mahzuf ( ), as in Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh and Sa‘di’s Bustan, for example: ‫ونش متسر و بارهس مزر نونک‬      ‫یتس دینش اهرگد‬  ‫نیا‬ ‫ونش مه‬ )‫(یسودرف‬ Listen now to the battle of Suhrab and Rustam Having heard the other stories, hear this one too ‫رگا‬ ‫یقشاع‬  ‫ نماد‬ ‫ وا‬  ‫ریگب‬       ‫رگو‬ ‫تدیوگ‬ ‫ناج‬ ‫هدب‬ ‫وگ‬ ‫( یدعس )ریگب‬ If you are a true lover grab her skirt And if she asks for your life give it to her

The other is ramal musaddas mazhūf ( ), as in Rumi’s Mathnawiyi Ma‘nawi in the example below. The rhyming scheme is much simpler and closer to the — 272 —

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folklore style, being invariably in the form of A–A, B–B, C–C, and so on, as in Rumi’s famous opening verses: ‫ونشب‬ ‫ینزا‬ ‫نوچ‬ ‫تیاکح‬ ‫یم‬ ‫دنک‬        ‫و‬ ‫ز‬  ‫اه ییادج‬  ‫ تیاکش‬ ‫دنک یم‬ ‫زک‬ ‫ناتسین‬  ‫ات‬  ‫ ارم‬ ‫هدیربب‬ ‫دنا‬           ‫ مریفن زا‬ ‫درم‬ ‫نز و‬  ‫هدیلان‬ ‫دنا‬7 7

Listen to the reed when it tells tale And complains about gaps so large in scale Saying since they cut me off from my roots Men and women have moaned hearing my tunes.

Because of its relative simplicity and greater flexibility, the mathnawī was the principal form used for writing narrative poetry. Epic poetry, unless it described a short episode, was written entirely in the mathnawī form. Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, Asadi Tusi’s (d.1072) Garshaspnama (completed in 1066), Nizami’s Iskandarnama (completed in c.1200) and Saba’s nineteenth-century Shahanshahnameh are all mathnawī epics written in the mutaqarib metre mentioned above, which was first used for this purpose in Daqiqi’s tenth-century unfinished work on the Shahnameh, which Ferdowsi later inserted into his own poem. The metre became virtually synonymous with epic poetry, with the major exceptions of Sa‘di’s Bustan and Nizami’s Iskandarnama. The mathnawī was also the main form used for writing romances. Fakhr al-Din As‘ad Gurgani’s Vis u Ramin, written in the eleventh century, is the earliest major romance in classical Persian poetry that is extant. It is in a different metre (hazaj) from that of the Shahnameh, and the one used by the twelfth-century poet Nizami Ganjavi (1141–1209) in one of his romance poems Khusraw u Shirin (1180). Nizami is the master par excellence of the Persian romance, and three such poems of his, Layli wa Majnun (1192), Khusraw u Shirin and Haft Paykar (1197), are part of his Khamsa (Quintet) and they, unlike Vis u Ramin, include ethical and religious maxims. All these poems are in the mathnawī form, but not in the same metre. Mystical writings, another area in which the mathnawī form was used, began in the eleventh century, but rose rapidly in popularity in the twelfth century and peaked in the thirteenth century, although mystical works are found in virtually every age. A good deal of mystical or Sufi poems of the twelfth century were written by Sana’i (d. c.1131) and ‘Attar (1145–1221). Sana’i’s poetry is mainly in the qas.īda form except his crypto-mystical, voluminous and not very impressive Hadiqat al-haqiqa (Garden of Truth), which is a mathnawī. ‘Attar was a prolific poet. He wrote in other forms as well (one of his ghazals influenced a story in Sa‘di’s Bustan), but the main body of his works consists of his books of mathnawīs, such as Ilahinama, Asrarnama and, especially, the famous Mantiq al-Tayr. The last poem is an allegorical fable of the difficult stages through which the mystic must pass, and the ordeals he must suffer, on his way to ultimate union with the Sufi’s beloved, God, as the only reality, as Truth itself. But at the same time it promises that success, although very rare and hazardous, is not impossible. The pantheistic element in Sufism is implicit in this poem. Rumi’s Mathnawi-yi Ma‘nawi is the greatest mystical mathnawī of all times, and a notable mystical mathnawī of the early fourteenth century is Mahmud Shabistari’s Gulshan-i Raz (1311). Awhadi Maraghi’s Jam-i Jam or Jam-i Jahanbin (1333) was also a popular fourteenth-century mystical mathnawī. In the fifteenth century several mystical mathnawīs formed part of the Haft — 273 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Awrang (1468–85) of ‘Abd al-Rahman Jami (1414–92), the prolific poet and writer who was traditionally known as ‘the last of the classical masters’ before ‘decline and decadence’ began. The sixteenth–eighteenth-century Safavid period was one of religious orthodoxy rather than mysticism, in spite of the dynasty’s Sufi origins, which are reflected in its title. In the nineteenthcentury Qajar period a number of mystical masnavis of not high quality were written. The ghazal

The basic elements of the structure of the ghazal are the same as the qas.īda. It can be written in various, usually longer, metres, and, just as in the qas.īda, the rhyming scheme is AA–BA–CA, and so on. An alternative rhyming scheme in both the ghazal and qas.īda is the use of radīf, or repetitive endings, AB–AB–C–AB–D–AB, and so on. Here is an example from the opening distiches of a ghazal by Hafiz (1326–90), the repetitive radīf being ‘shud’: ‫ظفاح‬ ‫تولخ‬ ‫نیشن‬ ‫شود‬ ‫هب‬ ‫هناخیم‬  ‫دش‬                 ‫زا‬ ‫رس‬ ‫نامیپ‬ ‫تشذگ‬ ‫اب‬ ‫هنامیپ رس‬ ‫دش‬ ‫دهاش‬ ‫ هدمآ بابش دهع‬ ‫شدوب‬ ‫اوخ هب‬ ‫ب‬                ‫زاب‬ ‫هناریپ هب‬ ‫و قشاع رس‬ ‫هناوید‬ ‫دش‬8 8

The recluse Hafiz went to the tavern last night He broke his vows and took the cup [of wine] He had seen the sweetheart of his youth in a dream So in his old age he became a lover and madman

However, the ghazal is much shorter than the qas.īda, usually between 5 and 14 bayts, or distiches, although in a small number of cases it has been written in up to 20 distiches and more. The subject in a single ghazal may be uniform or it may vary. In fact, up to and including the thirteenth century ghazals had a uniform content, but later ghazals could contain more than one subject in a single poem. For example, the subjects of a total number of about 2,000 ghazals by Rumi and Sa‘di are normally uniform, whereas those of Hafiz and later, like the poems by Sa’ib (1602–77) often contain more than one theme. The ghazal is the purest form of classical Persian poetry. Its subject is love, whether of the Sufi’s object of love – God, Truth – or of human beings, women and youths. Love lyrics had been written from almost the beginning of classical poetry. The ghazal began to develop further in the twelfth century, not least in the works of ‘Attar, Sana’i and Anwari. But if the eleventh and twelfth centuries (the Ghaznavid–Seljuq period) were the age of the qas.īda, the thirteenth century (the Mongol era) was the heyday of the ghazal, led by two of the three greatest Persian ghazal writers of all time, Sa‘di and Rumi. Hafiz, the third of the group, lived during the Timurids of the fourteenth century, when many other fine ghazal writers, such as Khwaju Kirmani, Salman Savaji, ‘Ubayd Zakani and Kamal Khujandi also lived and worked. The thirteenth–fourteenth-century style of poetry is also described as the Iraqi style, referring to ‘the Persian Iraq’, as the Iranian hinterland west of Khurasan used to be called. The basic structure of poetry did not change from the Khurasani style, but the ghazals produced by famous poets became more sophisticated. Qas.īda writing declined, and the best qas.īdas written during this period, like those by Sa‘di, were softer and more lyrical in tone and lacked the Olympian pomp and thunder of Khurasani qas.īdas of the eleventh and especially twelfth — 274 —

f o r m a n d s u b s t a n ce i n cl a s s ic a l pe r s i a n p o e t r y

centuries. Correspondingly, there were also some changes in the use of words and application of figures of speech. Yet in the later decades of the fourteenth century and in the Timurid period in general certain changes began to take place in the Iraqi style of ghazal writing that acted as a prelude to the emergence of the sixteenth–seventeenth-century Indian style. Specifically, some ghazals contained more than one theme, fewer words were used in expression, and the figures of speech were not as readily comprehensible as before. These changes may be observed in the poetry of Hafiz, Khwaju Kirmani (d. 1325) and especially Kamal Khujandi (d.1400). Of the leading poets, only the fifteenth-century Jami kept more closely to the older styles. The Indian style was so called partly because many poets writing in Persian in this period were of Indian origin, and partly because quite a few Iranian poets served at the Mughal courts in India. Yet the style itself was first initiated and developed in Iran, preludes to which, as noted, occurred in the fourteenth century. The best-known Iranian poets of this style are the fifteenth–sixteenth-century Baba Faghani Shirazi, the sixteenth-century ‘Urfi Shirazi and Vahshi Bafqi, and the seventeenth-century Bidil Dihlavi, Kalim Kashani and Sa’ib Tabrizi. Baba Faghani is sometimes credited with being the founder of the Indian style movement, but that is an exaggeration and the movement was an evolutionary one. Vahshi (d.1583) was more in the tradition of Baba Faghani, whereas the styles of Sa’ib and Kalim were more distinct. Sa’ib – perhaps with Bidil – was the greatest of all Indian-style poets. The ghazal was the form par excellence of Indian-style poetry. Imagery, metaphors and similes were used extensively and were usually far from obvious, and by the early eighteenth century became so far-fetched that the poem virtually became a puzzle. The poetry of this period displayed an extreme form of what the Russian formalists (notably Viktor Shklovsky) have described as ‘defamiliarisation’, somewhat anticipating certain trends in recent postrevolutionary poetry. It is not surprising that the poets themselves put a high premium on ‘unfamiliar themes’ (in Kamal Khujandi’s words, ‘ma‘nā-yi bīgāna’), but, as noted, it became extreme in the first half of the eighteenth century. Another main characteristic of this style, which in the hands of lesser poets further complicated the meaning, was the strict economy with which ideas were expressed, that is, much meaning was expressed in few words. Lastly, many Indian-style ghazals were far from uniform in content, such that occasionally every distich, or bayt, carried its own separate meaning. Ghazal writing was relatively limited during the nineteenth-century Restoration, the best poets of ghazal being Visal Shirazi, Nishat Isfahani and Furughi Bastami. Most of the ghazals of this period were styled after Hafiz and Sa‘di. Iraj and ‘Ibrat Na’ini also wrote fairly good ghazals in the early twentieth century. Later in that century Muhammad Husayn Shahriyar was a leading ghazal writer, mainly in the style of Sa‘di, and Hushang Ibtihaj – partly a modernist poet – wrote ghazals in a masterly imitation of Hafiz. Quatrains and short pieces

In English, poems in two distiches are normally described as quatrains. In classical Persian literature there are more specialised forms of quatrain. The rubā‘ī is such a poem written in a specific metre. Its rhyming scheme is in the form of A–A–B–A (or, very occasionally, as in the — 275 —

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case of a quatrain by Farrukhi Sistani, A–A–A–A), for example, the following well-known rubā‘ī by ‘Umar Khayyam (1048–1131), which also includes a radīf ‘shudīm’: ‫دش داتسا هب یکدوک هب دنچ کی‬ ‫می‬                ‫دنچ کی‬ ‫یداتسا هب‬ ‫دوخ‬ ‫داش‬ ‫میدش‬ ‫هک ونش نخس نایاپ‬  ‫ام‬ ‫ار‬9 ‫هچ‬ ‫دیسر‬  ‫ کاخ زا‬ ‫ میدمآ رب‬ ‫رب و‬ ‫داب‬  ‫میدش‬9 In childhood we spent some time at the master’s feet Later we were glad to be masters in our own esteem But listen to the end of the story: We emerged from the dust and went with the wind.

The rubā‘ī is characteristically an epigrammatic poem with a lyrical, mystical or reflective and contemplative substance. The impact of a good rubā‘ī is felt in the second distich and especially in the very last verse (hemistich). The two poets with a considerable body of rubā‘īs who wrote in no other genre were the famous Sufi Abu Sa‘id Abu’l Khayr (967–1049), and the famous scientist ‘Umar Khayyam, whose work was made world-famous by Edward Fitzgerald in the nineteenth century. Many more rubā‘īs have been attributed to Khayyam than he actually wrote, but in many cases it is not difficult to identify the fakes. The poems attributed to Abu Sa‘id may not in fact have been written by him, but whoever wrote them was an accomplished poet. Also, and not surprisingly, the poems of Khayyam – to whom the best rubā‘īs in history are ascribed – are philosophical, contemplative and sceptical (the occasional mystical interpretations of Khayyam’s poetry, notably that by Robert Graves, run contrary to both the poet and the poems). The doublet or dubaytī is another type of Persian quatrain, once again written in one specific metre alone. Doublets are often called fahlawīyāt (the Arabicised plural form of the Persian Pahlavi). They are believed to have been modelled on certain songs of Pahlavi, or Parthian origin. At any rate, it is clear from the simplicity of their language that doublets are based on early folk songs, although their complete quantitative metre cannot have developed earlier than the late eighth century. The tenth–eleventh-century mystic poet Baba Tahir was the writer par excellence of fahlawīyāt and composed no other poetry than that. For example, he wrote the following: ‫یکی‬ ‫یرگیزرب‬ ‫نولان‬ ‫رد‬ ‫نیا‬ ‫تشد‬        ‫هب‬ ‫مشچ‬ ‫نوخ‬ ‫ناشف‬ ‫هلالآ‬  ‫یم‬ ‫تشک‬ ‫یمه‬ ‫تشک‬ ‫و‬ ‫تفگ یمه‬ ‫یا‬ ‫اغیرد‬       ‫هک‬ ‫دیاب‬ ‫نتشک‬ ‫نتشه و‬ ‫تشد نیا رد‬10 10

A farmer in this plain, blood in his eyes, Was busy planting buttercup flowers He kept planting and saying alas We must plant and leave it here after us

Fragments or pieces (qit.‘a) may have various metres and any theme, but they are seldom used to express mystical or human love, or panegyric subjects. They are often used for moral admonition, philosophical contemplation, complaints about life or other people’s conduct, and satire and lampoons. Their rhyming is close to the qas.īda and ghazal, B–A, C–A, D–A, and so on. They consist of two distiches or more, although they are seldom longer than 20 distiches. Many short pieces consist of two distiches only, but both their metres and their rhyming schemes distinguish them from the rubā‘ī and dubaytī. Here is a doublet or two-distich qit.‘a by Sa‘di: — 276 —

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‫شاک‬ ‫ناناک‬ ‫دندرک نم عنم هک‬             ‫تیور‬ ‫یدندیدب ناتسلد یا‬   ‫ات‬ ‫ یاج هب‬ ‫جنرت‬ ‫ رد‬ ‫ترظن‬               ‫یب‬ ‫ربخ‬  ‫اهتسد‬  ‫یدندیرب‬11              11 I wish those who criticised me Had seen your beautiful face So looking at you they’d cut their hands Instead of the orange which they had in their hands

Many poets of all ages have written pieces or fragments in various lengths. Anwari, Suzani, Khaqani and many others have written lampoons and versified invectives in short pieces. The fourteenth-century Ibn Yamin’s poetry was largely in this form and so he is particularly known for writing qit.‘as. Satire and irony

Satire and irony in poetry appear especially from the twelfth century onwards, though the irony of fate is a not infrequent theme in Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh. Sa‘di’s Gulistan, mainly in prose, contains fine satirical comments and allusions, but the subtlest satire and irony of this kind is found in Hafiz’s poetry. Anwari, Khaqani, Adib Sabir and Suzani in the twelfth century, Rumi in the thirteenth century, and Yaghma and Qa’ani in the nineteenth century took delight in writing disparaging, often coarse, lampoons and parodies in the form of short poems, although in the case of Rumi most of them are virtual pornographies written in long anecdotes, although their purpose is, nevertheless, mystical and didactic. The fourteenth-century poet and satirist ‘Ubayd-i Zakani has pride of place as a writer of coarse but delightful satire, parody and burlesque, more in prose than in poetry. Notes

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

I take responsibility for the translations in this article. Akhavan Sales, ‘Zindagiyiman shi‘r-u afsana’, in Akhar-i Shahnameh (Tehran, 1969), p. 84. Manuchihri Damghani, Diwan, ed. Muhammad Dabir-Siyaqi (Tehran, 1977), p. 63. Khaqani Shirvani, Diwan, ed. Zia’ al-Din Sajjadi (Tehran, 1957), p. 320. Nasir Khusraw, Diwan, ed. Mujtaba Minuvi and Mahdi Muhaqqiq (Tehran, 1978). Rudaki, Diwan, ed. Jahangir Mansur (Tehran, 1974), p. 115. Jalal al-Din Rumi, Mathnawi-yi Ma‘nawi, ed. Reynold A. Nicholson (Tehran, 1965), p. 3. Ghazaliyat-i Hafiz, ed. Adib Burumand (Tehran, 1988), p. 165. ‘Umar Khayyam, Ruba‘iyat, ed. Muhammad ‘Ali Furughi (Tehran, 1963), p. 35. Baba Tahir, Diwan, ed. ‘Abbas Akhawayn (Tehran, 1992), p. 20. Gulchin-i Sa‘di, selected and ed. H. Katouzian (Tehran, 2010), p. 52.

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29 Stringing replica pearls: translations of Persian verse into verse Barbara Brend

I

t is a tribute to the wide range of Charles Melville’s interest in Iran that contributions to this Festschrift can be grouped under the three headings of history, art and literature. The following translations are offered under the third heading, not as the thing itself, but in the endeavour towards a proxime accessit, the next best thing. All translation that seeks to approach the original, as opposed to deliberately using the original as a point of departure, is an approximation and loses something of the original.1 So the question arises of what one is prepared to sacrifice in the pursuit of what ends. Verse may be translated into prose or into verse (prose might also be translated into verse, but this would probably be for satirical purposes). Prose translation of verse permits close attention to the meaning of individual words – but in terms of poetry it may let out the baby with the bath water. Verse translation permits the element of sound, and so the possibility of effects of rhythm and onomatopoeia; it is sometimes obliged to forego precision, but it does so in hope of reaching a greater good. Verse to verse translation of Persian into English has a tradition that begins with Sir William Jones (d. 1794), who shows us the Shiraz Turk of Hafiz through a delightfully decorous eighteenth-century veil.2 It has been practised by numerous hands over more than two centuries, and still engages experts today.3 It is very tempting.4 Since the following translations were not made under direct academic supervision, I have pursued them in freedom and ignorance.5 To arrive at the first or ostensible level of meaning I have sometimes consulted previous translations. To render this meaning I have followed the procedure which may, I think, be more characteristic of training in Modern Languages than — 278 —

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of Oriental: that of imagining what the poet might have written if, in some impossible world, he had been writing in English rather than in Persian. In the mechanics of the lines I have used whatever expedients seemed necessary: near rhymes and not so near, assonance, repetition, sprung rhythms and elisions, and occasional archaisms. Rudaki (d.940) 1. Bū-yi jū-yi mūliyān āyad hamī 6 ‫یوب‬ ‫یوج‬ ‫نایلوم‬ ‫دیآ‬ ‫یمه‬ ‫دای‬ ‫رای‬ ‫نابرهم‬ ‫دیآ‬ ‫یمه دیآ ناینرپ میاپ ریز وا یاه یتشرد و یومآ گیر‬ ‫بآ‬ ‫نوحیج‬ ‫زا‬ ‫طاشن‬ ‫یور‬ ‫تسود‬ ‫گنخ‬ ‫ام‬ ‫ار‬ ‫ات‬ ‫نایم‬ ‫دیآ‬ ‫یمه دیآ نامهیم وت یز ریم یز رید و شاب داش اراخب یا‬ ‫یمه دیآ ناتسوب یوس ورس ناتسوب اراخب و تسا هام ریم‬ ‫ریم‬ ‫ورس‬ ‫تسا‬ ‫و‬ ‫اراخب‬ ‫ناتسوب‬ ‫ورس‬ ‫یوس‬ ‫ناتسوب‬ ‫دیآ‬ ‫یمه دیآ نایز ردنا جنگ هب رگ یمه دیآ دوس حدم و نیرفآ‬

‫یمه‬ ‫یمه‬

‫یمه‬

From Muliyan’s stream a perfume rises ever The memory of my dear friend ceases never, Harsh though the gritty sand of Amu River He makes my road a silken path forever. If the loved face on Jihun’s surface quiver, The water swells to reach my stirrup leather, Happy Bukhara and its prince together Flourish, as guests are thither drawn forever. Moon is the prince, Bukhara is the heaven; Nothing from moon shall heaven sever ever. Cypress to garden, if he comes but hither, My prince is in Bukhara rooted ever. Sa‘di (d.c.1292) 2. Ay sārabān āhista rān k-ārām-i jān-am mīravad 7 ‫یا‬ ‫نابراس‬ ‫هتسهآ‬ ‫نار‬، ‫ماراک‬ ‫مناج‬ ‫یم‬ ‫دور‬ ‫ناو‬ ‫لد‬ ‫هک‬ ‫اب‬ ‫دوخ‬ ‫متشاد‬، ‫اب‬ ‫مناتسلد‬ ‫یم‬ ‫دور‬ ‫نم‬ ‫هدنام‬ ‫ما‬ ‫روجهم‬ ‫زا‬ ‫وا‬، ‫هراچیب‬ ‫و‬ ‫روجنر‬ ‫وزا‬ ‫ییوگ‬ ‫هک‬ ‫یشین‬ ‫رود‬ ‫وزا‬، ‫رد‬ ‫مناوختسا‬ ‫دوریم‬ ‫متفگ‬ ‫هب‬ ‫گنرین‬ ‫و‬ ‫نوسف‬، ‫ناهنپ‬ ‫منک‬ ‫شیر‬ ‫نورد‬ ‫ناهنپ‬ ‫یمن‬ ‫دنام‬ ‫هک‬ ‫نوخ‬، ‫رب‬ ‫مناتسآ‬ ‫یم‬ ‫دور‬ ‫لمحم‬ ‫رادب‬ ‫یا‬ ‫ناوراس‬، ‫یدنت‬ ‫نکم‬ ‫اب‬ ‫ناوراک‬ ‫زک‬ ‫قشع‬ ‫نآ‬ ‫ورس‬ ‫ناور‬، ‫ییوگ‬ ‫مناور‬ ‫یم‬ ‫دور‬ ‫وا‬ ‫یم‬ ‫دور‬ ‫نماد‬ ‫ناشک‬، ‫نم‬ ‫رهز‬ ‫ییاهنت‬ ‫ناشچ‬ ‫رگید‬ ‫سرپم‬ ‫زا‬ ‫نم‬ ‫ناشن‬، ‫زک‬ ‫لد‬ ‫مناشن‬ ‫یم‬ ‫دور‬ — 279 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Oh, leader stay, leave not today, take not my spirit’s peace away 8 For that heart that I thought was mine, wends with my ravisher away. Here I remain disconsolate, in torment and in misery, Say that the sting of love for her into my bones has found a way. I said, By magical deceit this inner wound shall secret be: It cannot be for my heart’s blood clear on my threshold flows away. Leader hold back that litter here, and hasten not the caravan, From loving that one’s stately grace my state of grace is passed away. She passes on, trailing her gown. I taste the deadly draught: alone. Ask not a sign of life from me, life from my heart is drained away. Should my proud love return to me, pleasures of life are past for me; So like an incense-burner I, that from my head smoke streams away. ’Spite of that lack of faith in her, and that accord on shifting ground, Her memory lingers in my breast, or on my tongue it flows away. My lovely ravisher return, even upon mine eyes recline: — 280 —

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The turmoil and complaint I raise from earth to heaven is blown away. From dusk till dawn I cannot rest and no man’s counsel do I heed, Along the aimless road I wend as rein from my palm slips away. Pursue! till camel, like an ass, shall fall exhausted in the mire But this also I cannot do, the caravan steals my heart away. Again to meet this love of mine, returned my heart’s keeper to me, Though it be past concern of mine, it keeps all friends from me away. They talk much of the myriad ways how that the soul and body part But I myself, with mine own eyes, saw how my soul was fled away. Sa‘di, alas, a faithless one cannot be worthy of our hand: Patience I use not, cruel love at my lament must hence away. 3. Bi jahān khurram az ān-am ki jahān khurram az ū-st 9

The world brings me rejoicing, for the world’s joy is in Him, I am all creation’s lover, since creation is from Him. O friend, count as a bounty waft of Jesus’ breath at dawn,10 For the dead heart may awaken from the breath that He has drawn.11 Not truly ruled by heaven, nor fruit of worldly gain, The black blood-clot that forms mankind creation has from Him. — 281 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

As the cup-bearer bears witness, I taste poison as a sweet I accept all pain as welcome, since the remedy is He. My bleeding wound, should it not heal, brings better health to me, Well is the wound that momently shows He is salve to me. Joy and sorrow of the mystic, where in them can difference be? Saqi, pour the cup of gladness, source of sadness it is He Same are the life of emperor, or of a beggar poor, All must bend the back in worship as they enter in His door Sa‘di, fear not if this worldly house wrecks in a passing sea, The immutable foundation of the true world, it is He. Hafiz (d.1389) 4. Agar ān turk-i shīrāzī bi dast ārad dil-i mā-rā12

If that sweet Turk of Shiraz born would grant the dear wish of my soul Bukhar’ and Samarqand I’d pledge for sight of one black Indian mole. Pour again, boy, the wine of joy, for Paradise cannot exceed The earthly fairness here below, Musalla’s mead, Ruknabad’s shoal. — 282 —

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Alas, those gypsies, teasing sweet, versed in all artful artifice, Like raiding Turkmans through the street, sallied and my heart’s comfort stole. The loved one’s beauty needs no aid from this imperfect love of mine, From wash and colour, patch and line, the lovely face levies no toll. Such radiant beauty saw I then, as once illumined Yusuf ’s face, That from the veil of modesty a new Zulaykha might cajole. If you should answer with a curse, or if you should revile me still, Bitter words suit the ruby lips that sip from beauty’s sugar bowl. O soul, give ear to this advice, for dearer than the soul they hold it, Those youths, beatified, who by the sage’s rede descry their goal. To this perpetual enigma reason can never be the key, Bring music, wine, and I’ll seek less secrets of the eternal whole Hafiz you spoke, words’ pearls you broke, accept the verses’ rightful fee The necklace of the Pleiades, descending from the heavenly pole. 5. Biyā ki qas.r-i amal-i sakht sust bunyād-ast 13

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Come, for the castle of intent is on uncertain ground; Hand round the cup, for life itself is grounded on the wind. I shall be slave to him whose will, beneath the azure round, Untainted by acceptance of dependency is found. How shall I tell you? For last night, I steeped in tavern’s wine, What message from the hidden world came with angelic sound: O man of such high-tempered pride, hawk of the distant tree, Your place is not to be confined in this world’s tawdry pound. From battlements of the heavenly throne they call to hail you home. How can you tolerate the snare this earthly life has wound? My counsel take into your heart and make it into deed, Word from the master of the Way, his mystery profound. Heed not the sadness of the world, bear this thought in your mind. This loving word the traveller sent into my heart to sound: Accept the given as it is and loose the knotted frown, For you and me the bond that shuts the door of choice stays bound. Look not for faithfulness to pledge in this unstable world, For this bride is an aged bawd a thousand grooms have found. Trace of fidelity is none in simpering of the rose, Passionate nightingale lament, for seeds of grief abound. However, poetaster, you feel envy of Hafiz In form and content of his verse, God-given gifts resound. 6. Zulf-āshufta-vu khuy-karda-vu khandān-lab-u mast 14

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Tousled and flushed and laughing-drunk, Rip-shirted and singing, with glass in hand, With flower-eyes shining and lips that sigh, At midnight one came by my bed to stand. That head dipped close to my ear and moaned Saying: ‘My lost lover, are you asleep? When a lover is offered the cup at night There is worship to pay and love’s faith to keep,’ Abstainer refrain from your scorn of the drunk, We had this sole gift on the Giving Day That which is poured is for us to drink Be it heavenly wine or the other way. The cup that smiles, the curled tress that smothers Have cracked the repentance of Hafiz – and others. 7. Shikufta shud gul-i h.amrā u gasht bulbul mast 15

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The red rose has unfolded, craz’d is the nightingale, Stand to, you adepts of the cup, for the hour of your regale. That promise of repentance which seemed firmly set as stone: Glass, with Jam’s cup’s fragility, in a twinkling it is gone. Hand round the cup and understand: this court affords no aid, Whether to porter or to king, to drunken or to staid; Cloister and vault that offer shade, whether to high or low, From this world’s inn, between two doors, when it is time, you go. To resting place of perfect ease, pain is the only way, This is the pact immutable, agreed on Alast’s day;16 From thoughts of being and non-being turn and be happy as Not-to-be is the final end of every good that was. Splendour of Asaf,17 flying horse, or discourse of the birds Are gone with the wind, leaving behind no profit for their lords. Rise not from the way with wing and feather of flying arrow Which mounts to the sky, though it falls to earth tomorrow. The shaft that your tongue launches, Hafiz, is the pen; Your word goes from hand to hand, what thanks will it bring you then? 8. Ay hudhud-i .s abā bi sabā mifiristam-at 18

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Hoopoe borne by the Saba, I send you to Sheba, Consider from whence and whither I send you. Here is all dusty sorrow for you, rara avis, From here to a nest of devotion I send you. On love’s road the stages are not near or distant, I see you before me, a prayer I send you. By caravan loads every morning and evening, In the care of the North and the South winds, I send you. That the armies of sorrow may not devastate you My very own life with best wishes I send you. You are far from my eyes, in my heart ever present, I pronounce you a blessing and praises I send you. Admire in your own face God’s work of creation, For a mirror revealing God’s visage I send you. So that minstrels may make you aware of my fervour, Songs and poems, complete with their music, I send you. Saqi, pass round the cup, for a hidden voice tells me: Be patient through pain, for a cure I send you. Your remembrance, Hafiz, is the song of our meeting, Bestir yourself now, horse and qaba I send you. 9. Sālhā dil t.alab-i jām-i jam az mā mīkard 19

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F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Long sought I Jamshid’s cup20 beyond myself, Desired from others that which in me lay, A pearl whose shell is wider than two worlds Would have from those who had not reached the sea. Late, took this question to the Magian pir, That by his sight he’d solve this mystery; I saw him joyful, laughing, cup in hand, Who in its glass a hundred scenes could see. ‘Hakim,’ I said, ‘when came this cup to thee?’ He said, ‘When heaven’s dome was caused to be. That devotee whose mind was set on God Could not see Him but sent from far his plea; All that deceitful wizardry that once Samiri did, to move rod,21 hand to bleach;22 That friend who lost his life on gallows tree, His fault to speak the secret openly; Power of the Blessèd breath23 assisting, men Shall to Messiah’s deed themselves succeed,’ ‘Why then the tumbling mass of beauty’s hair?’ ‘Hafiz, to make you mad’ he answered me. — 288 —

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10. Dūsh dīdam ki malā’ik dar-i may-khāna zadand 24

Angels last night to the tavern winged their way, A drinking-cup they’d form of human clay, Dwellers beyond the chaste and heavenly veil, This vagabond with cup of wine waylay. The lot is cast, the skies refuse the trust The heavy load on me, the craz’d, they lay – For two and seventy sects at war grant grace, In ignorance they followed fancy’s way. Praise to the Lord, twixt us a truce is made, With wine and thanks the Sufi dancers sway, That is not fire that laughs in candle’s flame, Flame draws the moth, extinguishing its day. Who like Hafiz unveiled discernment’s face Since comb of words dressed speaking into place?

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11. Marza‘-i sabz-i falak dīdam-u dās-i mah-i naw 25

I saw the heavens as green field and the sickle of new moon Then thought I of the harvest time of seeds that I had sown. I said, ‘My fortune is asleep, though the sun begins to bloom,’ He said, ‘Do not abandon hope, in spite of all that’s done,’ If like the pure Messiah you can rise to heaven alone Shafts from your lamp shall radiate in hundreds to the sun. Put not your trust in that night star, that thieving knavish clown, He stole the belt of Kay Khusraw, he stole Kavus’s crown. Though gold and ruby earrings should weigh your earlobes down, The time of beauty passes: let sage counsel enter in. Avaunt ill fate from your black mole, for in beauty’s chess-game It moves a pawn that will check-mate even the moon and sun. Tell the skies not to boast for in love the harvest of the moon And harvest of the Pleiades are worth but grains of corn; Fire of ascetics’ duplicity religion’s ricks shall burn. Hafiz throw off your woollen dervish coat and get you gone.

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12. Nasīm-i subh-i sa‘ādat bi-d-ān nishān ki tū dānī 26

You morning breeze of happiness, with that device that you would know, Waft by the house of such a one, at just the time that you would know, You the most confidential page, that keeps an eye upon the road, By kindness, rather than command, convey the thought that you would know. Say that my very life and soul are fled from me and gone to God, From the red lips that life bestow, release the gift that you would know; Letters of meaning I write here, such as are understood by few, You, in your noble courtesy, read them the way that you would know. The image of your blade to me says much the same as thirst and water, Your own undoubted prisoner slay in any way that you would know; How can I twine my aspiration into the gold-work of your girdle? There is a tricky point, my love, inside all that, as you would know. Tongue of the Arab or the Turk, it’s much the same in this debate, Love is a topic to express in speech, Hafiz, that you would know.

Notes

1 The claim is sometimes made that Fitzgerald’s versions surpass the poetry that is ascribed to Khayyam, but that is not the present discussion. 2 Arthur J. Arberry, Fifty Poems of H . āfiz. (Cambridge, 1974), pp. 85–6. 3 Julie Scott Meisami; Dick Davis; Robert Bly; Leonard Lewisohn. 4 I cordially thank Firuza Abdullaeva for drawing my attention to the book by Parvin Loloi, Hafiz, Master of Persian Poetry: A Critical Bibliography (London, 2004). Her first chapter I find to say, in lucid detail, what I have been trying to say.

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5 I record my gratitude to the late Professor Tourhan Gandjei for his classes on reading Hafiz. I thank Zahra Jazayeri for an introduction to some further poems, and Firuza Abdullaeva for guidance on some points. 6 W.M. Thackston, A Millennium of Classical Persian Poetry (Bethseda, 1994), p. 2. Among the latest see S. Tabatabai (ed.), Father of Songs: Rudaki and his Poetry (Leiden, 2008). 7 Thackston, A Millennium, pp. 49–50. As has often been observed, the fact that the Persian third person singular pronoun does not indicate gender is a problem in translation, and translators often resort to ‘the Beloved’ in some form. It has seemed appropriate to use the female pronoun here since the loved object in this poem – so far as having any distinct identity – might be a woman (in a litter), or a dancing boy (trailing a gown in a caravan) exercising a female persona. 8 The rhythm of the English translation of this poem follows the original so well that it can be sung in English using the same tune as the contemporary Persian singers, like Googoosh, Mohsen Namjoo and others (ed.). 9 I thank Firuza Abdullaeva for the reference to a publication of the original: Sa‘di, Kulliyat, ed. Muhammad ‘Ali Furughi (Tehran, s.a.), p. 589. , where dam-i ‘Īsā is ‘Jesus’ breath [resurrecting the dead]’, which is 10 Cf. in ‘Attar’s as fragrant and fresh as a cool breeze at dawn (ed.). 11 The use of a capital in this line is a question of theological persuasion. 12 Arberry, Fifty Poems, p. 39, no 3: there are numerous editions of Hafiz, but the following translations all rely on this one. This poem has been the subject of no less than 39 versions, though by 37 translators: Loloi, Hafiz, pp. 84–5. See also: B. Khurramshahi, Hafiznama, sharh-i alfaz, a‘lam, mafahim-i kilidi wa abyat-i dushvar-i Hafiz. 2 vols, 1st edition (Tehran, 1344). 13 Arberry, Fifty Poems, p. 42, no 6. 14 Arberry, Fifty Poems, p. 43, no 7. This poem is particularly tempting, perhaps because it is relatively concrete. Here are two further versions: 6a. Tousled and sweating and flown with wine, With a song and a cup and a shirt that’s torn, Eyes seeking a brawl, on the lips a moan, One came last night by my bed to stand. Stooped and said in the voice of them that mourn, ‘Oh my one time love, will you sleep till dawn? The lover to whom night’s cup is shown, Must his true reverence before it own.’ Ye pious, hold not the dreg-drinkers in scorn, On Alast was given this gift alone. The wine that was poured is for us to own, Be it heavenly wine or in earth’s ground grown. The smiling cup, Beauty’s tangled mane, Will undo the repentance of Hafiz again. 6b. Dishevelled, sweating, drunk, with laughing lip, Cup in hand, singing songs, with shirt a-rip, Eyes up for a fight, lips ripe for a sigh, One to my pillow last night came nigh. Head down to my ear, spoke that voice in mourning, ‘Oh, my past love, in your sleep is no dawning? The lover who pays not the holy due To the night cup offered is to love untrue.’ Go zealot, chide not them that last dregs assay, Of this sole gift given on Alast’s Day. That which He poured in the chalice we tasted, Be it wine of heaven or wine that makes wasted. The smile in the wine cup, the loved one’s curled lock, The repentance of Hafiz can’t stand the shock. 15 Arberry, Fifty Poems, p. 43, no 8. The apostrophe in ‘craz’d’ is to ensure a single syllable. 16 ‘Alast Day’ mentioned in the expression alastu bi-rabbikum (‘am I not your Lord’) in the following verse in the Qur’an: ‘And when thy Lord took from the children of Adam, from their loins, their seed, and made them testify upon themselves, “Am I not your Lord?” They said, “Yes we testify” lest you should say on the Day of Resurrection, “As for us, we were unaware of this”.’ (7:172), trans. by A. Arberry, The Koran Interpreted (New York, 1996), p. 92 (ed.). 17 Asaf b. Barkhiya is believed to be king Sulayman’s advisor who brought him the Queen of Sheba. The most probable reference to him is in the Qur’an, 27: 38–43 (ed.). 18 Arberry, Fifty Poems, p. 48, no 12. 19 Ibid., p.51, no 15. 20 The Cup of Jamshid (> Avestan Yima, the divinity of the Sun) is believed to be a magic device in which the ancient Persian kings could see every corner of the universe in the past, present and future (ed.). 21 Reference to Musa/Moses turning his walking stick to a dragon devouring the snakes of the Egyptian magicians (ed.). 22 Reference to Musa turning his arm to the one covered with white leprous pus (ed.). 23 Rūh. al-Quds, epithet of Angel Jabra’il/Gabriel (ed.). 24 Arberry, Fifty Poems, p. 54, no 19. 25 Ibid., p.72, no 39. 26 Ibid., p.76, no 45.

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30 The Prophet Muhammad’s footprint Christiane Gruber

I

t is widely believed in popular Islamic thought that whenever the Prophet Muhammad strode on a stone or a rock, a mark of his footprint(s) would remain impressed. Much like the Prophet’s hair, mantle and sandals, impressions of the Prophet’s foot or feet carried miraculous powers: they could heal, provide blessings, and confer a great deal of honour to their sites of consecration and conservation, as well as religious authority to their owners. Although the Prophet’s footprints may well be called relics, because they became highly venerated objects attesting to his physical presence, in Islamic sources they are considered traces or ‘vestigia’ (āthār) and blessed objects (tabarrukāt) that could bring good fortune to their pious possessors or visitors. In Arabic, these footprints are called qadam al-rasūl (the foot(print) of the Messenger), and al-qadam al-sharīf (the noble foot(print)). There are a number of the Prophet’s footprints that are believed to have remained in situ in Mecca, al-Ta’if, Jerusalem and Damascus. However, much like other relic-objects, a large number of Muhammad’s footprints were sold to pilgrims to Mecca, sent as diplomatic gifts to rulers, bought on the relics market, or confiscated by victorious commanders and rulers. Many footprints were moved to Cairo and Istanbul. Moreover, the largescale ‘exportation’ of the Prophet’s footprints to India, Bengal and Bangladesh in fact enlarged the term Qadam Rasūl from an imprint to a kind of shrine or mosque complex that held an impression of one or two of his footprints.1 For example, a number of Qadam Rasūl shrines and architectural projects are located in Delhi, Bahraich and Ahmedabad in India; Gaur and Murshidabad in Bengal; and Nabiganj and Chittagong in Bangladesh.2 — 297 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

The higher the devotional – and monetary – value given to the Prophet’s footprints, the more saturated the ‘relics market’ became. For example, ‘Ali b. Abi Bakr al-Harawi (d. 1215) notes in his guide to pilgrimage (ziyāra) that he met a man in Basra who owned a stone containing a footprint of the Prophet, which people visited. He admits that he followed the man for quite some time, ‘all the while asking and imploring him to sell it to me. He refused to do so until we entered the island of ‘Abbadan. I again asked him, as did the community there. He took from me twenty-four dinars and he handed it over to me. It has remained with me down to this day. God only knows its authenticity’.3 Al-Harawi’s report speaks of the market value for such a blessed commodity as well as the popular devotional practice of visitation that developed around it. Furthermore, his scepticism about whether the object is a bona fide impression shows his awareness of the manufacturing of counterfeit footprints during the medieval period. Despite such concerns about false relics, which also are echoed in medieval European accounts,4 the strong drive for obtaining the Prophet’s relics habitually displaced anxieties about their provenance. In a similar manner, popular practices superseded orthodox prescriptions against the veneration of objects and the visitation of graves. One case in point is that of the conservative theologian Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328). In his Kitab al-Ziyara (Treatise on Pilgrimage), he vociferously condemned popular practices he considered ‘innovations’ (bid‘a) and idolatry (shirk). In 1304, however, when he attempted to remove a footprint present in Damascus that pilgrims visited and kissed, he was driven away by enraged crowds and, in a remarkable reversal of events, was himself accused of impiety.5 As this anecdote attests, traditions of venerating the footprint(s) of the Prophet Muhammad were so entrenched by the turn of the fourteenth century that allegations of blasphemy and sacrilege could rebound against the accuser himself. Often, footprints of the Prophet Muhammad and those of other prophets such as Abraham, Moses and Aaron were linked to the religious and income-producing practices of pilgrimage (h.ajj) to Mecca and shrine visitation or ‘minor’ pilgrimages (ziyārāt) to many other cities in the Islamic world. Pilgrims often would kiss or rub the footprints as a means to pay tribute. Such practices of bodily contact parallel the custom of kissing the Black Stone (al-h.ajar alaswad ) lodged in one of the corners of the Ka‘ba in Mecca. In the Indian subcontinent, popular devotional practices extended to offering ghee, sandalwood, incense and money to the Prophet’s footprints and keeping them submerged in water and decorated with flowers, including marigolds.6 Such devotional practices appear to have grown out of indigenous Hindu and Buddhist practices of venerating the footprints of Vishnu and Buddha. The water run-off from the footprints was collected and kept by visitors as a good-luck charm, a habit that parallels the Muslim pilgrim’s acquisition of a flask of water from the Zamzam Spring as a memento of his or her pilgrimage to Mecca. Although impressions of the Prophet’s footprints in stone or rock remained popular, they also engendered commemorative and devotional objects. Most notably, the Ottoman sultans – having accumulated a number of impressions of the Prophet’s feet – commissioned wooden boxes, silver plaques, tile panels, textiles and paintings of his footprints from the sixteenth century forward. During the reign of the Ottoman sultan Abdülmecid (1823–61), in particular, a number of prose and verse devotional manuals and collections of prayers on the Prophet’s — 298 —

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footprints and sandals emerged as well. Ottoman collections of writings and visual materials linked to the Prophet’s footprints and sandals amount to a veritable ‘cult of relics’, which appears to have grown out of long-standing Islamic traditions as well as Byzantine customs of relic worship within Constantinople (Istanbul). In situ footprints

The most famous footprints in Mecca remain those of the Prophet Abraham, the father of JudeoChristian monotheism and, in Islamic tradition, the builder of the Ka‘ba.7 When Abraham constructed the black cubed structure, his weight on the ground was such that his two footprints left a mark. Some Islamic sources state that his footprints were left in mud that later dried, while others contend that his footprints were impressed onto a stone. Whatever the material, his footprints are now preserved at the ‘Station of Abraham’ (maqām Ibrāhīm) in the inner sanctum of the Holy Mosque (al-masjid al-h.aram) in Mecca, immediately in front of the Ka‘ba.8 Today they are contained in a polygonal metal trellis topped with a gold dome and crescent, and pilgrims engaged in circumambulation (t.awāf ) of the Ka‘ba frequently clutch the trellis while uttering prayer formulae. With such an emphasis on the footprints of Abraham and their concomitant devotions, it is rather surprising that we find no veneration of the Prophet Muhammad’s footprint(s) at the Ka‘ba today. One might expect a continuity of the tradition based upon Abraham’s ‘podo-imprint’ as well as a number of narratives about the Prophet’s life and mission in Mecca. For example, after the reconstruction of the Ka‘ba, Muhammad served as umpire between the Meccan tribes who fought for the right to place the Black Stone (al-h.ajar al-aswad ) back into place. He asked for a cloak, lifted the stone inside it, and asked the tribes to pull it up from its ends. As the Prophet’s biographer Ibn Ishaq (d. 768) concludes: ‘They did this so that when they got it into position he placed it with his own hand, and then the building went on above it.’9 Such a significant episode in the Prophet’s life, its proximity to the Ka‘ba and to Abraham’s footprints, as well as the sheer weight of the Black Stone certainly contain all the elements needed to generate a footprint relic. Although footprints of the Prophet are not preserved in Mecca today, the Ottoman historian Evliya Çelebi (d. 1682) records in his Sehayat-name (Book of Travel) that during the seventeenth century there was a footprint in Mecca filled with rosewater: pilgrims to the Holy City would collect the blessed water and rub it on their faces.10 This footprint, which otherwise appears elusive in textual sources and has since disappeared, may have been the impression left behind when the Prophet Muhammad lifted the Black Stone back into place. Other footprints in the Arabian Peninsula are found where the Prophet left them, such as on Mount Abu Zubayda in al-Ta’if, a city south-east of Mecca. The ‘Abbasid caliph al-Mahdi (d.785) also claims to have seen a footprint in Medina.11 However, the most famous in situ footprint of the Prophet Muhammad undoubtedly is housed in the Dome of the Rock, a centrally planned domed structure built in 691 in Jerusalem by the Umayyad ruler ‘Abd al-Malik (d.705). A number of sources post-dating the construction of the Dome of the Rock record that the Prophet, in the middle of his prophetic career, undertook a night journey (isrā’ ) from Mecca to Jerusalem, from where he then embarked on his ascension (mi‘rāj) to the heavens.12 His footprint is believed to have remained on the rocky outcrop, the top of which is enclosed by a balustrade inside the — 299 —

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building. However, it is not located on the rock proper but immediately to its side and enclosed by a grille that was added in 1609 by the Ottoman sultan Ahmed I.13 Medieval chroniclers such as al-Maqdisi (d. 1245) and Ibn al-Firka (d.1320) record that the Prophet’s footprint, much like the rock itself, formed one of the greatest virtues of Jerusalem ( fad.ā’il Bayt al-Maqdis) and thus conferred blessings upon pilgrims who visited and prayed at the site.14 In other words, the Prophet’s relic and its location were key stimuli, among many others, for the practice of ziyāra to the holy sites in Jerusalem. Portable impressions

A number of the Prophet’s footprint relics appeared in cities where he had never set foot. These footprints, impressed on stones or rocks, were movable and began to appear in cities such as Damascus, Cairo, Istanbul and Delhi, where they became ‘foundation stones’ to a number of mosques and saints’ shrines. They functioned as catalysts for the construction of sacred sites and the promotion of certain pilgrimage routes, and, in this respect, bear great similarities to relics and their roles in medieval Christian practices of church building and pilgrimage. In the city of Dibin located in the region of Hawran (south-western Syria), the chronicler al-Harawi was told by its citizens that there was a footprint of the Prophet in a black rock (qadam rasūl Allāh fī .sakhra sūdā’ ) in the city proper.15 It seems not to have remained in Hawran, as the author records that quite possibly this same footprint in a black stone was transported from Hawran to the Madrasa of Mujahid al-Din in Damascus.16 Other footprints of the Prophet continued to appear in the Syrian capital, Damascus. For example, we are told that the Shrine of the Footprints (Mashhad al-Aqdam) in southern Damascus contained the traces of feet (āthār aqdām) in the rock; these footprints, however, are attributed to a number of different prophets.17 This Mashhad al-Aqdam appears synonymous with the Mosque of the Footprint (Masjid alQadam) recorded in other sources, where there appears to be some confusion as to whether the footprints belonged to Moses or Muhammad.18 A number of the Prophet’s footprints appeared in Egypt as well. The Mamluk ruler Qaytbay (d. 1496), whose patronage of the arts and architecture in Cairo is well documented, purchased a stone impression, which he subsequently placed next to his tomb in the mosque complex he ordered to be constructed between 1472 and 1474 in Cairo’s al-Qarafa Northern Cemetery. The footprints must have conferred blessings upon the ruler in the afterlife and served as one of the main attractions for visitors to shrines in al-Qarafa. Interestingly, this footprint was bought for 20,000 dinars by the Ottoman sultan Ahmed I (r.1603–17), who, as mentioned previously, displayed a particular reverence for the footprint of the Prophet in Jerusalem. The Cairene footprint itself was brought to Istanbul, placed in the shrine of Ayyub al-Ansari (discussed below), and then moved to the Mosque of Sultan Ahmed. Finally, after Sultan Ahmed had a dream to return the footprint to Cairo, the stone was placed back into the mausoleum of Qaytbay.19 The multiple peregrinations of this footprint between Cairo and Istanbul reveal how relics could be susceptible to the vicissitudes of international politics. Another mosque in Cairo, called the Masjid Athar al-Nabi (Mosque of the Prophet’s Traces), included footprints, while other foot impressions of the Prophet were included in the shrine of the Sufi Shaykh Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi (d.1277) located in the city of Tanta, north of Cairo.20 — 300 —

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In Egypt, footprints were thus included in the burial chamber of a sultan and a Sufi saint, where they served as foundation stones and as elements carrying prophetic baraka. A number of footprints also exist in Istanbul, including two impressions that served as foundation stones for tombs in the city. The first was included in the shrine of Abu Ayyub al-Ansari (d.668), a close companion of the Prophet who is said to have died in Constantinople during his campaign against Byzantine forces. His grave was ‘discovered’ during the Ottoman conquest of the city in 1483 by Sultan Mehmed II, who ordered a tomb and a mosque to be erected in his honour.21 From that time forward, the area of Eyyüp (= Ayyub) became a sacred zone, dotted with shrines, tombs and mosques that were at the centre of Ottoman pilgrimage rituals. Today the Prophet’s footprint in the shrine of Ayyub al-Ansari is placed prominently on display within a silver case, where it is surrounded by Ottoman tilework and bilingual Arabic–Turkish prayer invocations, which visiting devotees are encouraged to utter in proximity to these relics (Plate 11). The second footprint in Istanbul was included in the royal tomb of Sultan Abdülhamid I (d. 1789), located in the Bahçekapı area of the imperial capital. Some sources state that the ruler had brought back this holy footprint (nakş-ı kadem-i şerif ) from the area of Hawran in Syria, while others claim that he imported it from the city of Qadam near Damascus. For some time, the footprint was visited by dervishes in Istanbul during the yearly celebrations of the Night of Power (Laylat al-Qadr), the night when the Qur’an was first communicated to the Prophet Muhammad.22 This footprint subsequently entered the Pavilion of Holy Relics (Mukaddes Emanetler Dairesi) in the Topkapı Palace in Istanbul.23 Another footprint is located in the Takiyya of Mu‘awin al-Mulk in Kirmanshah, southwestern Iran. Originally built in 1896 and renovated about 20 years later, this highly decorated building provided a space for the ritual performance of the ta‘ziya, the Persian passion play re-enacting the death of Imam Husayn and other family members of the Prophet at the Battle of Karbala in 680.24 In the tiled wall of the complex’s courtyard appears a bulbous imprint of a foot on a black stone, framed by blue tiles and other representations of Kirmanshah personalities (Fig. 30.1). Although it is unclear whether the footprint belongs to the Prophet Muhammad or Imam Husayn, the Shi‘i martyr of Karbala, it provides one case (among several) in which a footprint was included in an architectural complex in Iran, where it may have performed a function in Shi‘i mourning rituals during the Qajar period (1785–1925). Beyond Arab, Turkish and Persian lands, the largest number of mosques and shrine complexes dedicated to the Prophet’s footprint appear in India, Bengal and Bangladesh. In India, the footprint of the Delhi Qadam Rasul Shrine was brought from Mecca and placed over the grave of Fath Khan, the son of Firuz Shah Tughluq (1351–88). Drenched in water and decorated with flowers, the footprint was the centrepiece of an annual fair in celebration of the Prophet’s birthday (mawlid ). Pilgrims collected the water, which they considered blessed (tabarruk) and endowed with healing capabilities.25 Similarly, the Bahraich mausoleum (dargāh) of Sayyid Mas‘ud Ghazi houses both a hand and a foot impression of the Prophet, while two Qadam Rasul shrines in Ahmedabad each include a footprint of the Prophet close to the tombs of a notable or saint.26 In Bengal, the Gaur shrine was erected by Sultan Nusrat Shah in 1530–1 in order to house a footprint brought back from a saint’s meditation room in Pandua. This footprint was moved to the Qadam Sharif in Murshidabad, but returned later to Gaur.27 Finally, the two best-known shrines dedicated to the Prophet’s footprint in Bangladesh are located in — 301 —

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Nabiganj and Chittagong. The footprint in the Qadam Rasul in Nabiganj was purchased from Arab merchants by Mas‘um Khan Kabuli, an Afghan chief who rebelled against the Mughal emperor Akbar (r. 1556–1605). A shrine was erected in 1777 to house the footprint; this print remained submerged under water and provided a devotional pivot to a number of pilgrimage practices.28 The Chittagong Qadam Rasul, built in 1719 by the Mughal administrator Yasin Khan, housed another footprint of the Prophet, which had been brought back by pilgrims to Mecca. It, too, was kept immersed in water and was considered a good-luck charm.29 Devotional objects and texts

Because of the importation of footprints to Istanbul, the Pavilion of Holy Relics in the Topkapı Palace now holds the largest collection of footprints in the Islamic world. There are no less than six single and double foot impressions of the Prophet on porphyry and marble, drawn from many tombs, shrines and mosques. These footprints engendered and inspired a number of related Ottoman devotional objects, which were made from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries.30

FIG.

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30.1 A footprint on black stone, interior courtyard of the Takiyya of Mu‘awin al-Mulk, c.1915, Kirmanshah, Iran.

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They also served as protective devices on talismanic shirts.31 For example, after Sultan Ahmed I brought the Prophet’s footprint from Qaytbay’s tomb to Istanbul and immediately before he returned it to Cairo, the ruler ordered that a crest be made in the shape of the footprint. This crest, which he wore on Fridays, festivals and other important holidays, was inlaid with precious stones.32 The jewel-studded crest also bore couplets in praise of the Prophet, which proclaim: If only I could wear it always like my crown The footprint of the Sultan of Messengers The owner of the footprint is himself the rose and the garden of happiness O Ahmed, go and touch your face to the foot of that rose.33

Another footprint of the Prophet on porphyry (Plate 12), which was brought to Istanbul during the rule of Sultan Abdülmecid (r. 1838–61), was provided with a gold cover in 1877 by the order of Abdülhamid II (r. 1876–1909). This cover bears inscriptions that describe the Prophet’s foot(print) as a kadem-i pak, or a symbol of purity and a mark of righteousness.34 Even into the contemporary period, this footprint was reproduced in devotional posters produced in Pakistan; such posters include inscriptions that list the many blessings that can be garnered by the devotee who piously meditates upon the image of the Prophet’s footprint.35 Still other footprints were depicted on Ottoman paper cards and in illustrated prayer manuals.36 Sometimes such depictions are surrounded by poetic verses while, at other times, they are identified as ‘healing devices’. Footprints also appear painted on Ottoman wooden boxes and depicted on silver plaques (Plate 13). The silver plaque in Plate 13 is framed in blue and gold and was certainly intended to hang on a wall. Its inscription describes the ‘noble foot’ (kadem-i şerif ), relates the events on the night of the Prophet’s ascension, and is signed by a certain Mustafa and dated 1054/1644.37 Ottoman Turkish poems dedicated to the Prophet’s footprint(s) utilise the foot motif to describe events on the night of Muhammad’s ascension. For example, one poem describes in detail the arrival of the angel Gabriel and his human-headed steed Buraq to Mecca and the Prophet’s journey to Jerusalem, where he left his imprint on the Rock.38 In this poem, it is clear that the Ottomans viewed the preservation of the footprint in Jerusalem as part of their religio-political duties. In another verse text composed by the Ottoman poet Senih, Muhammad’s footprint appears as a symbolic representation of the Prophet’s guidance (huda) and his intercession (şefa‘at) on behalf of his community on the Day of Judgement.39 Related to these Ottoman poems on the Prophet’s footprint(s) are a number of nineteenthcentury homiletic works on his sandals. For example, a poem on the Prophet’s sandal dated 1289/1872 describes pilgrimage (ziyaret) practices and their associated invocations and prayers. In this poem, the footprint is described as serving as a medium for explaining the Prophet’s miracles (mu‘cizet) and the events on the Day of Resurrection, while it also offers a tangible ‘blueprint’ for the path to heaven.40 The poem further describes how the faithful should prostrate themselves in prayer and touch their heads to the Prophet’s foot, an indication of humility as well as a possible explanation for the inclusion of footprints or sandals on a number of Ottoman tiles that symbolically depict Jerusalem.41 For example, one tile dated 1118/1706–7 represents the Prophet’s two feet inscribed with a text in Ottoman Turkish describing his ascension and his intercession on behalf of his community (Plate 14). — 303 —

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Objects representing the Prophet’s footprints bear witness to a popular fascination with a number of relics related to the Prophet Muhammad, chief among them impressions of his foot. Such objects served as visual intermediaries in Ottoman devotional practices, and they were also utilised to explain the Prophet’s ascension, his miracles, and his ability to guide believers and intercede on behalf of his community. At the same time, they provided emblematic markers of prostration and hence pious behaviour, thereby expressing both visually and poetically their patrons’ humility. As one Ottoman poem notes: The Pride of Prophets is a means of mercy for us We put on as powder the dust of the road he took May his footprint be placed above our heads Touching our face to it is an honour.42

In sum, footprints of the Prophet acted as stimulators of pilgrimage to Mecca, Jerusalem and many other cities in the Islamic world. As such, they provided foundation stones for a number of architectural projects and acted as centrepieces to various rituals. They consecrated tombs and mosques, and often added a sacred quality to a deceased ruler or mystic. Under the Ottomans, footprints were collected in no small quantities within the capital city, Istanbul, where they quickened the production of devotional objects such as plaques and tiles. They also led to the creation of a number of verse and prose texts dedicated to the Prophet’s footprints as visible vestiges of his life and miracles. From their inclusion in buildings, the arts and poetry, it is clear that the veneration of the Prophet’s footprints formed a popular devotional practice in Islamic lands from the beginning of Islam until today. Indeed, as with many great men of religion and learning, Muhammad had many followers who sought to follow in his footsteps.

Notes

1 P. Hasan, ‘Kadam Rasul’, Banglapedia: National Encyclopedia of Bangladesh. Available at www.banglapedia.org/HT/K_0012. HTM (accessed 10 April 2013). 2 P. Hasan, ‘The footprint of the Prophet’, Muqarnas 10 (1993), pp. 335–43; A. Welch, ‘The Shrine of the Holy Footprint in Delhi’, Muqarnas 14 (1997), pp. 166–78. 3 ‘Ali b. Abi Bakr Al-Harawi, A Lonely Wayfarer’s Guide to Pilgrimage, Kitab al-Isharat ila Ma‘rifat al-Ziyarat, trans. J. Meri (Princeton, NJ, 2004), pp. 208–9. 4 J. Sumption, The Age of Pilgrimage: The Medieval Journey to God (Mahwah, NJ, 2003), pp. 41–9. 5 R. Hartmann, ‘Al-Kadam bei Damaskus’, Orientalistische Literaturzeitung 16 (1913), p. 117; A. Schimmel, And Muhammad is His Messenger: The Veneration of the Prophet in Islamic Piety (Chapel Hill, NC, 1985), pp. 39–43. 6 Hasan, ‘The footprint’. 7 R. Firestone, ‘Abraham’s journey to Mecca in Islamic exegesis: a form-critical study of a tradition’, Studia Islamica 76 (1992), pp.5–24. 8 V. Porter (ed.), Hajj: Journey to the Heart of Islam (London, 2012), p. 31. 9 Ibn Ishaq, The Life of Muhammad: A Translation of Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah, trans. A. Guillaume, 7th edition (Oxford, 2004), p.86. 10 H. Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics: The Sacred Trusts, Topkapı Palace Museum, Istanbul (Istanbul, 2004), p. 115. 11 B. Wheeler, ‘Relics in Islam’, Islamica 11 (Summer/Fall 2004), p. 110. 12 On the Dome of the Rock, see O. Grabar, The Shape of the Holy: Early Islamic Jerusalem (Princeton, NJ, 1996); O. Grabar and S. Nuseibeh, The Dome of the Rock (New York, 1996); N. Rabbat, ‘The meaning of the Umayyad Dome of the Rock’, Muqarnas 6 (1989), pp.12–21. 13 T. Arnold, ‘K.adam Sharīf ’, EI 2. 14 Diya’ al-Din Muhammad b. ‘Abd al-Wahid b. Ahmad al-Maqdisi (al-Hanbali), Fada’il Bayt al-Maqdis, ed. Muhammad M. alHafiz (Damascus, 1985), pp. 58–9; C. Matthews, Palestine – Mohammedan Holy Land, Yale Oriental Series 24 (New Haven, CT, 1949), pp.14–18. 15 Al-Harawi, Lonely Wayfarer’s Guide, pp. 34–5. 16 Ibid., pp.31–2.

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17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24



25 26 27



28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35



36



37 38 39 40 41



42

Ibid., pp.26–7. Arnold, ‘K.adam Sharīf ’; Wheeler, ‘Relics’, p. 110. Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics, pp. 115–18. Wheeler, ‘Relics’, p. 110. C. Alpak, Eyüp Sultan ve Türbesi (Istanbul, 1989). Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics, p. 123. N. Sakaoğlu, ‘Abdülhamid I’, in Dünden Bugüne Istanbul Ansiklopedisi, vol. 1 (Istanbul, 1993), p. 35. S. Peterson, ‘The Ta‘ziyeh and related arts’, in Peter Chelkowski (ed.), Ta‘ziyeh: Ritual Drama in Iran (New York, 1979), pp. 75– 84. Welch, ‘The Shrine’, pp. 167 and 171. Hasan, ‘The footprint’, p. 337. Hasan, ‘Kadam Sharif (Murshidabad),’ Banglapedia: National Encyclopedia of Bangladesh. Available at www.banglapedia.org/HT/ K_0013.HTM (accessed 10 April 2013). Hasan, ‘The footprint’, pp. 339–40. Ibid., pp.340–41. Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics, pp. 115–23. H. Tezcan, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Koleksiyonundan Tilsimli Gömlekler (Istanbul, 2011), p. 95, no 16. Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics, p. 118. Loc. cit. Ibid., pp.119–21. J. Elias, ‘Islam and the devotional image in Pakistan’, in B. Metcalf (ed.), Islam in South Asia in Practice (Princeton, NJ, 2009), pp.121–2, Fig.8.1. C. Gruber, ‘A pious cure-all: the Ottoman illustrated prayer manual in the Lilly Library’, in The Islamic Manuscript Tradition: Ten Centuries of Book Arts in Indiana University Collections (Bloomington, IN, 2010), pp. 134–6, Fig. 4.8. Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics, p. 122. H. Aydın, Hirka-i Saadet Dairesi ve Mukaddes Emanetler, 2nd edition (Istanbul, 2004), pp. 118–21. Ibid., p.123. Ibid., pp.130–5. M. Bernardini, ‘Popular and symbolic iconographies related to the Haram al-Sharif during the Ottoman period’, in S. Auld and R. Hillenbrand (eds), Ottoman Jerusalem: The Living City, 1517–1917 (London, 2000), vol. 1, pp. 95–102. Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics, p. 116.

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31 Non-Islamic faiths in the Edinburgh Biruni manuscript Robert Hillenbrand

T

he Edinburgh version of al-Biruni’s Al-athar al-baqiya ‘an al-qurun al-khaliya1 (The Monuments of Time Past and of Vanished Centuries) has not attracted the attention that it deserves. Copied in 707/1307–8, it remains the earliest surviving version of a text composed in 390/999–391/1001 by perhaps the greatest of medieval Islamic polymaths. The manuscript is famous for containing one of the earliest cycles of images featuring the Prophet Muhammad,2 but – as this paper will show – the theme of religion does not manifest itself in merely Muslim ways. And here the illustrations chimed well-nigh perfectly with the spirit of the text. For example, there are several references to the patriarchs and other key figures of the Old Testament, such as Adam, Eve and Abel – indeed, these three are shown together in a scene not found in the Biblical text,3 which illustrates how the spirit of Abel appeared to his parents to comfort them. The artist plays this scene straight and has created an affecting tableau, adding on his own initiative the detail of a shared meal, no doubt inspired by the preceding passage of text which describes the Persian festival of Farwardajan/Fawardijan (f.101b). The various Old Testament references make the chronological range of al-Biruni’s text comparable with that of Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh (World History), though the latter gives a far higher profile to this material by means of copious illustrations; indeed, the absence of Old Testament prophets and patriarchs in the Edinburgh al-Biruni illustrations is very marked. There are two references to Manichaeism,4 a religion that particularly interested al-Biruni5 and was followed by many of those Uyghur Turks who bridged the worlds of the steppe and of — 306 —

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urban Islam.6 Both images depicting Manichaean themes are overtly hostile to that religion.7 One of them (f. 48b),8 clearly a calque from a standard Old Testament image of the Temptation in the Garden, depicts the first man and the first woman, Misha and Mishyana,9 being tempted by the spirit of evil, Ahriman. He holds out a fruit to them, perhaps a pomegranate10 but certainly not an apple. The standard Biblical iconography is substantially modified in that the two humans modestly seek to conceal their nakedness, which in the Genesis account occurs only after the Temptation; the Tree of Knowledge is absent; and the tempter is not depicted as a humanheaded snake – the standard rendition for Lucifer – but as an old man, which at once recalls the common iconography for God the Father. Thus the scene in al-Biruni is a conflation of two quite different stages of the Biblical account (Genesis 2:8 and 3:1–7) crudely appropriated to illustrate a Manichaean theme.11 While the sense of a fertile garden environment is well captured, admittedly in over-stated pseudo-Chinese terms, the key point is that the Manichaean faith is depicted in a scene of unmistakable moral failure.12 The other Manichaean reference is equally negative (f.91a).13 It takes the form of a scene showing Mani’s head displayed on a city gate, with a gaggle of citizens gathered around it and his headless corpse sprawled on the ground below.14 The message is clear: the prophet of the new religion has been executed and even after death is humiliated as if he were a common criminal, thereby discrediting the faith that he preached. It is noticeable that his body is much darker in skin tone than the faces of the other people in the scene – perhaps as if to suggest that he was a foreigner. At all events, the Manichaean faith is visually downgraded, being represented only by its opening episode, which emphasises transgression, and by the closing episode in the life of its founding prophet, which depicts his execution. Next, the scene of Abraham destroying the idols of the Sabians (f. 88b; Plate 15)15 introduces a community that lived in Harran in present-day southern Turkey, and whose members were characterised as astrolaters.16 With the coming of Islam, they successfully petitioned to be granted the status of dhimmīs because they possessed their own scriptures. Their celebrated learning in astral lore no doubt particularly endeared them to al-Biruni, that inveterate watcher of the skies. By 1307–8, however, this community had long been assimilated to Islam. Zoroastrianism fares somewhat better than this. Although the whole chapter on Zoroaster is missing in this particular manuscript,17 a couple of images depict fire-related rituals that might conceivably have Zoroastrian connections,18 although – given that al-Biruni belonged firmly within the Iranian world by birth and upbringing – the absence of images devoted to the major festival of Nawruz is noteworthy. One image is, however, dedicated to the celebration of the autumn festival of Mihragan.19 In the scene of Shah Peroz interrogating the Zoroastrian clergy, there is no attempt to stress their priestly office by costume or other attributes. All in all, Zoroastrianism is not presented in these illustrations as a faith of any significance; and indeed, it did little more than modestly maintain itself in Mongol Iran.20 Three other faiths, however, experienced a brief resurgence in Ilkhanid times, and in each case this had significant political ramifications. They were Buddhism, Judaism and Christianity, and all three of these faiths left their mark on the illustrations of this book. The fundamental reason behind their revival was that the Mongol conquest had reconfigured the balance between the various religions in Iran. For the first time in almost six centuries the rulers of the Iranian world were not Muslims; indeed, having laid waste large tracts of Muslim territory and killed — 307 —

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countless Muslims, as well as sacking Baghdad and executing the caliph, the Mongols were not well disposed towards Muslims or to the Islamic faith. And these feelings were of course returned with interest by the Muslims themselves.21 In this situation it was natural for the Mongol elite to seek help from non-Muslims in administering their new empire. That same elite included many animists and shamanists, but such men could not be expected to have experience in the administration of populous settled societies. Buddhism is alluded to only obliquely in the pictorial cycle of the book. In fact, it rates only a single image, and even there it hides under false colours. The scene in question is the one just discussed, that of Abraham destroying the idols of the Sabians.22 It is highly unlikely that the artist had any idea of what a Sabian idol might have looked like23 – specific details about Sabian worship would no doubt have been hard to come by – but there is no doubt whatever that he turned to Buddhist models for inspiration, and this is not strange given that this section of the text, devoted to the pseudo-prophets (‘the curse of the Lord be upon them!’),24 begins with an account of Buddhism before it segues rather abruptly and inconsequentially to the Sabians. This picture is noteworthy on three further counts: firstly, that no Sabians are depicted; secondly, that its tone is violently hostile to this faith; and thirdly, that the notionally Sabian idols are unmistakably Buddhist in character, and clearly represent devotional images. They are of silver and gold (or gilded); they are seated cross-legged; their heads are shaven, their features plump and East Asian, their torsos bare and their bellies ample. Their hands mimic Buddhist mudras. The swollen floral forms, including lotuses and four-petalled flowers, of the arch and curtains framing the scene reinforce the Far Eastern ambience;25 the blue and white colour scheme of the arch in particular recalls Chinese blue and white ceramics.26 The Buddhist flavour of this scene could conceivably be the result of a failure of the artist’s imagination, but in fact the reason for giving this iconoclastic scene such markedly Buddhist colouring is not far to seek. The memories of the savage persecution of the Buddhist faith in Iran in 1304, a mere three years earlier, were of course still green. Temples were pulled down, devotional images smashed, and sacred books and textiles burned in an orgy of destruction decreed by the Ilkhan Ghazan himself.27 The visual references in this image would serve to render it absolutely up to date, and also make that same image serve two purposes at once, vaunting the new-found Islamic piety of the Ilkhans as expressed in hostility to both the Sabians and the Buddhists. The persecution of the Buddhists, moreover, as alluded to indirectly in this image, had an unmistakable further slant, for it asserted political independence – not explicitly but by stressing the major religious divide that had now opened between the newly Muslim Ilkhans and the Mongols in China, whose Great Khan, Qubilai, himself a supporter of Buddhism,28 had conveniently died the year before Ghazan turned Muslim. This very public break with the Buddhist tradition favoured by several earlier Ilkhans,29 and of course by the paramount Mongol Khan in Peking,30 was fraught with political significance. It was in line with the growing impetus for independence of the Mongol Ilkhanate from Peking.31 It also signalled the end of Mongol religious tolerance in Iran. After all, if this could happen to Buddhism, what faith was next in line for attack? That said, the painter prefers to work by allusion rather than by direct statement. In this picture, by a kind of metathesis, the authority of the prophet Abraham is invoked for this attack on Buddhism, which doubles as an assertion of Muslim values. The reader of the book is perhaps — 308 —

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being invited here not only to admire the zeal of Ghazan, the brother of the current Ilkhan, but also to connect it with that of Abraham. Yet all these messages are implicit rather than explicit. Perhaps the person or persons responsible for the overall look of the book judged it unwise to celebrate the demise of Iranian Buddhism in too obvious a fashion.32 In the case of Judaism, the language is more direct. Several traces of the Jewish presence in Iran survive from the Ilkhanid period, from woodwork with Hebrew inscriptions33 to buildings,34 from manuscript painting35 to synagogue fragments.36 Rashid al-Din himself had been brought up in the Jewish faith before he converted to Islam, and other Jews held office as vizier and governors,37 or, like Sa‘d al-Dawla, exercised significant influence at the Ilkhanid court.38 Yet Jewish rabbis (unlike Christian priests) had to pay taxes in Iran and Central Asia,39 and there were frequent anti-Jewish riots under the Ilkhans as well as more sustained persecution.40 The picture is therefore rather mixed. In the Biruni manuscript, only two images depict Jewish themes, but both are of surpassing importance for that faith.41 Neither of them features among the many Biblical scenes found seven years later in Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, nor indeed are either of them taken up in later Persian painting that uses Jewish themes.42 As with the two Manichaean images, the two Biblical episodes depicted in this manuscript bode ill for Judaism. And in this respect they run counter to al-Biruni’s text, which covers a multitude of Jewish festivals and reflects, as is usual with him, a scrupulously neutral attitude.43 The first scene depicts the death of the High Priest Eli on hearing that the Philistines had captured the Ark of the Covenant (f.133b; Plate 16).44 The Ark contained the tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments, the very foundation of the Law. It also held Aaron’s flowering rod and a specimen of manna. It was the principal outward and visible symbol of the Jewish faith. Its loss was catastrophic. As in the next image, which depicts Nebuchadnezzar, there is no attempt to single out the Jews by sartorial means; they are indistinguishable from Muslims. The two figures in the background stand back impassively from the action, while the two in the foreground stretch out their arms in a rather theatrical manner. But the interest centres on the prostrate High Priest, sprawled out in front of his upright throne. That, incidentally, is a solecism, for the shock of the news caused him to fall backwards and capsize his throne, thereby breaking his neck. Not surprisingly, this throne, like other examples in the manuscript, has a broadly Chinese appearance.45 But its broad band of indecipherable characters and side panels like folding doors might conceivably suggest a Torah niche. Scarcely less epoch-making is the other episode from Jewish history illustrated in this manuscript. It shows Nebuchadnezzar, here identified as Bukhtnassar, ordering the destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem in the course of his razing of the entire city (f.134b; Plate 17).46 This event, immediately followed as it is by the Babylonian captivity, is the greatest disaster to befall the Israelites in the entire Old Testament narrative. The artist is unsparing. The Babylonian king, dressed as a Muslim notable, dominates the picture, extending his arm aloft in a commanding gesture while two of his henchmen47 set about demolishing a richly inscribed, domed, centralised building which is already engulfed by busy tongues of flame and plumes of smoke. The inscription, in boldly flowing, uneven naskhī script executed in white on a blue ground, identifies the building, in a mixture of Persian and Arabic: ‘īn bayt al-muqaddas a[st]’ – ‘this is the holy house’. The structure as imagined by the artist bears a suspicious resemblance to the Dome of the Rock. It is this Islamic connection that has dominated discussion of the painting48 and unfairly overshadowed its true significance. For not only did this event spell the — 309 —

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loss of ancient Israel’s prime religious centre and political capital; it also heralded the Babylonian Exile, which in turn meant the breaking-up of the nation itself. Ancient Israel never recovered from this disaster. And so to Christianity. Here the message is less obvious than in the two Jewish images; after all, a sūra of the Qur’an is named after Mary, and for Muslims Jesus is the most revered prophet after Muhammad. Moreover, several Ilkhanid queens and princesses were Christians and other family members were brought up in the Christian faith. From the time of Hülegü onwards, until the conversion of Ghazan, the Christians under Ilkhanid rule enjoyed privileges that Muslim governments had long denied them. They were permitted to rebuild their churches and organise public processions,49 extend their dioceses and preach in public.50 Successive khans, notably Abaqa and Arghun, despite being enthusiastic Buddhists, supported their Christian subjects as a counterweight against Islam.51 But the large-scale conversion to Islam of the Mongol elite brought harsher times for the Christian communities in the Ilkhanid realm.52 As with the Manicheans and the Jews, two images are allotted to the Christians, but while these are carefully chosen for their significance to the faith, the absence of the Nativity,53 the Crucifixion54 and the Resurrection55 is indeed striking and points to a desire to avoid offending Muslim susceptibilities. The Annunciation and the Baptism, to be sure, are theologically central to Christianity, but their treatment here bears closer examination than it has yet received.56 The Annunciation has inspired several depictions in Islamic art – after all, it is mentioned in the Qur’an57 – including a very different version to this one in the contemporary Jami‘ al-tawarikh of Rashid al-Din.58 The Biruni image (f. 141b; Plate 18), which in defiance of Christian sacred chronology actually follows the ‘baptismal’ scene, depicts the angel approaching Mary as she spins the skein of purple wool of the Temple curtain59 – the very curtain that is split asunder at the moment of Christ’s death – while that of Rashid al-Din places the encounter as Mary is on her way to the well to fill her water-jug. Neither version corresponds to the standard iconography of the Annunciation in the medieval West, where the angel approaches Mary from the viewer’s left – not from the right, as is the case here – as she kneels at prayer or reads a book, and where symbols such as lilies or rays of light play a prominent role. In this Biruni image it is one of the apocryphal Gospels, which played a greater role in Eastern than in Western religious iconography, that provides the relevant text. However, the overall impression here is less Oriental Christian than Oriental and Muslim; indeed, these two visual traditions seem pitted against each other in this painting. Gabriel approaches Mary through a landscape boldly sketched in the closely overlapping planes or coulisses, festooned with sketchily rendered grasses and with a richly coloured double horizon line, that were the standard Ilkhanid simplification of the subtly merging planes of Chinese landscape painting. He himself would not look entirely out of place as a Buddhist tomb guardian in Dunhuang, what with his magnificently ruffled robes and the rhetorical ripples of his sash. His facial features – the long, smooth, black hair, the round face with its apple cheeks, the arched eyebrows and almond eyes – have that same Far Eastern character. The lower part of his halo follows the standard design favoured by the second painter in this manuscript, but in its upper part it bursts into flame and thus takes on the character of a Buddhist halo. This hybrid form is rendered stranger still by the billowing scarf that encloses his haloed head, clearly a misplaced reminiscence of the key attribute of the personified Nux or Night in the classical and Byzantine tradition. The other half of the painting — 310 —

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is strongly Muslim in temper, from the fictive space in which Mary sits, with its ogee brick arch, liberally ornamented with joint plugs, and Kufesque inscription, to the bolster on which she sits cross-legged and the backrest behind it.60 This, then, is a painting poised between two worlds, Far Eastern61 and Muslim, respectively, whose subject matter belongs squarely within yet another world, that of the oriental Christian community. Yet its tone, unlike that of the two narratives taken from Jewish history, is neutral. Even so, the fact that Gabriel has a halo and Mary has not – in a manuscript, moreover, in which haloes are indiscriminately bestowed even on an evil spirit, a false prophet, an executioner, and Bukhtnassar who destroyed the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem,62 gives one pause. There is no question of neutrality in the other Christian scene (f.141b; Plate 19), which at first glance appears to render the Baptism but on closer examination proves to depict its immediate and trivial aftermath. This event, unlike the Annunciation, does not feature in the Qur’an. One has to acknowledge a nimble theological sleight of hand here, for the image sidesteps the core meaning of the scene by the slightest of margins. The principal familiar elements of the Baptism – Jesus, John the Baptist, the Holy Spirit in the form of a bird – are all there, but in each case something is amiss. John the Baptist is not the wild, emaciated, barefoot man of the desert, with dramatically dishevelled hair, dressed in animal skins and wearing a leather belt, and subsisting on a diet of locusts and wild honey. Instead, although he is indeed dark-skinned, he is presented as a somewhat portly fashion plate, immaculate in his capacious purple robe, his broad orangelined midnight blue stole63 and his smart black boots. His hair is carefully barbered and most of it is covered with a bulging white turban. This is not the kind of man to preach repentance and self-denial. Moreover, far from baptising Jesus, this gorgeously apparelled figure is helping him into his shirt. Only his position on the river bank links him to the standard iconography of the Baptism in the Eastern Church, though reasonably close Byzantine parallels to the composition used here do exist.64 What of Jesus himself? The text immediately above the image says that ‘he became linked to the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove which had come down from Heaven as was mentioned in the Gospel’.65 Clearly, then, much of the core of the account in the synoptic Gospels is right there in the text of al-Biruni. But the appearance of Jesus strikes some false notes from a Christian viewpoint. His waist-length hair is a novel detail. He is upstaged by John the Baptist, not only by the splendour of the latter’s appearance in comparison with the simplicity of his own, but also by two further details. Inexplicably, he has no halo, though John the Baptist does; and he is not shown frontally, as is the norm in Christian iconography in scenes of the Baptism, but in profile, a pose reserved for those with whom the viewer does not, and is not intended to, make contact – most especially the wicked, such as Judas Iscariot. John, on the other hand, is depicted with his face in three-quarter view, the normal pose adopted in Byzantine images of him. The profile view brings John and Jesus together, rather than making Jesus the focus of attention as the event demands. The body language as a whole even puts Jesus in a subordinate position to John. It also minimises the central position of Jesus, which in standard Byzantine Baptism iconography is rendered dominant not only by his upright frontal pose, whereby he makes direct visual contact with the viewer, but also by the groups of watchers who flank the scene on either side and thereby draw the eye towards him. Those watchers also serve as the witnesses required for a theophany – a manifestation of God to man. So they are important participants in the — 311 —

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scene, not optional extras, and their absence here is therefore significant. The distracting but inappropriately prominent detail of his shoes (for which there is no warrant in the text) placed on a textile half on and half off the river bank66 introduces a discordantly commonplace note into what should be a dramatic moment of high religious significance. They lower the tone. Finally, what of the Holy Spirit? Christian iconography is generally consistent on two points in this scene: first, that the dove is white; and second, that it is placed directly above the head of Jesus, with its beak pointing down at his head, with a cloud above it underlining the link with heaven. Here the bird has a Chinese flavour, and is not readily identifiable as a dove; nor is it white; nor is it above the head of Jesus. Indeed, it has arrived crucially late on the scene. As in the Annunciation scene, the landscape within which the scene is set is strongly sinicised. The normally placid River Jordan contrasts long, sweeping waves, sometimes crashing in ornamental curlicues, with boiling eddies and cross-currents rendered in scrolls, imbrications and chevron patterns. All this is a broad reworking of Chinese water conventions. Equally Far Eastern in inspiration though not in execution are the intersecting planes of the landscape, with a white horizon line sandwiched between strips of intense vermilion leaching into the white of the ground below. What is one to make of the unusual and many-layered iconography of this scene? To suggest that the motive is straightforward hostility to Christianity would seem to be a mistake. For all that harsh measures, or random outbursts, against this or that religion were not rare in the Ilkhanid period, the bulk of the evidence suggests that the religious tolerance that featured so strongly in Chinggis Khan’s yasa was generally respected, and was – so to speak – the default policy. On the other hand, the constant changes in religious affiliation that characterised the Ilkhanid rulers would have sensitised acute observers to the portents which foreshadowed such changes of direction. The ‘Baptism’ image – it seems appropriate to put the identification in quotation marks – is, as it were, a pre-emptive strike against a possible accusation that the painter or his patron harboured Christian sympathies. For Muslims, Jesus remained a much-loved prophet;67 but that God should have identified him as His beloved son at the moment that he was baptised was entirely untenable for them. Hence, presumably, the absence of any visual reference to the heavens opening, a detail on which the synoptic Gospels agree, and which was often expressed in standard Byzantine iconography by the hand of God in a gesture of blessing pointing directly down at Jesus from a cloud. Moreover, Nestorian doctrine taught that it was precisely the Baptism that marked the moment when Jesus was elevated from human to divine status. And in thirteenth–fourteenth-century Iran, Christianity was represented principally by Nestorians rather than by Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic, or Jacobite Christians. So from a contemporary local Christian perspective this was precisely the event that most required an unequivocally sacred visual treatment. And that is just what it does not receive. Indeed, on the contrary, it seems that the painter was at pains to downplay the Baptism in whatever way he could. So in pictorial terms the event itself, and the theophany that it represented, was discreetly brushed aside, and the painting merely reproduces its echo. This is not the Baptism itself, but the post-Baptism. That is not the result of ineptitude, but is a carefully calibrated downgrading of a key Christian image, hollowing it out so that it is recognisable but no longer meaningful. A sophisticated understanding of the true theological significance of the Baptism lurks behind this calculated visual travesty of it. — 312 —

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It is time to draw together the threads of this discussion. While al-Biruni’s text cannot really be regarded as focusing on religion, the paintings accompanying the text do precisely that, for 20 of the 25 images – 80 per cent – illustrate aspects of that theme. This paper has deliberately not discussed the nine images that relate to Islam. But in terms of pictorial emphasis they far outstrip any of the other religions, to which a total of eleven images are devoted. Most of these non-Muslim images can be understood as bad news for other belief systems. Jews lose their Ark and their Temple in Jerusalem, Sabians have their idols destroyed, Manicheans are shown succumbing to temptation and Mani is executed. Even Christianity does not escape unscathed, with Mary and Jesus pointedly deprived of their haloes and the Baptism degraded. Admittedly, nothing is known about who ordered this manuscript, but its illustrations, seen as a whole, open an intriguing perspective on the much-vaunted religious tolerance of the Mongols. These images faithfully reflect, sometimes with eerie prescience, a time when an Indian summer of prosperity for religious minorities was coming to an end. Notes









1 It is a pleasure to dedicate this article to Charles Melville, a much-valued colleague; his passionate commitment to Iranian studies and his impish sense of humour have alike inspired and delighted me for many years. 2 P. Soucek, ‘An illustrated manuscript of al-Bîrûnî’s Chronology of Ancient Nations’, in Peter J. Chelkowski (ed.), The Scholar and the Saint (New York, 1975), pp. 151, 154–5 and 168; R. Hillenbrand, ‘Images of Muhammad in al-Biruni’s Chronology of Ancient Nations’, in R. Hillenbrand (ed.), Persian Painting from the Mongols to the Qajars: Studies in Honour of Basil W. Robinson (London, 2000), pp.129–46. 3 Soucek, ‘Illustrations,’ pp. 113–14; C.E. Sachau, The Chronology of Ancient Nations. An English Version of the Arabic Text of the Athar-ul-Bakiya of Albiruni, or ‘Vestiges of the Past,’ Collected and Reduced to Writing by the Author in A.H. 390–1, A.D. 1000 (London, 1879), pp. 210–11 (some of the relevant text is missing). Cf. T.W. Arnold, The Old and New Testaments in Muslim Religious Art (Oxford, 1932), p. 23. 4 On which see A. Bausani, Religion in Iran From Zoroaster to Baha’ullah, trans. J.M. Marchesi (New York, 2000), pp. 80–96. 5 He notes triumphantly in his own account of his works that he had sought a work on Manichaeism for 40 years before he was finally able to track down a copy of it in Khwarazm. See J. Boilot, ‘A long Odyssey’, The Unesco Courier, 27th year (June 1974), p.16. 6 D.O. Morgan, The Mongols (Oxford, 1986), p. 41. 7 Arnold suggests that the painter may have had before him a copy of Mani’s picture book, Arzhang, of which – according to Abu ’l-Ma‘ali Muhammad b. ‘Ubaydallah’s Kitab Bayan al-Adyan – a copy existed in the treasury of Ghazna in 1092. See T.W. Arnold and A.Grohmann, The Islamic Book: A Contribution to its Art and History from the VII–XVIII Century (n.p. (Paris/Florence), 1929), pp.68 and 114. 8 Soucek, ‘Illustrations’, p. 112, Fig. 4. 9 Al-Biruni, Chronology, trans. Sachau, pp. 107–8. 10 As suggested by T.W. Arnold, Survivals of Sasanian & Manichaean Art in Persian Painting (Oxford, 1924), p. 21. 11 For useful comments on this painting, and a discussion of its Manichaean connections, see ibid., pp. 20–1, 22–3. For a slightly different view, see Soucek, ‘Illustrations’, p. 159. The painter has omitted the centrality of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and dissipated the meaning of that whole theme by the addition of multiple trees. 12 Yet E. Yarshater, ‘Introduction’, in E.Yarshater (ed.), Biruni Symposium. Iran Center Columbia University 1976 (Persian Studies Series no 7) (New York, 1976), v, singles out al-Biruni’s treatment of the Manichaeans for special praise as an example of his fairness and objectivity. Here we see the painter (or – and this is more likely – whoever designed the layout of the book, and determined what the images should depict) at odds with the text he is illustrating. 13 Soucek, ‘Illustrations’, p. 119, Fig. 6. 14 Cf. the flayed figure at the base of the tree in the depiction of Mani’s execution in the Great Mongol Shahnameh, with its echoes of Crucifixion iconography. See O. Grabar and S. Blair, Epic Images and Contemporary History: The Paintings of the Great Mongol Shahnama (Chicago, IL, 1980), p. 149, Pl. 46. 15 Qur’an 6:74–8 and 37:93. 16 F. de Blois, ‘Sabi’,’ EI2, and T. Fahd, ‘Sabi’a’, EI2. See also D.S. Rice, ‘From Sin to Saladin: excavations in Harran’s Great Mosque, with new light on the Babylonian King Nabonidus and his 104-year-old mother’, Illustrated London News (21 September 1957), p.466; after the Arab conquest in 639 a Sabian temple was converted into a mosque (ibid., p. 467), while the east, west and north entrances to the Great Mosque each had a figural Babylonian stele (datable to the sixth century bc) placed face down so that the Muslims entering the mosque would tread on them. The best-preserved showed a figure with a ringed staff worshipping the symbols of the deities of the moon, the sun and the Morning Star (Sin, Shamash and Ishtar) (ibid., pp. 468–9). This humiliation of the Sabian faith is exactly the message of the Biruni image of Abraham. There may additionally be a deliberate echo here of

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the destruction of images in the Ka‘ba at the instigation of the Prophet Muhammad. See Ibn Ishaq, The Life of Muhammad: A Translation of Ibn Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah, trans. A. Guillaume (Oxford, 1955), p. 552. Al-Biruni, Chronology, trans. Sachau, p. 189. Soucek, ‘Illustrations’, p. 135, Fig. 15 and p. 137, Fig. 16. Ibid., p.129, Fig. 12. B. Spuler, Die Mongolen in Iran. Politik, Verwaltung und Kultur der Ilchanzeit 1220–1350 (4th revised and expanded ed., Berlin, 1968), pp.170–1. C. Kappler, in a fascinating paper, has deconstructed a document written by ‘Ala al-Din Juvayni in which, in a linguistic tour de force, compliments to the Mongols can also be read as insults: ‘Regards sur les Mongols au XIIIè siècle: Joveyni, Rubrouck,’ Dabireh 6 (autumn 1989), esp. pp. 187–91. For the circumstances, see al-Biruni, trans. Sachau, p.187. Though the reuse in the Great Mosque of Harran of stelai depicting the worship of heavenly bodies (see note 16 above) proves that Muslims had encountered such images. Al-Biruni, Chronology, trans. Sachau, p. 186. For the argument that these forms are of Central Asian derivation, see Arnold, Survivals, pp. 18–19. For a classic treatment of how Muslims saw Chinese blue and white wares, see B. Gray, ‘Blue and white vessels in Persian miniatures of the 14th and 15th centuries re-examined’, Transactions of the Oriental Ceramic Society 26 (1951), pp. 23–30. Rashid al-Din, Jami‘u’l-Tawarikh: Compendium of Chronicles; A History of the Mongols, trans. W.M. Thackston (Cambridge, MA, 1998), pp.662–3. Morgan, Mongols, p. 124. Spuler, Die Mongolen in Iran, pp. 149–56. H. Franke, ‘Tibetans in Yüan China’, in J.D. Langlois, Jr, China under Mongol Rule (Princeton, NJ, 1981), pp.297, 306–9, 315 and 327. For this process see C. Melville, ‘Padshah-i Islam: The conversion of Sultan Mahmud Ghazan Khan’, in C. Melville (ed.), Pembroke Papers I. Persian and Islamic Studies In Honour of W. Avery (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 159–77. Al-Biruni’s text in any case says virtually nothing about Buddha beyond the fact that he lived in India (Chronology, trans. Sachau, p.190). G. Curatola, ‘Some Ilkhanid woodwork from the area of Sultaniyya’, Islamic Art 2 (1987), pp. 100, 103 and Figs 26–7 (wooden sarcophagus in the so-called tomb of Esther and Mordecai at Hamadan). For this building and its contents, with the information that the present sarcophagus is a modern replica, see A. Mousavi, ‘Hamadan. vii. Monuments’, EIr; H. Sarshar, ‘Hamadan viii. Jewish community’, EIr; A. Netzer, ‘Esther and Mordechai’, EIr, with full bibliography. The interior of the mausoleum at Tuysarkan, near Hamadan, the supposed tomb of the prophet Habbakuk, has Hebrew inscriptions. See D. Hill and O. Grabar, Islamic Architecture and its Decoration, a.d. 800–1500 (2nd edition, London, 1967), Pl.595; S. Soroudi, ‘Habaquq, tomb of ’. See also W. Kleiss, ‘Qis Qal‘eh oberhalb Hamadan und der Grabturm bei Tuisserkhan’, Archaeologische Mitteilungen aus Iran, Neue Folge 7 (1974), pp. 46–7, Abb. 7 and Taf. 9. Another such example is the set of Jewish associations – extending to Moses, Elijah, Esther and Sarah bat Asher – connected with the Sufi shrine of Pir-i Bakran at Linjan: see E. Herzfeld, The Archaeological History of Iran (Oxford, 1935), pp. 106–7. See T. Fitzherbert, ‘“Bal‘ami’s Tabari”. An illustrated manuscript of Bal‘ami’s Tarjama-yi Tarikh-i Tabari in the Freer Gallery of Art, Washington (F59.16, 47.19 and 30.21)’ (Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of Edinburgh, 2001, vol. 2, Pls 3–5, 7–11 and 14); D.T. Rice, The Illustrations to the ‘World History’ of Rashid al-Din, ed. B. Gray (Edinburgh, 1976), Pls 9–15, 17, 21 and 25; and S.S. Blair, A Compendium of Chronicles: Rashid al-Din’s Illustrated History of the World (London, 1995), pp. 56–7, 70–2 and 80–8. For example, the material from Isfahan in an American private collection. B. Spuler, The Mongols in History, trans. G. Wheeler (London, 1971), p. 45. Spuler, Die Mongolen in Iran, pp. 207–8. Spuler, Mongols, p. 41. Spuler, Die Mongolen in Iran, pp. 205–6. See Soucek, ‘Illustrations’, pp. 141–5. For a representative sample, see Arnold, Testaments, pp. 18–32 and Pls VI–XIII; R. Milstein, K. Rührdanz and B. Schmitz, Stories of the Prophets: Illustrated Manuscripts of Qisas al-Anbiya’ (Costa Mesa, CA, 1999), with a list of illustrations at pp. 245–8; and N. Brosh and R. Milstein, Biblical Stories in Islamic Painting (Jerusalem, 1991); here the subject matter is confined to Adam and Eve, Abraham, Joseph, Moses, David, Solomon, Jonah and Job. Al-Biruni, Chronology, trans. Sachau, pp. 268–81. Most of these feasts have a positive connotation; yet it is not these that are illustrated. For the full story see I Samuel 4:1–22; for the moment recorded in the illustration, see vv. 17–18. The fullest account of how thrones of Chinese type were depicted in contemporary Persian painting is by D. Donovan, ‘The evolution of the throne in early Persian painting: the evidence of the Edinburgh Jami‘ al-Tawarikh’, Persica 13 (1988–9), pp.1–76. The actual task of destruction fell to Nebuzaradan (Jeremiah 52:13). A later hand has rubbed out the faces and upper bodies of the demolition crew, presumably in horrified disapproval of what they are doing; yet Nebuchadnezzar has escaped virtually unscathed. See, for example, P. Soucek, ‘The Temple of Solomon in Islamic legend and art’, in J. Gutmann (ed.), The Temple of Solomon: Archaeological Fact and Medieval Tradition in Christian, Islamic and Jewish Art (Missoula, MT, 1976), pp. 73–123. Spuler, Mongols, p. 26. Ibid., p.34. A key figure here, along with two of the Nestorian patriarchs, was Barhebraeus: see G. Lane, ‘An account of Gregory Bar Hebraeus Abu al-Faraj and his relations with the Mongols of Persia’, Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 2/2 (1999), pp. 1–22. For a lengthy and measured account see Spuler, Die Mongolen in Iran, pp. 171–84; for the persecution that followed Ghazan’s conversion, see especially pp. 181–2.

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62 63 64 65



66 67

Which al-Biruni duly records (Chronology, trans. Sachau, pp. 287, 290 and 307). Al-Biruni mentions this repeatedly (ibid., pp. 292–3, 296, 300 and 307). Al-Biruni refers to this too (ibid., pp. 291, 299, 304 and 307). The first serious discussion of these two images is in Soucek, ‘Illustrations’, pp. 145, 147–8. For comments on what the absence of key Christian feasts in the Biruni paintings might portend, see R. Hillenbrand, ‘The arts of the book in Ilkhanid Iran’, in L. Komaroff and S. Carboni (eds), The Legacy of Genghis Khan: Courtly Art and Culture in Western Asia, 1256–1353 (New York, New Haven, CT and London, 2002), pp. 144–5; see also T. Kirk, ‘The Edinburgh al-Biruni manuscript: a holistic study of its design and images’, Persica 20 (2005), pp. 58–9. Sura 19: 17–21. Rice, Illustrations to the ‘World History’, p. 85 and Pl. 23. As recounted in the Protevangelium of James; see J.B. Lightfoot, M.R. James. H.B. Swete and others, Excluded Books of the New Testament (London, 1927), pp. 35–6. Its principal pattern is a sprinkling of white crosses on a dark blue ground, presumably an allusion to Christianity. Mary’s right hand is outstretched with the thumb splayed and the pinkie retracted and curled in a manner again suggestive of a Buddhist mudra. Folios 48b, 92a, 94a and 134b. This is a solecism, since of course he was not a bishop. Soucek, ‘Illustrations’, pp. 147 and 167. Al-Biruni mentions the baptism again under the Feast of the Epiphany in the calendar of the Syriac Church (Chronology, trans. Sachau, p.288) with the further significant detail that John ‘baptised Messiah, and made him dive under the baptismal waters of the river Jordan […] The Holy Ghost came over him in the form of a dove that descended from heaven’ – a form of words that recreates the standard baptismal iconography rather than the version illustrated here. The artist’s uncertain grasp of perspective gives the false impression that the slippers are floating downstream. T. Khalidi (ed. and trans.), The Muslim Jesus: Sayings and Stories in Islamic Literature (Cambridge, MA and London, 2001).

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32 A tale of two minbars: woodwork in Egypt and Syria on the eve of the Ayyubids Bernard O’Kane

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he minbars of the Jami‘ al-‘Amri at Qus (550/1155–6)1 and the Jami‘ Nuri at Hama (559/1163–4)2 (Plate 20 and Fig.32.1) were built within a decade of each other. The first is in Egypt, the product of a Fatimid patron, the second in Syria, commissioned by a Zangid patron. Each deserves a closer look, not only for their intrinsic artistic qualities, which are even more impressive than they have been given credit for, but also for what they reveal of trends in ornamentation at the time. The minbar of Qus was a gift of the Fatimid vizier al-Malik al-Salih Tala’i‘, probably at the time of a major reconstruction by him of the mosque.3 He had been governor of Qus and several other towns in Upper Egypt before his accession to the vizierate in 549/ 1154, which he maintained until his death in 559/1161.4 Tala’i‘’s predecessor, al-‘Abbas, had in 1154 engineered the death of the caliph al-Zafir and then put al-Zafir’s five-year-old son, al-Fa’iz, upon the throne; the outraged population invited Tala’i‘ to intervene and the result was that he was able to rule with almost complete autonomy.5 He was thus certainly able to commandeer the finest artisans for the major products of his reign, his mosques at Qus and Cairo.6 Prisse d’Avennes was especially impressed with the Qus minbar, devoting no less than one complete plate (Fig. 32.2) and five details to it.7 He was also able to draw it when it was ostensibly in a more intact state than it is now, showing it with doors, balustrades and a dome. Fortunately, since the rest has survived virtually intact, we can use it as a control for the accuracy of those parts we have lost. — 316 —

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Unfortunately, a close scrutiny quickly reveals Prisse d’Avennes’s inconsistency in his rendering of details (Figs 32.2–32.3). In the spandrel of the entrance, for instance, it is clear that he regularised all elements of the pattern, creating absolute symmetry (probably by reversing one side of his drawing) where the original shows variations in size and finish normal in hand carving. Some of the differences may be due to the deteriorating condition of the wood, such as the pearl band that now shows in only a few parts of the design, the rest having been lost, perhaps by repeated applications of paint or varnish. More problematically, Prisse d’Avennes altered the proportion of the various elements, most noticeably towards the lower vertical extensions of the spandrel. A comparison of his drawing of the side of the minbar with the original is even more cautionary. The angle of the stairs is not one that coincides with the basically hexagonal pattern of the lower part, resulting in irregular geometric elements on the stair rail. Prisse d’Avennes has completely fabricated the irregularities at this point (Fig. 32.4). It is hard to think why, since this must have been much more difficult than just copying the original. The conclusion must be that many elements were drawn in great detail on the spot, while mere notes were made on other parts, to be added later in the studio. More disturbing in this comparison is

FIG.

32.1 Minbar of the Jami‘ Nuri at Hama (559/1163–4).

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that, above this area, the border that remains of the balustrade seems to be original work,8 yet it does not correspond at all with the border in the drawing (Fig. 32.4), raising the possibility that the elaborate balustrade of Prisse d’Avennes is a complete fabrication. This is a great pity, since parts of the drawing of the main pattern on the sides of the minbar are extremely accurate reproductions of what survives. But sadly in other areas there are so many inconsistencies that we should be extremely cautious in accepting any of his work as clear evidence of what we are now missing.9 Another element that betrays Prisse d’Avennes’s work as emanating from the studio is the use of identically repeated patterns in the geometrical elements of the sides of the minbar. The hexagon and six-pointed star are the basic elements of the design; there are nine complete hexagons on each side and four six-pointed stars on each side. There are two other main geometric figures: one is a cartouche formed by elongating the sides of a hexagon; six of these radiate from each six-pointed star (there are 35 complete examples on each side). The other main figure is an irregular six-pointed star in which two sides are elongated (11 complete examples are on each side). The remaining geometric figures are V-shapes and lozenges which contain a continuous scroll, and form the borders to the main figures. The surprising feature

FIG.

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32.2 Prisse d’Avennes, minbar of the Jami‘ al-‘Amri at Qus (550/1155–6).

FIG.

32.3 Detail of spandrels of entrance of Qus minbar.

FIG.

32.4 Comparison of detail of Fig.32.2 with actual side of Qus minbar.

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of the main figures is that no two are identical, almost even from side to side. The carpenter or carpenters seem to be flaunting their innovation and imagination, where even the close variations serve as a call and response rather than as mere repetitions. Even though the basic framework is hexagonal, for instance, we see the incorporation of not just 6- and 12-, but also 5-, 7-, 8-, 9- and 14-pointed stars into the designs (and, for good measure, an 11-pointed star at the back of the seat) (Fig. 32.5). Adding to this variety, the quality of the individual panels can be seen in the second layer of a carved floriated scroll added to the leaves of the arabesques and palmettes (Fig. 32.6). The hexagon was also the starting point for the earliest example to use intersecting geometric forms based on star patterns for the main design, the minbar made for the shrine of the head of Husayn at Asqalon (484/1091–2), now at Hebron.10 There, however, the area under the seat was separated by a border from that under the stairs, and repeated itself in the main triangular part of the design (Fig. 32.7).11 At Qus the whole area is a seamless composition. In both cases the pattern of the area under the seat is a geometric whole, but surprisingly in both the horizontal extension of the pattern towards the front is cut off irregularly, not just by the differently angled balustrade, but vertically at an asymmetrical point in the pattern (Fig. 32.4). The Qus minbar has been characterised as ‘intrusive’ in the Fatimid oeuvre,12 so it is worth stressing what the research of Pauty and Garcin also found,13 that it fits seamlessly into the series of the major works of the time, the portable mih.rābs of Sayyida Nafisa (532/1137–8 or 541/1146–7)

FIG.

32.5 Details of sides and back of Qus minbar showing 5-, 7-, 8-, 9-, 11- and 14-pointed stars.

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FIG.

32.6 Detail of hexagon on side of Qus minbar.

FIG.

32.7 Minbar made for the shrine at Asqalon (484/1091–2), now in the Maqam Ibrahim, Hebron.

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and Ruqayya (1154–60),14 the cenotaph of al-Husayn (c.555/1150),15 and the door of Tala’i‘’s own mosque in Cairo (550/1155–6).16 For instance, both the Nafisa and Ruqayya mih.rābs feature the revival, surprising for the time, of the cornucopia amidst their scrollwork; it occurs too at Qus (Fig.32.9).17 A more common motif is the use of cinquefoil palmette, with a grape bunch at its centre, found on all five. The pattern at the base of the seat at Qus of six-pointed stars surrounded by irregular hexagons is identical to that of the lower niche of the Ruqayya mih.rāb.18 Another link with the Ruqayya mih.rāb is a pattern on the top riser of a reciprocal pearl band of semicircles joined by a stepped motif. It is found on one of the panels at the back of the Ruqayya mih.rāb, and even earlier, on the screen from the Musalla al-‘Idayn at Damascus.19 Despite the location of the Qus minbar in what is now a provincial backwater, it is clearly a metropolitan product, as one would expect of its patron, the most powerful individual in Egypt at the time. The minbar of Hama has been overshadowed by that ordered five years later by Nur alDin for the Aqsa mosque, understandably given the former’s poorer state of preservation when they were initially studied. Its base has been lost, apart from the inscription surrounding the

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FIG. 32.8

left Detail of top of the minbar of the Jami‘ Nuri at Hama (559/1163–4).

FIG. 32.9

below Detail of panel with cornucopia on side of Qus minbar.

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balustrade on one side, and one can only guess what the pattern there, including the area beneath the seat, would have been. But what remains still displays outstanding craftsmanship. Herzfeld has already commented eloquently on two categories of arabesque found there, one in which the shallow-cut arabesques are separated by a geometric border, resembling Samarra type C patterns; another in which much deeper-cut stems cross over and under the border ‘which is no longer a boundary but a melody running through a fugue’.20 However, the artist was also aware of this distinction, placing the deep-cut version conspicuously on the two sides below the seat in a horizontal panel broader than the others. The shallower-cut panels are found on the top step, near the bottom of the backrest and, shallowest of all, in the most inconspicuous place, the inner spandrels of the arches supporting the dome. Pride of place, on the outer spandrels of all three arches, is yet a third kind of arabesque, one composed of deeply cut leafy stems crossing under and over one another, where the leaves often end in a curlicue leading to a suggestion of a sphere, an almost three-dimensional reduction of the arabesque to its essential element (Fig. 32.8). The motif is sometimes known conventionally as a ‘rūmī’ arabesque owing to its popularity in Anatolia, where Seljuq Qur’an stands display some of its finest examples,21 but it was equally prominent in the Jazira in the twelfth–thirteenth centuries, appearing literally in three dimensions in metalwork on a geomantic tablet (perhaps Damascus, 639/1241–2),22 on a bronze door knocker from early thirteenth-century Iraq,23 and on a twelfthcentury marble carving.24 Spherical elements are unusually prominent on the decoration of this minbar, appearing on the soffits of the arches, just below the cornice of the inscriptions above the arches, in the mashrabiyya work on the front and sides of the seat, and finally, on the lobes of the cinquefoil palmettes that make up the crenellations. The cursive inscription that runs on three sides below the crenellations (Fig.32.9) is Qur’an 25:61 and part of 62, reading: ‘Blessed is He who made constellations in the skies and placed therein a lamp and a moon giving light; and it is He who made the night and the day.’ Sylvia Auld has argued with respect to the inscriptions chosen for Nur al-Din’s Aqsa mosque that the light symbolism of the motifs (including its Qur’anic inscriptions, one of which is the Surat al-Nur) was deliberate,25 and this is surely the case here, especially with its resonances with the name Nur al-Din, literally the Light of Religion. The cursive script of the shahāda found at the back of the chair is extremely elegant, but it is not, as has been suggested,26 characterised by interconnection – the rā’ and sīn of rasūl are in fact quite separate (Fig.32.10). One feature of the minbar that has not been mentioned before is the painting on the interior of the dome Plate 21). It is certainly not as accomplished as the woodwork, and also shows many signs of having been substantially repaired. Could it be original? The designs consist of a thin foliated scroll in black, almost like a Chinese waterweed, within irregular pentagons and, towards the bottom, irregular six-pointed leaves. Small circles are added in the lower areas. Connecting them in red is a loose arrangement of trefoils, circles and abstract leaves. I have not found any exact analogues in the same medium, but similar thin foliated scrolls can be found in the background of the ceramics produced in Syria around the same period.27 Despite the extensive restoration, it seems likely that the design at least is original. Although, as has been remarked,28 it is probable that a star-based pattern occupied the now missing lower part of the minbar, the only geometric pattern that survives (apart from the simple ones of the mashrabiyya) is one based on hexagons on the backrest, interrupted by two — 323 —

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cartouches with the shahāda. It is therefore not the case that ‘interlaced geometric patterns […] are prominently displayed’ on it.29 Even if the missing lower section of the Hama minbar had a geometric design, its variety and prominent use of vegetal arabesques on its upper parts suggest that these were equally important. What do these minbars and the associated pieces mentioned above tell us of the trends in ornamentation at the time? The idea of a dichotomy in the use of geometric ornamentation in the Islamic world in the eleventh–twelfth centuries was first propounded by Gülru Necipoğlu, who suggested that it was to be associated with the legitimacy of the Seljuq successor states that revived the ‘Abbasid khut.ba, and that ‘geometric patterns […] were not typical of the predominantly vegetal Fatimid decorative vocabulary’.30 The notion was taken further by Yasser Tabbaa, who claimed that the Qus minbar was ‘intrusive’ in the Fatimid examples,31 and that whereas the ‘girih mode was largely absent from Cairene imperial monuments, it had decisively made its way into subimperial monuments or those outside the capital’.32 However, this is a distortion of imperial patronage under the Fatimids, since, from the time of Badr al-Jamali onwards, the power of the vizier was just as important, and sometimes more so, than that of the nominal rulers, the Fatimid imams. The minbars at Asqalon and Qus, made by viziers at

FIG.

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32.10 Detail of inscription on backrest of Hama minbar.

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the height of their power, are fully representative of the Fatimid state, as much as the mih.rābs of Sayyida Nafisa and Sayyida Ruqayya in the capital, and the doors of al-Salih Tala’i‘’s mosque in Cairo, all of which prominently display geometric patterns. From the examples discussed above we have seen that, far from it being intrusive in their oeuvre, the Fatimids were leaders in the development and use of geometric ornamentation, embracing it with enthusiasm before any other dynasty. Until any new evidence for the theory of ideological explanations for the use of geometry in Islamic art in this period comes along, it must remain, on the basis of our present knowledge, unsubstantiated.33 Notes









1 Max van Berchem, Matériaux pour un Corpus Inscriptionarum Arabicarum, Pt. 1 (Cairo, 1894–1903), pp. 716–18; Edmond Pauty, ‘Le minbar de Qoūs’, in Mélanges Maspéro, III: Orient islamique, Mémoires de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale du Caire, 68 (Cairo, 1940), pp. 41–8. 2 Ernst Herzfeld, ‘Damascus: studies in architecture, II’, Ars Islamica 9 (1942), pp. 43–5, Figs 73–4; Jean Sauvaget, ‘Notes sur quelques monuments musulmans de Syrie: à propos d’une étude récente’, Syria 24 (1944–5), pp. 211–31; Nikita Elisséeff, ‘La titulature de Nur al-Din d’après ses inscriptions’, Bulletin des Études Orientales 14 (1952), pp. 160–1 (text of the inscriptions); Yasser Tabbaa, The Transformation of Islamic Art During the Sunni Revival (Seattle, 2001), pp. 91, 93; Carole Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives (Edinburgh, 1999), Pls 3.32–4. 3 Jean-Claude Garcin, ‘Remarques sur un plan topographique de la grande mosquée de Qûs’, Annales Islamologiques 9 (1970), pp.97–108. 4 For the historical background see Jean-Claude Garcin, Un centre musulman de l’haute Égypte médiéval: Qus (Cairo, 1976), pp. 87– 8; idem, ‘Remarques’; Thierry Bianquis, ‘T.alā’i‘ b. Ruzzīk’, EI2. 5 One of the few checks on his power was the decision (at whose behest is unknown) to house the head of Husayn b. ‘Ali, which Tala’i‘ had moved from the shrine at Asqalon with the intention of housing it in his mosque outside Bab Zuwayla, to a purposebuilt shrine adjacent to the Fatimid Palace. 6 For the Cairo mosque see K.A.C. Creswell, The Muslim Architecture of Egypt, 1: Ikhshidids and Fatimids, AD 939–1171 (Oxford, 1952), pp.275–88. 7 Prisse d’Avennes, L’art arabe d’après les monuments du Kaire depuis le VII siècle jusqu’à la fin du XVIIIe (Paris, 1807–79), vol. 2, Pls LXXVII–LXXXII. Prisse d’Avennes’s general view of the minbar (my Fig. 32.3) is reproduced, without comment, also in Jonathan Bloom, Arts of the City Victorious: Islamic Art and Architecture in Fatimid North Africa and Egypt (New Haven, CT, 2007), p.166, Fig. 134 and idem, ‘Woodwork in Syria, Palestine and Egypt during the 12th and 13th centuries’, in Robert Hillenbrand and Sylvia Auld (eds), Ayyubid Jerusalem: The Holy City in Context 1187–1250 (London, 2009), p. 139, Pl. 7.14. 8 It is only preserved on this one, right or southern (taking the qibla as east), side, although, as Pauty, ‘Le minbar de Qoūs’, Pl. II shows, it survived earlier on the other side. 9 The captions to some of the plates of Prisse d’Avennes of the minbar provide further confirmation of this. Pl. LXXVIII reads ‘Ornamentation du Minbar. Assemblage arbitraire’. Pl. LXXX reads ‘Porte du Minbar. Arrangement fictif ’. Pl. LXXXI reads ‘Détails du Minbar. Assemblage arbitraire’. 10 L.H. Vincent, Hébron, le H . aram el-Khalîl: sépulture des patriarches (Paris, 1923), pp. 219–50, Pls XXV–XXVIII; Max van Berchem, ‘La chaire de la Mosquée d’Hébron et le martyrion de la tête de H . usain à Ascalon’, in G. Weil (ed.), Festschrift E. Sachau (Berlin, 1915), pp.298–310. 11 Previous illustrations of this have shown only the left side – understandably, since a pillar on the right side obscures the front of the mih.rāb. But the rear of the left side is recessed within a niche, something that only becomes clear when the complete pattern is seen from the right (Fig. 32.8). Thus the ‘narrow vertical panel beneath the platform’ (Bloom, Arts of the City Victorious, p. 135) is not as narrow as it seems. 12 Tabbaa, The Transformation, pp. 81, 101. 13 Pauty, ‘Le minbar de Qoūs’; Garcin, ‘Remarques’, p. 105. 14 Edmond Pauty, Catalogue général du musée arabe du Caire: les bois sculptés jusqu’à l’époque ayyoubide (Cairo, 1931), Pls 75–6, 80–88; Bernard O’Kane (ed.), Treasures of the Islamic Museums in Cairo (Cairo, 2006), pp. 57–9, 88–9. 15 This is not securely dated; see C. Williams, ‘The Quranic inscriptions on the tabut of al-Husayn’, Islamic Art 2 (1987), pp. 3–13, but the most plausible argument is that it was ordered by a Fatimid patron shortly after the shrine for Husayn was built, probably also by Tala’i‘. The only argument for dating it to the Ayyubid period was its use of cursive as well as Kufic script. One supporting piece of evidence for a pre-Ayyubid date that seems to have been forgotten in this debate is a cupboard from the Tala’i‘ mosque in Cairo that has been moved to the Museum of Islamic Art. The piece is clearly contemporary with the mosque, and displays panels inscribed with good wishes in both cursive and Kufic: Pauty, Les bois sculptés, Pl. 95. 16 Pauty, Les bois sculptés, Pls 89–90. 17 I have not found any examples on Syrian woodwork so far, but the carved stone mih.rāb of the māristān of Nur al-Din at Damascus (549/1154–5) does display an example: Herzfeld, ‘Damascus: studies in architecture, II’, Fig. 55. 18 As Pauty has already pointed out: ‘Le minbar de Qoūs’, p. 47. The pattern is interesting in that the irregular hexagons can be read as belonging to the circle of the six-pointed star either above or below them.

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19 Now in the National Museum at Damascus: M. Abûl-Faraj al-‘Ush, Musée National de Damas: Départment des Antiquités Arabes Islamiques (Damascus, 1976), p. 219 (I have retained the printed pagination which begins at 153). However, it would be hasty to deduce on this evidence that ‘in this period woodworkers or woodwork moved relatively easily between Damascus and Cairo’ (Bloom, ‘Woodwork in Syria’, p. 141); the statement may well be true, but the other elements of the woodwork of the Musalla al-‘Idayn (ibid., Fig. 123), show motifs close to the earlier Samarra style C-inspired Fatimid woodwork, as one would expect from the date of the piece (497/1103–4). A variation of the pattern can also be found on the stone carving of the Nur al-Din’s Madrasa al-Shu‘aybiyya at Aleppo (535/1150–1): Ernst Herzfeld, Inscriptions et Monuments d’Alep, Matériaux pour un Corpus Inscriptionarum Arabicarum. Pt. 2, Syrie du Nord I-II (Cairo, 1955–6), p. 222, Fig. 73. 20 Herzfeld, ‘Damascus: studies in architecture, II’, p. 44, Fig. 74. 21 David Roxburgh (ed.), Turks: A Journey of a Thousand Years, 600–1600 (London, 2005), no 89; Oktay Aslanapa, Turkish Art and Architecture (London, 1971), Fig. 210. 22 Between the tablet itself and the ring from which it was suspended: Roxburgh, Turks, no 57; for another example, now detached, see L’Orient de Saladin: l’art des Ayyoubides (Paris, 2002), p. 209, no 221. 23 Kjeld von Folsach, Torben Lundbæk and Peder Mortensen (eds), Sultan, Shah, and Great Mughal: The History and Culture of the Islamic World (Copenhagen, 1996), Fig. 32. 24 L’Orient de Saladin, p. 45, no 32. 25 Sylvia Auld, ‘The minbar of al-Aqsa: form and function’, in Robert Hillenbrand (ed.), Image and Meaning in Islamic Art (London, 2005), pp.42–60, at pp. 58–9. 26 Tabbaa, Transformation, p. 132 and Fig. 15. 27 L’Orient de Saladin, p. 132, bottom left; p. 160, cat. no 145. 28 Tabbaa, Transformation, p. 91, who considers it ‘certain’. 29 Gülru Necipoğlu, The Topkapi Scroll – Geometry and Ornament in Islamic Architecture (Los Angeles, 1996), p. 100. 30 Ibid., p.100. 31 Tabbaa, Transformation, p. 81. 32 Ibid., p.82. 33 Other studies critical of this theory include Terry Allen, ‘Islamic art and argument from academic geometry’, http://www.sonic. net/~tallen/palmtree/academicgeometry.htm#dOe1127; and Bloom, ‘Woodwork’.

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33 Illuminating Shah Tahmasp’s Shahnameh Sheila R. Canby

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f the many accomplishments of Charles Melville perhaps the most far-reaching has been the Cambridge Shahnama Project. This website, with its ambitious goal of gathering all the illustrated manuscripts of Ferdowsi’s epic in one database, has become an indispensable tool for art historians and Persian language and literature specialists alike. It has furthered the notion that illustrations cannot be viewed in isolation from the text and that every element of the manuscripts in which they appear is worthy of attention if one wishes to understand the book as a whole, not just the sum of its parts. In the interest of providing a building block for the reassessment of the most deluxe of sixteenth-century Shahnamehs, this paper will examine the illumination of the manuscript produced for Shah Tahmasp, the ruler of Safavid Iran from 1524 to 1576. In addition to discussing the style of the illuminations, I will compare the uses of illumination in Tahmasp’s Shahnameh with those of other manuscripts produced at the same time, the 1520s and 1530s. The aim here is to determine the chronology of illumination within the manuscript and the extent to which its illumination is exceptional both in relation to other Shahnameh manuscripts and to royal copies of other texts, such as the Khamsa of Nizami. One of the major impediments to studying Tahmasp’s Shahnameh is the fact that it was dispersed in the 1970s and its unpublished text pages are now in the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. Thus, one must rely on black-and-white reproductions of a few text pages that appear in Martin Bernard Dickson and Stuart Cary Welch’s The Houghton Shahnameh1 and the very few photographs of the backs of illustrated pages in private and public collections. — 329 —

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Because the Metropolitan Museum of Art owns 78 paintings from the manuscript, at least I can inspect them to determine whether their unillustrated sides contain illumination and, if so, of what type. The introductory illuminations (Plates 22–25) have been published more often2 than text pages and because of their position in the text provide a point of departure for this paper. The first illuminated pages that one encounters in the Tahmasp Shahnameh are the sarlawh., or double-page illuminated frontispiece of the Baysunghur introduction, on folios 2v and 3r. Unusually, the shamsa, or roundel, containing information identifying the patron as Shah Tahmasp, does not appear until folio 16r, after the Baysunghur introduction.3 Ferdowsi’s text begins on folio 16v, crowned by an ‘unwān, or illuminated panel, that is slightly less than half the height of the text block. Also on this page, a chapter heading within a cartouche is contained in an illuminated band that spans two columns of text and is two lines high. Vertical bands of illumination separate each column of text and accentuate the sumptuousness of the page. On some folios, instead of illumination, the composition of the illustration is continued into the spaces that divide the text columns. While the latter phenomenon appears throughout the manuscript, the illuminated vertical bands are almost entirely restricted to the first half of the 759-folio book. Finally, this manuscript contains illuminated triangles on certain text pages, a familiar element in illustrated manuscripts which accompanies the copying of the text on the diagonal and reduces the number of text lines per page. Although the illuminator or illuminators of the Tahmasp Shahnameh have not been identified, the variation in style and palette between the initial sarlawh. and the ‘unwān that marks the beginning of Ferdowsi’s text suggests that more than one person was responsible for the major illuminated passages of the manuscript. The composition of the sarlawh. follows the classic format of late-Timurid illumination from Herat. The block containing eight text lines on each page is centred within the illumination, which is closer to the spine than the long outer edge of the folio. Two horizontal bands containing a cartouche, each with a line of text, sit above and below the text block, while two decorative vertical rectangles containing interlaced, dentate ogives anchor the text block on the right and left. Each significant component (text block, horizontal bands, vertical rectangles) is bounded by marginal lines, narrow gold or coloured bands, wider bands containing blue cartouches and gold strapwork. The simple gold and floral interlace on a white ground around the horizontal bands echoes the small blocks of vine scrolls inside the text block. A green band containing a floral scroll surrounds the main body of the illuminated surface and outside it is a border of alternating gold and blue escutcheons that contain smaller, simpler shield shapes in dark blue and a combination of coral, light blue and light green, respectively. A gold diaper pattern marks the inner edge of the border while a series of half-escutcheons in blue, punctuated by red and yellow flowers, forms its outer edge within the marginal rulings. From each point formed by these rulings spring blue rays. Finally, the middle of the outer edge of both surfaces of the sarlawh. contains a half-elliptical ansa, with alternating gold and blue sections containing more vine scrolls and flowers. What recalls fifteenth-century Herat-style illumination is the strict division of the decoration into zones and the geometric intricacy of the decoration in the upper and lower rectangles. Here smaller versions of the four-lobed circles found in the 1488 Bustan of Sa‘di and the Diwan of Sultan Husayn Bayqara, produced at the Timurid court,4 create a more complex composition than the Timurid examples. Although vertical side panels appear in manuscripts produced — 330 —

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in places other than Herat,5 they are more prevalent in Herat manuscripts and also appear in sixteenth-century Mughal illuminated pages.6 The size of the folios in the Tahmasp Shahnameh is large (47 × 31.8cm) and enabled the illuminator to include more bands of ornament than one finds on most royal manuscripts of the same period. Nonetheless, the scale of the individual decorative elements is quite small, recalling the Herat taste for miniaturisation in metalwork and textiles.7 While the Tahmasp Shahnameh sarlawh. may have been produced in Herat, its maker more likely was schooled in the Herat tradition but was working in Tabriz. The two other largest illuminations in the Tahmasp manuscript are the shamsa and the ‘unwān on folios 16 recto and 16 verso. Unlike some manuscripts which contain two shamsas on facing pages, this one appears alone and contains the ex libris of Shah Tahmasp in the roundel itself and the two elliptical pendants above and below it. The inscription reads: ‘In His Name, the most praised and most exalted!’ [in the upper pendant] Commissioned for the library [kitābkhāna] of the most mighty Sultan, and the most just and beneficent Khaqan, Sultan, son and grandson of sultans, Abu ’l-Muzaffar, Sultan Shah Tahmasp, of Husayni and Safavi descent, Bahadur Khan. May God, the most exalted, perpetuate his realm and his rule, and diffuse [in the roundel] his justice and his benevolence throughout the world’ [in the lower pendant].8 The shamsa is composed on a principle of inscribed eight-lobed circles, but the inclusion of 16 semicircular lobes in alternating positive and negative or convex and concave aspects provides an extra level of complexity to the composition. As with the sarlawh., each section of the shamsa contains vine scrolls, flowers of various hues, and escutcheons enclosing yet more blossoms. The variation of the scale of the escutcheons and lozenges containing flowers enlivens this shamsa, suggesting a less sober approach than is found in the sarlawh., despite the shared framing device of the lobed circle. The shamsa, like the sarlawh., contains two shades of gold, evident in the comparison between the outer border of the lobed circle and the wider inner band of gold, which in turn differs from the gold forms placed at the meeting points of each lobe. Compared to the sarlawh., the shamsa has a higher proportion of blue to gold, which is an important diagnostic tool for the study of Safavid manuscript illumination in general and may indicate the work of a second master illuminator in the Shahnameh of Shah Tahmasp. The ‘unwān on folio 16 verso presents an ebullient contrast to the sarlawh. and even to the shamsa. Here a rectangle extends across the width of the marginal rulings and is crowned by a narrower illuminated band with a blue ground in the centre of which is a lobed semicircle, called a tāj. A narrow black band containing a floral scroll outlines the tāj and extends down to the gold rulings for the large rectangle below. The marginal rulings on the right and left of the text block and illumination extend up beyond the highest point of the tāj, in the same way that the rulings extended independently on the spine side and beyond the illumination of the sarlawh.. However, instead of an intellectually challenging construction of geometric shapes, the field of the main rectangle contains a spiraling gold vine scroll enlivened with the heads of dragons, lions, bears and deer. Weaving in and out of this waq design are gold cloud scrolls, a very popular decorative motif in sixteenth-century decorative arts and architectural decoration. In the centre of the rectangle is a gold cartouche announcing the beginning of the Shahnameh. Although the subtlety and glamour of the ‘unwān would captivate the attention of the reader, the illumination of this page does not stop where the text begins. Rather, the narrow bands between the text columns contain alternating blue and gold cartouches with red, yellow and white floral scrolls, — 331 —

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and a cartouche with the heading, ‘Chapter in Praise of the Intellect’ appears in the middle of an illuminated band with interlocking four-lobed circles. In sum, the illumination at the beginning of the Shahnameh proper sets a far different mood from that at the start of the Baysunghur preface. In addition to the use of different decorative motifs, the blue ground of the ‘unwān is brighter and more intense than that of the sarlawh.. The reason for this dissimilarity could simply be a question of choice on the part of the director of the project, two separate batches of lapis lazuli used to make the pigment, or two distinct illuminators. Assuming two illuminators were responsible for the sarlawh. and ‘unwān, respectively, one could argue that, like the illustrations in the manuscript, the sarlawh. reflects the stylistic influence of Herat, while the ‘unwa-n is more closely related to Aqqoyunlu Tabriz.9 Dickson and Welch have dated the shamsa of the Tahmasp manuscript to c. 1530, proposing that it is stylistically more closely related to the shamsa of the 1539–43 Khamsa of Nizami in the British Library than to one in a manuscript from the mid-1520s.10 The ‘unwān on the verso of the folio that contains the shamsa maintains a strong flavour of Tabriz, combined with details, such as the black border of the tāj, point to the influence of Herat. Thus, its dating to around 1530 is also plausible,11 though by the same logic Welch has dated many paintings in the manuscript with strong Türkmen overtones to the 1520s. The dating of the sarlawh. is more problematic than that of the shamsa and ‘unwān. Although this illumination appears at the beginning of the manuscript, its style, on the one hand, is almost emphatically related to that of the Herat school. This would suggest that it was produced early in the production of the manuscript, closer to 1524 than 1530. Yet a frontispiece to a dispersed Khamsa of Amir Khusraw Dihlavi produced for Tahmasp’s brother, Bahram Mirza,12 which exhibits many similar elements to the sarlawh. of the Tahmasp Shahnameh, has been dated to 1530–40. Since Bahram Mirza became governor of Herat in 1530, the work may have been done by an illuminator in that city. Furthermore, the sarlawh. of the 1539–43 Khamsa also shares the four-lobed circles and vertical panels with interlacing found in the Tahmasp Shahnameh and the dispersed sarlawh. from Bahram Mirza’s manuscript. Does this mean that despite appearing at the start of the manuscript, the sarlawh. in Tahmasp’s Shahnameh might have been produced after rather than before the shamsa and ‘unwān? According to Stuart Cary Welch, ‘Ornament, like painting, had become more restrained and elegant by the 1540s, closer to the classical style of late Timurid Herat than to the dynamic idiom of Turkman Tabriz.’13 If Welch’s assessment is correct, the stylistic correspondence between the Shahnameh sarlawh. and those of the Herat school could indicate a date from the mid- to late 1530s rather than from five years or a decade earlier. However, this dating remains conjectural without supporting evidence. Here the unfortunate dismantling of the manuscript comes into play. At the time that the manuscript came into the possession of Arthur A. Houghton Jr, it had no colophon page at the end and no folios in the beginning that might have contained Safavid librarians’ stamps or inscriptions. Sheets with synopses of the illustrations written in Ottoman Turkish had been inserted opposite the paintings after the manuscript entered the Ottoman royal library in 1568 when Shah Tahmasp presented it to the Ottoman sultan Selim II. At least two illustrations dating to around 1540 were added to Tahmasp’s Shahnameh after its completion, perhaps as replacements for other paintings.14 This attests to the continued use of the manuscript while it was still at the Safavid court but does not shed much light on other additions — 332 —

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or deletions that might have been made at that time. Also, the illustrations were not completed chronologically. The 14 folios of the Baysunghur introduction contain two illustrations which have been dated to the 1530s on the basis of style,15 whereas most of the other illustrations in the first half of the manuscript are from the 1520s. In the absence of information about the number of folios per gathering, one can propose but not prove conclusively that the whole section containing the Baysunghur introduction, its sarlawh. and two illustrations was added as a single quire to the body of the manuscript after the completion of the shamsa and ‘unwān. For this to be true, the gathering would have had to have 16 folios and have lost one at some point in the manuscript’s history. Thus, rather than representing a continuation of the Herat style of illumination, the sarlawh. would be consistent with the development toward restraint that is evident in the illumination of the 1539–43 Khamsa. On the basis of this argument the sarlawh. can be dated to the period between 1530 and 1535 while by the same token the shamsa and ‘unwān would have been produced between 1525 and 1530. Notes

1 M.B. Dickson and S.C. Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh (Cambridge, MA, 1981, 2 vols), vol. 2, nos 266–7. 2 Ibid., vol.2, no 1; S.C. Welch, Wonders of the Age: Masterpieces of Early Safavid Painting, 1501–1576 (Cambridge, MA, 1979), pp.40–1, 44–7; J. Thompson and S.R. Canby, Hunt for Paradise: Court Arts of Safavid Iran, 1501–1576 (Milan, 2003), pp.140–1. 3 Dickson and Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, vol. 2, nos 2 and 3. 4 T.W. Lentz, and G.D. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision (Los Angeles, 1989), pp. 237 and 268–9. 5 Ibid., p.244, Fig. 90. 6 This is relevant because in the sixteenth century the Mughals adopted the Persian style of illumination and abandoned that of the Sultanate courts. Early Mughal painting was influenced by the school of Bukhara, founded in turn by artists from Herat. 7 Lentz and Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision, p. 273, cat. no 152 and 218, cat. no 117. 8 Dickson and Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, vol. 2, no 4. 9 Thompson and Canby, Hunt for Paradise, p. 144, citing Dickson and Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, vol. 1, p. 6. 10 Dickson and Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, vol. 1, p. 6. 11 However, Welch, Wonders of the Age, pp. 45–6 dates the shamsa and ‘unwān to c. 1535. 12 Thompson and Canby, Hunt for Paradise, pp. 146–7. 13 Welch, Wonders of the Age, p. 134. 14 Dickson and Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, vol. 1, p. 4. These are folio 521v, Haftvad and the Worm, which is the only illustration without gold-sprinking in the margins, and another folio which is unspecified. 15 Welch, Wonders of the Age, pp. 98–101; Dickson and Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, vol. 1, pp. 118–21; S.R. Canby, Princes, Poets and Paladins: Islamic and Indian Painting from the Collection of Prince and Princess Sadruddin Aga Khan (London, 1998), pp. 52–3.

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34 Rethinking Persian painting: the Silsila of Sultan Muhammad and the rise of sixteenth-century pictorial lacquer binding Layla S. Diba

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he study of Persian painting over the last century has continually benefited from advancements in scholarship and, more recently, from innovative investigative approaches. This essay will discuss the familial dynasty of artists headed by the early sixteenth-century Safavid court painter Sultan Muhammad and consider its role in opening a brilliant new chapter in the history of Persian painting – the art of figurative painting on lacquer bookbinding.1 By utilising a theoretical framework merging the concept of artistic dynasties, silsila, with the tradition of lacquer binding, rawghankarī, and applying it to the study of early Safavid painting, this study seeks to forge a new link in the silsila of Persian scholarship to which Charles Melville has made such a major contribution.2 Learned investigations of Persian painting have focused on issues of style, dating, patronage, authorship, and questions of attribution. Historical context and issues of interpretation have further contributed to our understanding of Persian painting since Western scholars first began writing about this field in the early twentieth century. Histories of Persian painting were written within chronological or dynastic frameworks, while authors such as Oleg Grabar and Ivan Stchoukine developed both contextualising and connoisseurship approaches.3 The gifted interpreter of Safavid painting, S.C. Welch, relied on a connoisseurship approach supported by the knowledge of Persian sources of his collaborator, the noted linguist Martin Dickson; Welch’s attributions sometimes lacked sufficient documentation but never lacked inspiration or eloquence. His magnum opus was the publication of the most celebrated masterpiece of Persian painting, the exquisitely illustrated copy of the Persian epic, the Shahnameh (The — 334 —

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Book of Kings), produced in the first half of the sixteenth century for the ruler Shah Tahmasp.4 This tradition of scholarship was ably carried on by Anthony Welch in his numerous studies of Safavid art.5 Other noted scholars have dipped their pens into the ink of Persian scribes to write monographs or comprehensive studies on the illustrious Timurid painter Kamal al-Din Bihzad and the equally renowned Safavid masters Muhammadi and Riza ‘Abbasi. More recently, the detailed study of manuscript components and the treatises of Safavid album contents have revealed fresh insights.6 Having fully mined these approaches, it is perhaps timely now to turn back to the biographical approach of Persian scholars and aesthetes, as evidenced in their writings since the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were a golden age for Persian biographical literature on painters and calligraphers. Albums of painting and calligraphy, many of which are preserved today in the Topkapı Saray Library, served as portable picture and calligraphy galleries. These albums were perused and discussed among literati and art patrons in their gatherings and libraries. Court chroniclers and calligraphers endowed these exquisite albums with poetic prefaces which set down the history of master calligraphers and painters. These authors sought to link the work of painters to the Prophet Muhammad in order to justify the lawfulness of painting in the face of religious disapproval. They also traced the lineage of calligraphers to his son-in-law ‘Ali in order to demonstrate the supremacy of calligraphy in the artistic hierarchy. In his recent studies of album prefaces, David Roxburgh has discussed the concept of silsila as one of the essential mechanisms for the transmission of Persian painting and calligraphy traditions. Basing his reasoning on biographical frameworks of inquiry, Roxburgh identified chains of practice and clusters of key masters at important moments in the history of calligraphy and painting. Roxburgh further noted that familial relationships were often complementary to the student–teacher lineages, ustād–shāgird, which paralleled Sufi master– acolyte pīr–murshid relationships.7 Earlier, Anthony Welch’s study of sixteenth-century painting and its contemporary historical sources had identified numerous family relationships between Safavid artists. Welch had rightly concluded that artistic alliances were formed to transmit genetic talents or form de facto guilds.8 These families of artists benefited from the decisive role they played in the artistic education of Iranian rulers and patrons. Rulers were educated in calligraphy, painting and other crafts from their childhood, and the artists who became their teachers sometimes became boon companions later in life, thus achieving a social status rare in the Islamic world. Families of artists could inherit these privileges of rank, patronage and access to power. Another important raison d’être for these family alliances was to ensure that the trade secrets of each artist would be transmitted to a son or family member who was deserving of such an inheritance. Of course, the apprenticeship system ensured the direct transmission of painters’ skills, but artists’ albums were an equally significant system of transmission. Albums containing patterns, pinprick designs and sketches, which were the working materials of painters, were carefully guarded. Although no intact artists’ working albums of the sixteenth century have survived – in contrast to the rich evidence of royal albums from the Topkapı Saray – an example of an album belonging to the descendants of the late nineteenth-century painter Lutf ‘Ali Suratgar, which was formerly in the Reza ‘Abbasi Museum in Tehran, contained — 335 —

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convincing evidence of how artistic styles were preserved and transmitted within the same family for generations.9 Sultan Muhammad, according to the early seventeenth-century author and calligrapher Qadi Ahmad b. Mir Munshi al-Husayni, was born in Tabriz and served his apprenticeship as a painter there. Tabriz, located in north-west Persia, was the first capital of the Safavid dynasty and the site of the coronation of its founder Shah Isma‘il (1501–24) in 1501. During the reign of Shah Tahmasp (1524–76), Shah Isma‘il’s son and successor, the greatest masterpieces of Persian painting, including the great Shahnameh, which bears his name, and numerous other fine manuscripts, were produced first in the royal atelier and library in Tabriz and later in the second capital, Qazvin.10 According to Qadi Ahmad, writing in c.1606, the ruler studied painting with Sultan Muhammad, who had succeeded Kamal al-Din Bihzad, the leading artist of the Timurid era, as the director of the royal library. Sultan Muhammad’s name is frequently cited with that of Kamal al-Din Bihzad, as the two paragons of their age.11 Sultan Muhammad’s contemporary, the painter Dust Muhammad – perhaps the best-known author of the prefaces to painting and calligraphy albums – goes even further. In his preface composed in 1544 for an album of painting and calligraphy compiled for a brother of Shah Tahmasp, Bahram Mirza (Topkapı Saray Museum, H.2161) Dust Muhammad hails him as the wonder of the age, the first of the painters of Shah Tahmasp’s court – primus inter pares. Dust Muhammad cites as proof of his genius the painter’s illustration of the scene of the Court of Gayumarth for the Shah Tahmasp Shahnameh, described as ‘a scene of people wearing leopard skins. It is such that the lion-hearted of the jungle of depiction and the leopards and crocodiles of the workshop of ornamentation quail at the fangs of his pen and bend their necks before the awesomeness of his pictures’.12 Sultan Muhammad is known to have had a son, the painter Mirza ‘Ali, and a grandson, the calligrapher, illuminator and painter Zayn al-‘Abidin. According to the Qadi, Mirza ‘Ali grew up in the royal atelier and learned his craft under his father’s supervision. He was considered one of the most skilled painters of his time and contributed superb paintings to the aforementioned Shahnameh, and the 1539 royal Khamsa.13 Zayn al-‘Abidin, who was praised both for his skill and his character, secured a lifetime post in the royal atelier during the reign of Shah Isma‘il II (1576–7). During his long career, which spanned the reigns of Isma‘il’s successors Sultan Muhammad Khudabanda (1577–87) and Shah ‘Abbas (1587–1629), Zayn al-‘Abidin worked on a number of major manuscript commissions.14 Thus we can see Sultan Muhammad’s influence in court artistic circles stretching across two generations of painters and five reigns, suggesting a kind of artistic dynasty. Further information on Sultan Muhammad and his family is gleaned from the Ottoman civil servant and historian Mustafa ‘Ali, who composed a treatise on calligraphers and painters, the Manaqib-i hunarvaran (Artists’ Virtues) while posted in Baghdad in the years 1585–6. There, he frequented literary circles that included a Persian émigré, Qutb al-Din Muhammad Yazdi, a calligrapher and former storyteller of the court of Shah Tahmasp and thus an eyewitness to the early years of Safavid rule. Mustafa ‘Ali’s account is partly based on his conversations with Qutb al-Din and a treatise the latter had penned. Mustafa ‘Ali claims that Sultan Muhammad had another son by the name of Muhammad Beg who was also a painter and who excelled in the art of lacquer binding ( jild-i rawghanī) and in the composition of group scenes (majlis). Another source mentions Sultan Muhammad — 336 —

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Rawghanī as the father of the painter Mahdi Beg. Although these sources are not considered as reliable as the Persian ones, they have sometimes proven correct15 and they do support a case for associating Sultan Muhammad and one of his sons with the art of lacquerwork. The sources suggest that he himself trained his putative son in the technique. While Mirza ‘Ali and Zayn al-‘Abidin are well-known figures in the annals of Persian painting, Muhammad Beg’s identity is more elusive. It has recently been argued that the later sixteenth-century painter signing himself Muhammadi may be identified with Mustafa ‘Ali’s Muhammad Beg, and a considerable corpus of works of the later sixteenth century, including a pictorial lacquer binding, has been assigned to him.16 However, even if this theory proves correct, Muhammad Beg’s early works remain to be identified. It is here that the medium of lacquer painting provides intriguing new evidence. Lacquerwork, which we may define as opaque watercolour or oil painting under a transparent varnish on pasteboard or leather, emerges in the sixteenth century as a major medium for Safavid painters. Although lacquerwork has begun to be incorporated in the study of seventeenth-century painting, its critical role in the evolution of sixteenth-century painting has yet to be fully appreciated. In the sixteenth century the Safavid court taste for pictorial designs led to their adoption as decoration for the covers of bookbindings executed in lacquer. Lacquered bindings are first encountered in Timurid Herat, where they feature medallion and animal combat designs in chinoiserie style executed in black and gold. In the first quarter of the sixteenth century lacquered bindings underwent a radical change with the introduction of pictorial designs. The evolution of this medium, its themes and its practitioners can be traced through its use for the finest dated Safavid court manuscripts. As I have shown, it is mentioned in treatises by Mustafa ‘Ali, Sadiqi Beg and Qadi Ahmad and associated with names of the leading painters of the day (especially Muzaffar ‘Ali, ‘Abdallah Shirazi and, as we have seen, Sultan Muhammad and Muhammad Beg).17 Let us now propose an alternative artistic practice and production for Sultan Muhammad and his son Muhammad Beg, by integrating lacquerwork into the history of manuscript production associated with these artists. Sultan Muhammad’s few signed works are contained in a royal manuscript of the Diwan of Hafiz, and numerous unsigned paintings and drawings have been assigned to him. Given the versatility expected of Safavid court painters, the kārkhāna system of utilising the master painters’ designs for various media; and Sultan Muhammad’s role as the director of the royal library during the years that lacquered bindings became popular, as well as the biographical information from Mustafa ‘Ali, I would suggest we should look to surviving Safavid manuscripts with lacquered bindings in order to fully understand Sultan Muhammad and his silsila’s role in Persian painting and to broaden the corpus of their known works.18 The manuscript of the Diwan of Hafiz plays a key role in the understanding of early Safavid painting. It was produced for Sam Mirza, a brother of Shah Tahmasp, in the late 1520s sometime before his death in 1533. The Diwan features five exquisite paintings, two of which are signed by Sultan Muhammad and one by Shaykh Zada. The text itself is unsigned and attributed to Sultan Muhammad Nur. The binding has been accepted as of the period and in the style of the illustrations (Plate 26). The outer covers and flap of the binding exhibit a central medallion with pendants, and spandrels in the four corners: the design of the flap perfectly matches that of the outer cover. — 337 —

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The doublures are painted with a delicate chinoiserie-style medallion design. The medallion of the upper cover depicts a young prince holding a volume of poetry, attended by a page offering a covered platter of food on a black ground (the lower cover features a page offering a flask of wine). The main field is embellished with a graceful design of angels and pheasants amidst arabesques with large flowering lotuses on a dark red ground. Again on a black ground, the spandrels bear golden arabesques, as does the outer frame. Gold is used to outline each element of the design as well as to decorate figures and clothing. The overall effect is one of great chromatic richness, delicacy of figural style, and luxurious display of jewel-like colours. The high quality of the painting and stylistic features shared with the manuscript’s illustrations assigned to Sultan Muhammad support Dorothea Duda’s attribution to the painter, or possibly a pupil, the otherwise unknown Muhammad Beg.19 These features include the figure of the page, delicate shrubs and groups of gilded ewers and platters in the scene of ‘Lovers Picnicking’ (Plate 27).20 Alternatively, the work may have been a collaboration between the master Sultan Muhammad and the son and student Muhammad Beg, with the former providing the design and his son, the execution. Another intact manuscript of the Yusuf wa Zulaykha by the poet Jami in the Topkapı Saray Library (R.910) was copied by Shah Mahmud Nishapuri in 931/1525. The illustrations have been assigned to the school of Shah Tahmasp or to Sultan Muhammad himself by Ivan Stchoukine and Kemal Çiğ, respectively.21 Yet neither author discusses the authorship of the manuscript’s fine pictorial lacquer binding, which we shall argue was undoubtedly designed by the same hand as that of the binding of the Diwan. The entire surface of the outer covers and the matching flap is covered with a scene similar to the previous example depicting a prince and his retainer in a garden or landscape, but rendered as a full-scale composition. The binding is executed in the same rich polychrome colours with gold outlining and is further enriched by the addition of crushed mother-of-pearl for the rocks and trees. The doublures are executed of the finest polychrome leather filigree whose colour scheme matches the illuminations and illustrations of the manuscript. The sophisticated binding design and colour scheme were intended to have a rich, dark, polychrome effect in contrast to the lighter, more dazzling effect of the illustrations, much like the effect of opening a casket of jewels, a visual metaphor borrowed from classical Persian poetry. The artist or artists used a few basic figural and landscape elements in an almost telegraphic style in comparison with the highly complex, mosaic-like and patterned style of the illustrations. The binding’s design betrays a deliberate choice to reduce the decoration to a minimum in order to enhance the effect of the lustrous sheen of the lacquer, the velvety black of the ground and the brilliant but limited range of colours. The painter(s) of our bindings used different compositional approaches to achieve the richest, most striking effect possible. In the Diwan the jewel-like qualities of lacquerwork, not unlike cloisonné enamel, were emphasised, while in the Yusuf wa Zulaykha the black and gold chinoiserie aesthetic was used to its fullest potential. A group of eight lacquer-painted playing cards (Plate 28) (Vienna, Österreichische Bibl. no cod. mixt. 313)22 preserved in an album compiled during the reign of the Ottoman sultan Murad III (r. 1574–95) belongs to this same group of lacquerwork. We concur with Duda’s identification of the polo player with Sam Mirza, the patron of the Diwan of Hafiz. Shared features with the previous works include figural, costume and turban types, the decorative — 338 —

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treatment of the spandrels and the compositional approach.23 Duda has assigned the cards to Muhammad Beg alone, but we may speculate that the cards were another example of silsila collaboration supervised by Master Sultan Muhammad.24 To this corpus of lacquer works assigned to Sultan Muhammad, or his artistic lineage, may be added an exquisite binding of a manuscript of the poet Arifi’s Guy wa Chugan (Ball and Polo Stick) (National Library of Russia, Dorn 441) copied in Tabriz in 930/1524 by Shah Tahmasp himself for his tutor Qadi Jahan. The illustrations have been assigned to Bihzad, Sultan Muhammad and even the ruler. A masterpiece of the court ateliers, the manuscript incorporated the richest techniques and was a showcase for its most gifted artists. The painting of the binding is executed in a brilliant colour scheme of red, green and black. The central medallion and field bear animals-in-combat in gold on black. The red-ground field is adorned with long-tailed, elegant pheasants and floral scrolls. Gold is used profusely for outlining and mother-of-pearl is used for details. I propose that the binding was designed by Sultan Muhammad, perhaps assisted by his son, based on the similarities with the binding of the Diwan and with the comparable liveliness and variety of the animalier designs found on the margins of two album pages that Stuart Cary Welch has assigned to Sultan Muhammad.25 The art of lacquer binding would flourish during the late sixteenth century and become a major medium of expression for the second generation of sixteenth-century Safavid masters such as Sayyidi ‘Ali (Plate 29), Muzaffar ‘Ali and ‘Abdallah Shirazi. If the identification of Muhammad Beg the lacquer painter with Muhammadi the later sixteenth-century artist should be confirmed, we may also add his name to the list of illustrious painters who practised the art of lacquer painting.26 This brief survey, by focusing on artistic lineages and a dated corpus of a previously littlerecognised painting medium, has hopefully shown that Sultan Muhammad and his lineage played a critical role in the adoption and early evolution of rawghankarī, which opened a rich new field for the talents of Persian painters and which continued to flourish in different formats for hundreds of years thereafter. Notes





1 An expanded version of this essay was presented as a lecture entitled ‘Silsila: Artistic Lineages in Persian Painting’ given on 20 November 2009 at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Annemarie Schimmel Memorial Lecture Series. 2 Silsila, whose primary meaning is chain, has been used to define a political dynasty, as well as a chain of authorities in religious and philosophical treatises. It is a term familiar from biographical and hagiographical literature. For instance, Annemarie Schimmel used the term, defined as spiritual or family lineage, in her discussion of mystical poets. The term can also be found in the biographies of calligraphers, their descendants and students, but has rarely been applied to the study of Persian painting. See Annemarie Schimmel, As Through a Veil: Mystical Poetry in Islam (New York, 1982), pp.54, 161,182. 3 I. Stchoukine, Les peintures des manuscrits Safavis de 1502 à 1587 (Paris, 1959); O. Grabar and S. Blair, Epic Images and Contemporary History: The Illustrations of the Great Mongol Shahnama (Chicago, IL, 1980). 4 S.C. Welch and M.B. Dickson, The Houghton Shah Nameh (Cambridge, MA, 1981). 5 Anthony Welch, Artists for the Shah: Late Sixteenth Century Painting at the Imperial Court of Iran (New Haven, CT, 1976). 6 E. Bahari, Bihzad, Master of Persian Painting (London, 1997); S. Canby, Rebellious Reformer: The Drawings and Paintings of Riza yi-Abbasi of Isfahan (London, 1996); A. Soudavar, ‘The Age of Muhammadi’, Muqarnas 17 (2000), pp. 17–68; and M.S. Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang: A Princely Manuscript from 16th century Iran (New Haven, CT, 1997), and D.J. Roxburgh, Prefacing the Image: The Writing of Art History in Sixteenth-Century Iran (Leiden, 2001), respectively. 7 Roxburgh, Prefacing the Image, pp.136–7 and 230–40 for charts of the major master–student relationships discussed in the sources. 8 Welch, Artists for the Shah, p. 152. 9 L.S. Diba, ‘Painting in the eighteenth century: tradition and transmission’, Muqarnas 6 (1989), p.160. 10 The capital was relocated to Qazvin sometime between 1548 and 1555. 11 Mir Munshi Qadi Ahmad, Calligraphers and Painters: A Treatise by Qadi Ahmad. son of Mir-Munshi (ca. A.H. 1015/A.D. 1606), trans. V. Minorsky (Washington, DC, 1959), pp. 180–1.

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12 W.M. Thackston, sel. and trans. A Century of Princes: Sources on Timurid History and Art (Cambridge, MA, 1989), p. 349. 13 See S.C. Welch, Persian Painting: Five Royal Safavid Manuscripts of the Sixteenth Century (New York, 1976) pp. 543, 80, 84, and 88 for illustrations assigned to him. 14 Qadi Ahmad, Calligraphers and Painters, p. 187. For further information and works in royal manuscripts of the 1570s and 1580s assigned to him by the author, see Welch, Artists for the Shah, pp. 212–13. 15 See Welch and Dickson, The Houghton Shah-nameh, p. 53 and L.S. Diba, ‘Lacquerwork of Safavid Persia and its Relationship to Persian Painting’ (PhD dissertation, New York University, 1994), p. 123 and references therein for a review of other sources. 16 Soudavar, ‘The age of Muhammadi’, p. 8. 17 Diba, ‘Lacquerwork’, pp. 121–5. 18 Ibid., p.216. 19 D. Duda, Islamische Handschriften, I: Persische Handschriften (Vienna, 1983), pp. 151–4. 20 See Welch, Persian Painting, p. 62 for Lovers Picnicking, p. 69 for Diwan illustration ‘Wordly and Otherwordly Drunkenness’ for similar angels and a balustrade motif and ibid., p. 66 for ‘the Feast of Eid’ from the same manuscript for a comparable figure of a prince and a carpet strewn with flowers. 21 See Diba, ‘Lacquerwork’, p. 510 for full references. The binding is illustrated in Kemal Çiğ, ‘The Iranian lacquer technique works in the Topkapu Saray Museum’, Memorial Volume of the 5th International Congress of Iranian Art and Archaeology (Tehran, 1972), vol. 2, pp.24–33, Fig. 3. 22 The cards were originally part of a set of 96 cards for ganjafa, an eight-suited card game. See Diba, ‘Lacquerwork’, p. 514. For colour illustrations of all eight cards see Layla S. Diba, ‘Persian playing cards: a courtly art’, in Colin Mackenzie and Irving Finkel (eds), Asian Games: The Art of the Contest (New York, 2004), pp. 234–5. 23 See illustration of Lion card and Preparations for a Feast in Duda, Islamische Handschriften, Pls 391–7. 24 Ibid., pp.151–4. 25 Stuart Cary Welch, Wonders of the Age: Masterpieces of Early Safavid Painting (London, 1979), pp.130–1. 26 A superb detached painting of a Rest on the Hunt c.1570s generally assigned to Sultan Muhammad or Mirza ‘Ali may prove to be a key work in this respect. The painting is inscribed ‘work of Bihzad’. Works signed ‘Bihzad Ibrahimi’ (referring to the late sixteenth-century patron Sultan Ibrahim) have been assigned to Muhammadi by Soudavar. Following his argument, this work might also be assigned to him. The importance of the work for the history of early lacquerwork lies in the fact that it served as the direct model for the lacquer binding of a lavish Diwan, Topkapı Saray Library, H. 986, which has also been assigned to Muhammadi by Soudavar. The discussion of this intriguing evidence lies beyond the scope of this essay and will hopefully form the subject of a future expanded study of lacquer bindings of the later sixteenth century. See Diba, ‘Lacquerwork’, pp. 184–7 and Soudavar, ‘Age of Muhammadi’, p. 8.

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35 Composite figures in the Hadiqat al-haqiqa wa Shari‘at al-tariqa of Sana’i 1 Francis Richard

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he problem of the interpretation of the composite figures found in the Indo-Iranian tradition and of the origin of their very particular iconography has never been brought to a satisfactory conclusion (Plates 30 and 31). While making no claim to resolve the enigma presented by these figures, the present article intends to draw up an account of the present state of knowledge with regard to this material.2 It is with very great pleasure that I dedicate it to Charles Melville, who in recent years has devoted so much time and energy to clarifying the iconography of the Iranian epic in his important studies. Composed in the twelfth century by Abu ’l-Majd Majdud b. Adam Sana’i (1079–1141), the didactic and mystical poem Hadiqat al-haqiqa wa Shari‘at al-tariqa was widely admired in the Middle Ages. It was a source of inspiration for many poets and a guiding text for members of the Iranian elite. Again in the sixteenth century it was much read and consulted, and numerous copies following various older models were produced. Many of the manuscripts amount to no more than abridged versions (mukhtas.ar) or anthologies (muntakhab). This marked revival of interest is doubtless to be explained by the attraction experienced by Sufi devotees to the doctrines of Sana’i, expressed as these are in allegories and parables. It is also in the sixteenth century that we begin to find illustrated copies of the poem, which, it would seem, had never been accompanied by pictures at an earlier date. A sixteenth-century manuscript of the Hadiqat that does contain the full text was used by de Bruijn for his study of the poet.3 This is the Leiden manuscript Or.1651, dated 987/1579; it is illuminated in Shiraz style, and contains (f.1b) a picture, also in Shiraz — 341 —

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style, that shows Sana’i presenting his book to the sultan of Ghazna.4 There are two further illustrated copies of approximately the date of that in Leiden that contain the Hadiqat in abridged form. Their paintings are very different in character and style from that of the Leiden manuscript, as they show very strange composite animals. One of these manuscripts is P. 3932 of the Raza Library, Rampur (India). This copy has 52 folios (measuring 215 × 120mm); it contains three pictures of the sort in question, and one of a more traditional character that shows a cow entering the house of an old woman (f. 44). The text was copied in Herat (dār al-salt.ana) in Muharram 977/June–July 1569 by the scribe Muhyi al-Katib. The first picture in the Rampur manuscript shows a mahout on a white elephant that is being examined by four blind men, each of whom gives a different account of the nature of the beast. This metaphor (tamthil ) expresses man’s inability to form a true picture of God. The text has been freely translated by E.G. Browne.5 The second picture (9a) has a composite camel and a foolish man (ablah). The camel is an object of ridicule because of its shape. This brief story is found in the fas.l-i taqdīs:6 the man asks the camel why it is so formed, and the camel replies that this was the intention of its Maker and that man should see its curvature as the ‘bow of righteousness’. The third picture (29b) shows a rider on a composite horse, preceded by a running chā’ūsh. The story, in the bāb-i awwal,7 signifies metaphorically that the rider of such a horse can conquer the world, but a young horse must first be disciplined and made amenable. A copy similar to that of Rampur is lodged in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts with the accession number 09.324; it was donated to the museum in 1909 by the artist and collector Denman Waldo Ross, who may have acquired it on his travels. The copy has 55 folios, an initial double-page illumination, and eight pictures.8 The margins are decorated with motifs in gold and colours, and the text area is sprinkled with gold. The manuscript contains a very much abbreviated version of the poem Intikhab-i Hadiqat, which corresponds approximately to the abridgement produced by Da’i Shirazi at the end of the fifteenth century.9 The patron of the Boston manuscript remains unknown, but the copying was finished in Jumada I 981/1573 by Muhyi al-Katib, the scribe of the Rampur manuscript. This calligrapher is identifiable as Muhyi Harawi, the very gifted pupil of the master Muhammad Qasim Shadishah,10 who lived and worked in Khurasan, though he appears to have copied a Shahnameh at Qazvin in 973/1575. In 1003/1594 he was in Balkh where, together with his son ‘Imad al-Din, he copied the Mathnawi of Jalal al-Din Rumi for the governor, Amir ‘Abd al-Mu’min Han b. ‘Abdallah.11 The pictures of the Boston manuscript, none of which seem to be signed, are related, as will be shown, to the school of Khurasan.12 There are a number of composite figures amongst them. The first illustrates lines near the beginning of the poem that recount the story of the blind men and the elephant, though in a slightly different recension.13 The white elephant that the blind men are investigating carries a young prince in a howdah. The accompanying lines are: Hama-rā bahra qāl-u qīl āmad Shahr-i kūrān-u h.āl-i fīl āmad Har yak-ī dīda juzwī az ajzā Dar kamāhīsh burda z.ann-i khat.ā — 342 —

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The share of all of them was just empty talk. It was like [the tale of ] the blind men of the town and their description of the elephant. Each one of them saw just a part of the whole (literally, of all of its parts) [But] they were [all] mistaken about its true nature.

In this painting the body of the elephant is composed of men and women in outline – a bearded man wears a turban, a girl plays the tambourine – but it is only their faces that are coloured. The figures are Indian in appearance: all wear Indian turbans and two have dark complexions. A second picture in the manuscript shows an elephant holding a branch before him. Like the first elephant, he carries a howdah with a prince inside it wearing an Indian turban; there is also a mahout, whose dress is Indian, like that of the attendants seated on the elephant’s hindquarters. Here again the white elephant is entirely composed of a collection of outlines of men and women, with some repetitions: here a couple reading a book, there a cup-bearer and a musician; there are also several animal figures, including a lion and a monkey. As with the previous elephant, it is the faces only that are coloured. The elephant’s trunk ends in an animal’s head. Two further pictures in the Boston manuscript portray composite animals. One shows a young woman in a howdah on the back of a camel, again illustrating the story of the camel and the foolish man. Beside the animal a cameleer leans on his staff, while an Indian figure plays the flute. The camel’s body is entirely composed of outlined figures, with many animals, men and women; the camel’s four legs are particularly well contrived. The last of these pictures illustrates the story of the young man who can conquer the world on his horse. It shows a mounted falconer; he and his companions are in Indian costume and headgear. He wears a sumptuous coat, and his horse is entirely composed of outline figures: men, women and animals in various colours. The horse’s hooves are formed by four men’s heads. The Indian character of the figures represented on these pages, and not seen in the four other pictures in the manuscript, is evidently a deliberate choice. The predilection of painters in Khurasan in about 1570 for Indian subjects is well known.14 However, since we do not know the identity of the patron of the Boston manuscript, it is not easy to determine precisely why the painter made this choice. It appears that an unpublished and undated copy of the Gulshan-i Raz of Mahmud Shabistari in the National Museum, New Delhi, also contains a composite camel.15 It may be that this also should be seen in relation to the two copies of Sana’i’s poem from Khurasan. The attribution of these manuscripts of Sana’i’s work to Khurasan seems beyond question, as is the attribution of the illustrations to an artist who had worked in Bakharz. It will suffice to mention as a comparative piece the ‘Gabriel and Muhammad’, a single page from a manuscript dated 975/1568 that gives a versified Life of the Prophet Muhammad (Geneva, Pozzi Collection, 1971/107–60).16 There are also very similar pictures in the Matla‘ al-anwar and the Hasht Bihisht of Amir Khusraw in Supplément persan 1149 of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, a manuscript copied by Shah Mahmud Nayshaburi at Mashhad-i Riza, in the wilāyat of Bakharz, in 979/1571–2, the pictures of which reveal the distinct influence of the painter Muhammadi.17 Mention may also be made of pictures in Supplément persan 561 of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, a Yusuf wa Zulaykha of Jami copied dar maqām-i Malan, another district of Bakharz, in 978/1570 by the scribe Muhammad Husayn al-Husayni of Riza.18 In addition, there — 343 —

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are those of Supplément persan 547, a collection of five mathnawīs (Panj Ganj) by Jami copied in 1565–6 by Muhammad b. ‘Ala al-Din Katib of Riza, in the qarīya of Riza, which is again in the wilāyat of Bakharz, near Taybad, and not far from Herat.19 When he had completed his life’s work, the scribe Muhammad b. ‘Ala al-Din Katib of Riza spent his remaining days in Mecca. But it appears that many artists and calligraphers of Khurasan followed their various patrons throughout their peregrinations to different parts of Khurasan and beyond, notably to Central Asia. There would also seem to have been close relations between the workshops of Khurasan and those of Mughal India. The portrait of a young Mughal courtier, OA 7123 in the Musée Guimet, Paris, would appear to be a copy from about 1565–70 of a model originating in Iran.20 Several isolated pages or images in Khurasani style have come to notice, and these may all be assigned to the cycle of illustration of the Hadiqat al-haqiqa; they come from albums or dispersed manuscripts. Of interest in the present context are the following images of camels, lions, elephants and even clothing, and they will now be analysed in turn: 1. A mounted falconer by a stream, depicted in the same position as the Boston falconer but in mirror image. Now in an album of the Reza ‘Abbasi Museum, Tehran, and exhibited in 2005,21 this falconer is, as indicated by his turban, a Persian. His horse is composed of various interlocking figures of men and animals, and includes several amorous couples, four human heads by the steed’s hooves, and in its knotted tail the outline of a seated naked dervish. Datable to about 1580, this image may derive from the Boston picture or both may descend from a common original. 2. Another picture of a young horseman from the same album was shown at the same exhibition in Tehran.22 Drawn with the pen, with touches of colour, it seems to be datable to the last years of the sixteenth century. The figure is no longer a falconer, but is here armed with a bow. The mountains of the horizon have been replaced with rocks and trees. The horse is formed of a very complex and slightly different assemblage of humans and animals. It is, however, once more indisputable that here again the artist follows the same model. In the absence of a signature it is not possible to offer a precise date and place of origin, but the piece seems again to be from Khurasan. 3. A young page holding a composite horse, without signature but originally from the Victor Goloubew collection and now in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, accession number 14.612.23 This coloured drawing seems to be Persian work datable to the end of the sixteenth century. Two people wear the broad turbans that were fashionable in Isfahan in about 1600. The drawing is comparable to that of the Tehran picture mentioned above, but the horse is constructed in a slightly different manner, despite the presence of four human heads within the hooves: a considerable variety of animals can be made out in it, together with two men hunting lions, and another who holds a fawn in his arms. 4. A very fine picture of a composite horse, produced in about 1580 in Bukhara, is preserved in a muraqqa‘ in the National Library, Cairo (see Plate 31).24 Demonstrating as it does the reception in Bukhara of the cycle of iconography associated with Sana’i’s text, this may tentatively be ascribed to the patronage of the Juybari family of Sumitan. 5. Close to the ‘Falconer’ of Tehran, certainly produced in the same workshop in Khurasan and datable to about 1580, is a picture of a composite camel in the Metropolitan Museum, New York.25 The camel recalls that of Boston. It is laden with a carpet and a sumptuous — 344 —

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saddle, but does not carry a rider. It is led by a cameleer, who is the equivalent of the squire in the ‘Falconer’. Many of the figures that form the body of this camel were already to be seen in the Boston camel. It is undeniable that these two pictures are related. 6. Another composite camel has been noted in the collections of the Harvard University Museums.26 7. Originating in the Rampur or Boston type, the rendering of the composite camel developed a different iconography in India, where the creature serves as the mount of a parī. The meaning of the image changes. The relationship with the work of Sana’i disappears, and instead we find the slave-girl musician who accompanied Bahram Gur in the work of Ferdowsi, and of Nizami and his imitators. Many examples of this iconography could be cited, among them a page, which can be dated to the 1630s, from Od 44 f.8 of the Cabinet des Estampes of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.27 The composite elephant is found in several forms: 8. In a drawing from the Pozzi collection, now in the Musée de Genève, an elephant carries a howdah in which a princess is seated. This work28 bears the date 965/1558, the signature of the Persian painter Sadiqi (raqm-i S.ādiqī Beg), and the inscription s. ūrat-i (Arzhandukht?) Begum. Though this drawing displays a certain relationship to the style of other works by Sadiqi Beg Afshar (1533–1610), its authenticity is perhaps open to debate; we may wonder in what setting it was produced. It does, however, merit a mention insofar as it might permit us to bring together the rise of this iconography and important artists active in Khurasan, such as Sadiqi. 9. A composite elephant ridden by a prince in the collection of the British Library, is, according to Norah Titley,29 a Mughal piece datable to the 1580s. The motif of the composite elephant clearly achieved a speedy success in the painting of Mughal India. 10. The ‘Elephant ridden by an ibex-headed div’ of the J.B. Gentil Album of Shir Jang, now Smith-Lesouëf 247 in the Bibliothèque nationale de France,30 is probably a little later than that in the British Library. This highly finished work is similar in composition to the figures in the manuscripts of Sana’i’s Hadiqat, indeed it is very directly derived from them. The principle is the same: the animal, whose forefeet are two rabbits and whose hind feet are two tortoises, is made up of a multitude of interlocking animals, with – in the centre – a man in pursuit of a lion, his turban unravelling. There is a matching piece in the Binney collection. Later, numerous other elephants were produced by Indian artists no longer aware of the origin of the motif. 11. In the very fine Golconda Muraqqa‘ Dorn 489 of the Russian National Library of St Petersburg, a volume whose binding is datable to the late sixteenth century, there are two composite animals that are not directly connected to the text of the Hadiqat. These are the figures of two composite lions that have been mounted opposite each other on folios 48b and 49a of the album.31 This iconography of the lion, originating in the figures in the Hadiqat, should perhaps be considered in the context of the strongly marked Shi‘i sympathies of Golconda. To this we may add the influence of examples of calligraphy in the form of lions;32 and, in addition, it is in this period that the Deccan develops the depiction of composite animals by — 345 —

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means of tiny pieces of marbled paper.33 A comparative study of these forms and our composite figures would be worth undertaking. Accompanying a description of a composite lion ridden by a parī, painted in Kashmir at the end of the eighteenth century and now in the Pierpont Morgan Library in New York, Barbara Schmitz has published a substantial note34 that traces what is known of the history of composite animals, together with many further references.35 Thus in India from the seventeenth century onwards, apart from elephants, often shown in combat,36 camels,37 horses38 and other sorts of animals are conjured up. The motif is here employed without any reference to a literary text: its symbolic significance seems to have been lost, or possibly it has changed. Considering that from as early as the late fifteenth century there is an independent tradition of composite figures in Jain iconography,39 we may suppose that several traditions met and mingled, thereby enabling the flowering of this iconography in the Indian world. In the present inventory, pictures of clothing with composite motifs merit discussion; these can be related chronologically to the emergence of the figures of composite animals in Khurasan in around 1560. 12. An album page in the Freer Gallery of Art, Washington, presents a coat depicting scenes with human figures and is signed by Muhammadi, otherwise Muhammad Harawi, one of the foremost artists of Safavid Iran.40 It shows a young prince holding a cup and wearing a coat on which are represented four scenes of capture. The inventive splendours of Safavid textiles of the period are well known, but the design recalls the scenes found in composite animals. Muhammadi, who was active in Khurasan in about 1570, produced a considerable number of pages for albums, and these were often inspired by episodes in works of literature. 13. A picture from an album, again datable to about 1570, and auctioned in Paris in May 2011,41 shows a seated girl whose golden coat is ornamented with human figures much like those in the painting in the Freer Gallery. The verso of this piece bears specimens of Persian calligraphy, one of which is signed by Sultan Muhammad Khandan. It seems more than likely that this picture should be attributed to the Khurasan school. 14. The motif of the coat decorated with composite figures occurs for the first time in a Bukharan work, datable to about 1580.42 The picture is not signed, and was probably destined for the opening of an anthology of poetry, or simply for a muraqqa‘. There is no reason to seek a connection with the work of Sana’i; the piece may instead be ascribed to a local tradition, perhaps one with links to Naqshbandi Sufis. 15. Two pictures produced a few years later in Bukhara, and perhaps directly inspired by the previous item, constitute a dazzling demonstration of the success of the composite figure. The two pieces are from the same album, but today are separated.43 One is in the Louvre as OA 7109 of the Department of the Arts of Islam, having formerly been in the Georges Marteau collection; the other is in the Sackler Gallery, Washington, as S. 86-0304, and came from the Charles Vever collection. Both were in the collection of Georges Demotte until 1910, when he sold them to two lovers of art who particularly liked items of this origin. The Louvre page shows a young man who is seated reading in a bayād. (or safīna) a poem that treats of sorrow, pardon and hope; a young princess is intended for the opposite page. Both wear coats decorated with composite figures of animals and people. — 346 —

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The figures on both garments are very intense and create a powerful impression of the ecstasy of love or intoxication. Double pages such as these showing couples reading, and intended for a poetic diwan, or an anthology, are not uncommon towards the end of the sixteenth century in the Iranian world and in Central Asia. They were much favoured by the painters of Bukhara, but the originality of the present pair lies in the use of composite figures. The ensemble was produced in Bukhara under the Janids, very probably in the days of Imam Quli Khan. The patron was in all probability a member of the powerful Juybari family of Sumitan. With a dating of 1615–20, this may have been Hidayat b. Mu’in al-Din Khwaja ‘Abd al-Rahim Juybari. There are signatures of two painters: the margins are the work of Muhammad Murad Samarqandi, while the young man and the lady – or parī – are by Muhammad Sharif Musawwir. *

*

*

It is now time to deal more generally with the source of these images, despite the fact that their date and location are reasonably secure. It is a curious fact that the form 44 appears in the period when the Milanese Giuseppe Arcimboldo (1527–93) was at work in Europe, producing from 1562 onwards remarkable compositions in which the elements are vegetal, and from 1566 including also animals and objects. There is no known thread to connect these works to models from the Iranian world. There was, however, an established tradition for the portrayal of composite forms in rocks. These rocks, whether anthropomorphic or zoomorphic, were a recognised theme in Persian painting from at least the fourteenth century, as Barbara Brend and Bernard O’Kane have shown.44 The theme was to some extent inspired by Chinese Taoist painting, and might have been employed to evoke malevolent forces at work in natural settings. The popularity of the agglomerations of anthropomorphic or zoomorphic rock requires no further demonstration.45 It is, however, worthy of note that composite rocks appear ever less frequently in the work of Iranian painters from the late sixteenth century onwards. It would be difficult to argue for a direct influence from a picture found in some manuscripts that illustrates the scene of the combat of Rustam and the King of Mazandaran, where, by means of magic, the latter transforms himself into a rock shortly before he is vanquished. There are instances of a very unusual iconography in which the King of Mazandaran and his mount are depicted as though their bodies were composed of zoomorphic rock. One such occurs on f.73b of a Shahnameh illustrated at Shiraz towards 1435 for Ibrahim Sultan.46 A very similar image is found on f. 61b of the manuscript Dorn 332 in the National Library of Russia, St Petersburg, in a copy of the Shahnameh dated 1460. At the very least this iconography demonstrates that the principle of the composite figure had long been known to Iranian artists. There are, however, further comparisons to be made that are not a little surprising. Thus, an Armenian iconographic tradition for a composite figure is to be found in copies of the Alexander Romance, which derives from pseudo-Callisthenes. Bucephalus, the conqueror’s steed, is represented in the form of a composite horse in manuscript Armenian 3 in the John Rylands Library, Manchester; this was copied and illustrated by Zakaria Knuniantz in 1544 in Constantinople. Another representation of the same fantastical horse is found in f.10b of — 347 —

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manuscript Armenian 437 of the Monastery of St James in Jerusalem.47 In this case the drawing in ink is dated 1536, but the composition is exactly the same as that in the Manchester manuscript, the outline of Bucephalus being formed of figures of lions, dogs and birds in pursuit of each other, interspersed with bearded human faces. Can we see in these a prefiguration of the composite horse of the Sana’i manuscripts? To make the argument stick, we need to be able to indicate by what route the Armenian images could have become known in sixteenth-century Khurasan. Moreover, the origin of that Armenian iconography is itself not yet established48 and indeed the question appears to be fraught with difficulties. Another motif in the Iranian world, the wāqwāq tree, makes use of representations of the human head or body, and also sometimes of animal figures, but it does so in a different way.49 This fabulous tree is reputed to have been seen by Alexander the Great in the course of his extensive travels. According to tradition, the wāqwāq tree has fruit resembling female bodies that, when ripe, cry out as they fall. In a Golconda picture of the early seventeenth century (Polier album, Berlin) the tree is depicted with other sorts of fruit and animal heads.50 The same motif is found in very stylised form on a Mughal carpet of the late sixteenth century. But any connection between the wāqwāq tree, its fruit, and our composite figures appears tenuous in the extreme; on the contrary, the two motifs should be seen as distinct. A more promising comparison, and certainly a closer one, is to be made with iconography from Nishapuri’s ‘History of the Prophets’, a very popular text in the Iranian world. In the Safavid period, and particularly around 1560, numerous copies of the Qisas al-anbiya were produced, often with a view to religious propaganda. These copies were often made in Qazvin, and even more frequently in Khurasan. Much favoured in the illustrative cycle of the ‘History of the Prophets’ is the image of the ‘Seven sleepers of Ephesus’, or the ‘Companions of the cave’ (as.h.āb al-kahf ). The bodies of the seven humans, together with that of their dog, are shown locked together in sleep. The story, which is Christian in origin, though integrated into Muslim tradition, takes place under the persecution of Decius; the seven men have fallen asleep in a cave. A classic representation of this scene is found in the manuscript Persan 54 of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, f.173b.51 The manuscript was copied and illustrated in 989/1581. Qazvin has been suggested as the place of origin, but Khurasan is more probable. The bodies of the seven men closely juxtaposed do indeed bring to mind the interlocking outlines employed to draw composite animals. It is quite possible that the artists of Khurasan exercised their skills on both themes. It should be said, however, that the artists who illustrated the Qisas al-anbiya can hardly be described as innovators. The manner in which the Seven Sleepers was illustrated has a considerable history.52 It is already to be found in an album (H.2160 in Topkapı Museum, Istanbul, f.83) that predates 1500 and contains models used in the royal painting workshop of the Aqqoyunlu in Tabriz. Doubtless it was in Tabriz and during the Aqqoyunlu period that Persian painters began to imitate Chinese works that were available to them in copies. Examples are to be found in two of the Topkapı albums, on f. 55 of H.2154 and f.48v of H.2160. The original intention of these pictures was no more than to represent three arhats, ‘holy men’, and a celestial guardian, a theme that was common to metropolitan China and to northern China after the Yuan. This iconography was adopted to illustrate the subject of the Seven Sleepers. It is in these same two Istanbul albums that we find pictures of dogs, other animals and a close encounter between an ox and a tiger. This close encounter recurs in the composite animals — 348 —

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that appeared in about 1570 in Khurasan. This implies that painters in the eastern province were in possession of models much like those in the Aqqoyunlu albums. This is eminently likely, not least because several amirs and Safavid officials were resident in Khurasan. They were alive to art and were active patrons, rivals in this to the Sunni lords of the Shaybanid state. The movement of artists and exchanges between workshops would explain the adoption and reuse of these themes in the eastern part of the Iranian world. The fundamental point to be emphasised, however, is that there can be no doubt of the association between the vogue for composite images from the 1560s onwards and cultivated society in Khurasan and Central Asia. That is to say that it was certainly deemed appropriate to illustrate Sana’i’s text with such figures. And this iconography – which would have an evident posterity in India, rather than central or western Iran, being unknown in Isfahan in particular – was doubtless chosen expressly because it answered the metaphorical, aesthetic, and probably also mystical preoccupations of eastern Iran at that time. Notes

1 The editors are indebted to Barbara Brend for translating this chapter from the French. 2 These observations were first presented in the form of a lecture at the Oriental Institute of the Academy of Sciences of Dushanbe, on 8 April 2011. 3 J.T. de Bruijn, Piety and Poetry: The Interaction of Religion and Literature in the Life and Works of H . akim Sana’i of Ghazna (Leiden 1983). 4 This classic rendering of the theme is reproduced as the frontispiece to de Bruijn’s edition. 5 E.G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia, vol. 2, From Firdawsi to Sa‘di (Cambridge, 1928), pp. 319–20. The precise text is given in Nasir ‘Amili, Bar-Guzida-i Hadiqa-i Sana’i, ba muqaddima va tawdih-i lughat, bi-kushish-i N.‘A. (Tehran, n.d.), pp. 2–3. 6 ‘Amili, Bar-Guzida, pp. 7–8. The text occurs in the complete version of the Hadiqa, see, for example, Sana’i Ghaznawi, Hadiqat al-haqiqa wa Shari‘at al-tariqa, ed. Maryam Husayni (Tehran, 1382/2003), p. 11 (distich 173 et seq.). The anecdote is translated by de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry, p. 223. 7 ‘Amili, Bar-Guzida, p. 34. 8 Resembling the Rampur volume in its small format, this manuscript measures 27 × 17 cm. 9 As in, for example, Supplément persan 704 of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris. 10 Mahdi Bayani, Ahwal wa athar-i Khwushnivisan (Tehran, 1363/1984, 2nd edition), pp. 895–6, no 1339. 11 See Barbara Schmitz, Mughal and Persian Painting and Illustrated Manuscripts in the Raza Library, Rampur (New Delhi, 2006), pp.182–3. 12 Basil W. Robinson, A Descriptive Catalogue of the Persian Paintings in the Bodleian Library (Oxford, 1958), p. 151. 13 The illustration corresponds to the text of f. 4b, line 9, of Supplément persan 704: in the Boston page the four hemistichs that match the text are copied in the margin. 14 An instance is the picture of a young Mughal nobleman, OA 7123 of the Musée Guimet, Paris, of about 1565–70, which seems paradoxically to copy a model produced in Iran (compare, for example, Chefs-d’oeuvre de la collection des arts de l’Islam du musée du Louvre (Riyad, 2006), pp. 162–3). 15 B. Schmitz, Mughal and Persian Painting, p. 183. I regret not having had the opportunity to see this manuscript. 16 Basil Robinson et al., L’Orient d’un collectionneur: Miniatures persanes, textiles, céramiques, orfèvrerie rassemblés par Jean Pozzi […] (Geneva, 1992), p. 131, no 131. The catalogue’s identification of this piece as Ottoman is clearly mistaken. 17 F. Richard, Splendeurs persanes (Paris, 1997), p. 173, no 118. 18 Ibid., 173, no 117. 19 Ibid., 172, no 116. 20 Cf. note 15 supra. 21 Muhammad-‘Ali Rajabi (ed.), Shahkarha-yi nigargari-i Iran (Iranian masterpieces of Persian Painting), bi-munasibat-i barguzari-yi namayishgah-i shahkarha-i nigargari-i Iran dar Muza-i hunarha-i mu’asir-i Tehran, bahar 1384h. (Tehran, 2005), p. 515. 22 Ibid., p.514. 23 To be found on the Museum’s website; for references see Ernst J. Grube, Muslim Miniature Paintings from the XIII to XIX Century from Collections in the United States and Canada: Catalogue of the Exhibition (Venice, 1962), pp. 91–2, which in turn refers to Coomaraswamy and Kühnel. 24 Heba Nayel Barakat, Treasures of the illustrated and illuminated Persian manuscripts at the national library of Egypt (Cairo, 2008), no 41 M. tarikh-i farsi, Pl. 10–11. 25 Published, though with an attribution to Bukhara, in Grube, Muslim Miniature Paintings, 91–2, no 70. 26 No 1954.57, published by Marianna Shreve Simpson in 1980. 27 R. Hurel, Miniatures et peintures indiennes (Paris, 2010), p. 66, no 24.

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28 Robinson, L’Orient d’un collectionneur, pp. 190, 336, no 490. 29 N.M. Titley, Miniatures from Persian Manuscripts : A Catalogue and Subject Index of Paintings from Persia, India and Turkey in the British Library and British Museum (London, 1977), p. 173, no 401 (12). The other 15 or so composite animals noted by Titley are Indian, and appear to be of considerably later date. They include elephants, camels, dogs, a sheep, a cow and a horse; there is also a sorceress. 30 A la cour du Grand Moghol (Paris, 1986), pp. 144, 149, no 133. 31 These two pictures appear to be unpublished. 32 A fine example, with the names of ‘Ali and Fatima, datable to the first half of the seventeenth century (before ad1653) is to be found on folio 9b of the album Supplément persan 388 of the Bibliothèque nationale de France. 33 For example, a falcon on f. 1 of the same album (Supplément persan 388), produced in Golconda before 1653. See M.-A. Doizy and S. Ipert, Le Papier marbré (Paris, 1985), p. 53. 34 Barbara Schmitz, Islamic and Indian Manuscripts and Paintings in the Pierpont Morgan Library (New York, 1997), pp. 182–3, no 53. 35 Unfortunately, I have not been able to consult Juan Lessing’s thesis, ‘The Visible and the Unseen: Indo-Persian Composite Animals of the 16th Century’ (Princeton University, 2005). 36 A la cour, pp. 149–50, no 134. 37 Ibid., p.146, no 132, where a parī musician and other items related to music and musicians form the body of the animal. See also L’Etrange et le merveilleux en terres d’Islam (Paris, 2001), p. 82, no 56. 38 A la cour, p. 150, no 135; L’Etrange et le merveilleux, p. 81, no 55. 39 For the Indian pictures, see Robert Del Bonta, ‘Reinventing nature: Mughal composite animal painting’, in Som Prakash Verma (ed.), Flora and Fauna in Mughal Art (Mumbai, 1999), pp. 69–82. 40 Esin Atil, The Brush of the Masters: Drawings from Iran and India (Washington, DC, 1978), p. 47, no 15 A. We may add that this could well be a very faithful portrayal of a luxury fabric from the Safavid looms. 41 Auction at Rossini, Paris, 17 May, 2011, no 79, 16. 42 Auction at Christie’s, London, 15 October 1996. 43 Francis Richard, ‘A propos d’une double page réalisée à Bukhara: la tradition picturale persane des figures composites; tentative d’interprétation’, A’ ina-i mirath, Tehran, new series, 4 no 4 (35) (2007), pp. 145–75, ill. 44. For a general approach to this theme see Jean-Hubert Martin (ed.), The Endless Enigma (Ostfildern-Ruit and Dusseldorf, 2003). 44 See B. Brend, ‘Rocks in Persian miniature painting’, Landscape Style in Asia, Colloquies on Art and Archaeology in Asia no 9 (London, 1980), pp. 111–37; B. O’Kane, ‘Rock Faces and Rock Figures in Persian Painting’, Islamic Art 4 (1991), pp. 219–46. 45 The earliest example so far to have come to light is that in the Jalayirid Kalila wa Dimna of about 1370, in which human and animal heads can be distinguished in masses of rock (J.S. Cowen, Kalila wa Dimna, An Animal Allegory of the Mongol Court (New York and Oxford, 1989), Pl. V; Bernard O’Kane, Early Persian Paintings, Kalila and Dimna Manuscripts of the Late Fourteenth Century (London, 2003), p. 128 etc.). This use of rock, still to be found in pictures of the second half of the sixteenth century, became progressively rarer after 1600 in work of the school of Isfahan. 46 Oxford, Ms. Ouseley Add. 176, f. 73b, reproduced in T.W. Lentz and G.D. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the Fifteenth Century (Washington and Los Angeles, 1989), pp. 166, 341, no 58; in F. Abdullaeva and C. Melville, The Persian Book of Kings: Ibrahim Sultan’s Shahnama (Oxford, 2008), p. 81. 47 My cordial thanks are due to my colleague Dickran Kouymjian for kindly drawing my attention to this instance. 48 Is it possible that Armenian artists could have already known of the Jain figures in India at the outset of the sixteenth century, or even earlier? On the other hand, we may wonder if there could be any connection between these figures and the work of Arcimboldo. 49 F. Richard, ‘L’arbre waq-waq vu par les Persans’, in J.-L. Bacqué-Grammont, M. Bernardini and L. Berardi (eds), L’arbre anthropogène du waq-waq, les femmes-fruits et les iles des femmes, recherches sur un mythe (Naples, 2007), pp. 133–8 and Pl. VIII. 50 On f.26a of the album T. 4594. Reproduced, for example, in L’Etrange et le merveilleux, pp. 168–9, no 118. 51 Splendeurs persanes, p. 176, no 122. 52 Cf. the examples published in Islamic Art 1 (1981), pp. 2, 52, 71 and 95, nos 178, 179, 180 and 182.

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36 A medieval representation of Kay Khusraw’s jām-i gītī namāy Marianna Shreve Simpson

T

owards the middle of the Shahnameh tale of love and derring-do involving the Iranian warrior Bizhan and the Turanian princess Manizha, King Kay Khusraw takes up his jām-i gītī namāy, ‘the cup that shows the world’, and scans its depths for Bizhan’s whereabouts. Finding the missing youth imprisoned at the bottom of an enemy pit, the Persian ruler enlists the services of the great hero Rustam to the rescue. Notwithstanding the drama inherent in Kay Khusraw’s search for Bizhan through his magic cup, and the turning point that this discovery represents within Ferdowsi’s narrative, the scene rarely appears in illustrated Shahnameh manuscripts. This apparent pictorial lacuna is all the more surprising given the prominent place that the jām-i gītī namāy occupies, under various names, within Persian lore and literature, and particularly its frequent evocation by Persian poets and other writers. That the theme did have a presence, however, within Iran’s visual arts and material culture in medieval times, and more specifically before the rise of the Persian illustrated manuscript tradition during the Ilkhanid period (1256–1353), is demonstrated by the ceramic drinking vessel commonly known as the Freer Beaker and datable to the mid-twelfth or early thirteenth century, which through its form, decoration and function may be interpreted as both a three-dimensional and a pictorial realisation of Kay Khusraw’s magical jām-i gītī namāy.1

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Ferdowsi’s ‘Bizhan and Manizha’ and its representation

The Shahnameh story of Bizhan and Manizha is one of a series of rousing adventures that occur during the 60-year reign of Kay Khusraw, the third shah of the legendary Kayanid dynasty, whose rule is marked by incessant warfare between Iran and the enemy kingdom, Turan. This particular tale is by now quite well known, thanks in large measure to a recent pair of astute studies by Charles Melville.2 Thus a quick précis may suffice here, with emphasis on the narrative’s first part and particularly the events leading up to and through Bizhan’s liberation.3 The story begins when Kay Khusraw responds to an appeal for assistance from a group of Armanis (that is, Armenians) who live on the border between Iran and Turan and whose lands are being terrorised by wild boar. Moved by their plight, the king challenges his chieftains to clear the ravaged countryside, offering rich rewards for their efforts. Bizhan, one of the court’s younger champions, eagerly volunteers and immediately sets off on the hunt along with an older companion named Gurgin. After successfully exterminating the marauding beasts, Bizhan is encouraged by Gurgin, who has grown jealous of Bizhan’s hunting prowess, to cross over from Iran into Turan. There Bizhan meets and falls in love with Manizha, the beautiful daughter of the despotic Turanian ruler Afrasiyab. Soon Manizha’s father learns of the lovers’ affair and has Bizhan captured and chained in a pit sealed by an enormous stone. Meanwhile, Gurgin returns to Iran, where he tells Bizhan’s distraught father Giv that his son has been killed by a massive boar. This fantastic account convinces no one at the Iranian court, and Kay Khusraw orders Gurgin to be shackled and sends out scouting parties to find Bizhan. Although no trace of the young hunter can be found, Kay Khusraw remains convinced that he is alive, a conviction the king soon confirms by consulting his ‘world-seeing cup’ at the start of the new year.4 Having pinpointed Bizhan in a Turanian prison, Kay Khusraw dispatches a rescue mission disguised as a merchant caravan with Rustam at its head and with the now exonerated Gurgin among the company. With the cooperation of Manizha, who has been steadfast in her devotion to Bizhan during the months of confinement, and with his own superhuman strength, Rustam is able to lift the stone sealing Bizhan’s pit and free the youth from captivity. The second half of the story narrates the mission’s aftermath, with the Iranians winning in battle against the Turanian army. The victors then return to Kay Khusraw’s court where Rustam and the others are honoured with a great feast and presents; Bizhan too receives royal gifts, as well as the shah’s blessings to live happily ever after with Manizha. In his detailed analysis of the plot and structure of Ferdowsi’s poem, Charles Melville breaks down the Bizhan and Manizha story into five main narrative sections (following its prologue), dividing each in turn into its constituent incidents, altogether totalling 72 separate scenes.5 Of these, some 63 were illustrated in Shahnameh manuscripts during the fourteenth to seventeenth centuries, according to the listings in the database of the invaluable Shahnama Project, directed by Professor Melville.6 In his Bizhan and Manizha studies, Melville also draws attention to the tale’s depiction on medieval objects, including twelfth to thirteenth-century ceramic tiles decorated with Rustam rescuing Bizhan, the scene that subsequently would become the most frequently illustrated one of the entire story.7 Besides the individual tile images, the same episode appears as the last of 12 sequential images that decorate the Freer Beaker.8 More will be said shortly about the particulars of this celebrated vessel’s décor. For the moment, however, in considering — 352 —

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the long history of Bizhan and Manizha representation, it is worth reiterating that the scene of Kay Khusraw looking for Bizhan in the jām-i gītī namāy, so critical within Ferdowsi’s poetic narrative, seems to have been all but ignored over the centuries, not only within the medieval arts of the object, but also within the later arts of the book.9 As Melville has speculated, the paucity of manuscript illustrations of this scene may have been due to the artistic challenge posed by the need to depict an object with supernatural properties.10 As we shall see, this did not seem to prevent Persian artisans from developing three-dimensional metaphorical representations or simulacra of the jām-i gītī namāy. Kay Khusraw and the jā m-i gītī namāy theme

While the principal action of Ferdowsi’s story revolves initially around Bizhan and Manizha and subsequently around Rustam, Kay Khusraw also plays a major role. Indeed, the tale’s overall plot is dictated from start to finish by the king’s decisions and is dependent to a large degree on events that took place and relationships that were formed earlier in his reign and, in fact, even before he ascended the Iranian throne. Kay Khusraw’s biography is complicated. He was born and raised in Turan, the son of Farangis (also called Farigis and, like Manizha, a daughter of the Turanian king Afrasiyab), and Prince Siyavush (son of the second Kayanid shah Kay Ka’us) who had taken refuge in Turan only to be killed on Afrasiyab’s orders. As a youth Kay Khusraw fled Turan for his paternal homeland, a hazardous journey aided by the stalwart Iranian paladin Giv, who had undertaken to bring the legitimate Kayanid heir back to Iran as Kay Ka’us’ successor. The bonds between Kay Khusraw and Giv subsequently extended to Giv’s son Bizhan, who became the first Iranian warrior to heed the call to arms in Kay Khusraw’s opening military expedition against Turan aimed at avenging Siyavush’s murder. Small wonder, then, given this history of loyal and valorous service, that Kay Khusraw was committed to relieving the anguish of his old friend Giv and to finding Bizhan when the young man failed to return from his boar-hunting expedition. Similarly, having fixed Bizhan’s location and seen Princess Manizha’s devotion, it may be that Kay Khusraw drew a parallel between the travails of this pair of Iranian-Turanian lovers and those of his own parents. Be that as it may, Kay Khusraw’s moral, decisive and resolute behaviour throughout the Bizhan and Manizha story is consistent with the ‘character portrait’ that Ferdowsi paints in his account of the shah’s reign, starting with a prelude about the kingly virtues, including the allessential farr, or royal glory, that Kay Khusraw would exemplify.11 It is doubtless Kay Khusraw’s reputation, already established in earlier Persian sources, as an ideal monarch imbued with a strong ethical sensibility and an aura of sanctity that prompted Ferdowsi also to endow Kay Khusraw with the power of divination through his use of the jām-i gītī namāy in search of the missing hero Bizhan.12 Nowadays the jām-i gītī namāy is identified most readily as an attribute of the mythical king Jamshid of Iran, who founded the Pishdadian dynasty, and is regularly referred to as jām-i jam, or Jamshid’s cup.13 This association, reinforced by Jamshid’s reputation as the inventor of wine,14 seems to have taken particular hold during the twelfth to fourteenth centuries, and was promulgated through the writings of such poets as ‘Attar (d. between 1193 and 1235), Nizami (d. 1209), Rumi (d. 1273), and especially Hafiz (d. 1389).15 The latter’s ghazals, in particular, — 353 —

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are replete with wine-cup imagery involving the jām-i jam not just as a world-showing goblet, but also as a symbol of esoteric knowledge with profound mystical connotations.16 For Ferdowsi (d. 1020–1 or 1025–6), however, the ‘world-seeing’ or ‘world-revealing’ cup belonged exclusively to Kay Khusraw, and the Shahnameh poet employed the term jām-i gītī namāy only in relation to Kay Khusraw and then only (and sparingly) in the Bizhan and Manizha narrative: once, when Kay Khusraw announces his intention to use the cup to find the wayward warrior, and again, somewhat later, when Giv tells Rustam about the king’s search and discovery.17 Furthermore, and unlike later Persian authors, Ferdowsi does not link the jām-i gītī namāy with wine or wine-drinking, although he often does have Kay Khusraw host lavish festivities featuring goblets brimming with wine, and reward his nobles with gold cups and beakers filled with precious jewels.18 The jām-i gītī namāy is, of course, an altogether different type of vessel from those containing either wine or gems, and it is the cup’s reflective properties that make it a powerful and magical instrument for truth and justice. Ferdowsi conveys both the cup’s unique potency and Kay Khusraw’s privileged use of this special jām in two successive passages cast in ritualistic, almost religious, terms. First, he reassures Giv that he would have the jām-i gītī namāy that ‘shows the seven climes’ brought to him when ‘spring brings in the new year and the sun renews the world’ and would look into it for Bizhan while praying and invoking God’s blessing on his ancestors.19 Then, when Bizhan still remains missing at the dawn of nawrūz, Kay Khusraw does precisely what he has previously promised Giv, while taking some further, ceremonial measures: he dons a special prayer robe (called a ‘Rumi cloak’), cries out to God for strength and justice, returns in solemn procession to his throne, puts on his crown, and stares deep into the cup. There he first sees the world’s seven climes and the full ‘turnings of the heavens […] from the sign of Aries to that of Pisces’, including the sun, moon and planets. Then, scanning the terrestrial climes, the king reaches ‘the land of the Gurgsaran’ (a region of Turan) and finally sees Bizhan fettered in a pit and attended by Manizha. In recounting this search, Ferdowsi characterises Kay Khusraw as jahāndār-i afsungar or ‘the royal magician’ and the cup as enabling the King to see ‘all that happens there [that is, the heavens] and why things come to pass’ and ‘all that was to be seen’.20 In short, the jām-i gītī namāy lets Kay Khusraw survey the past, present and future, and confirms him, the epitome of farr, as both emperor of the realm and seer of the cosmos. Medieval objects and the jā m-i gītī namāy

Notwithstanding the absence of Kay Khusraw gazing into his world-revealing cup within medieval Persian iconography, the jām-i gītī namāy itself does occupy a place within the vast corpus of ceramic vessels made in Iran during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.21 Of particular relevance are drinking cups and bowls, as well as jugs and ewers, glazed in turquoise ( fīrūza), turquoise-green and cobalt-blue.22 Following Johanna Zick-Nissen, Yves Porter has discussed these shades as metaphors in medieval Persian texts for good fortune ( pīrūz/fīrūz) and victory ( pīrūzī), and for the cupola of light or the sky (gunbad-i fīrūz), and has called attention to the poetic correspondences between the domed sky and turquoise, green and blue wine cups.23 — 354 —

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Thus, within general medieval imagery and artistic production, the jām-i fīrūza, or ‘cup of good fortune’, would have been equated with the jām-i jam, and by extension with the jām-i gītī namāy. Even more, perhaps, than such monochrome-glazed drinking vessels, cups and bowls decorated over the glaze in minā’ī, or polychrome enamel, with circular or radiating patterns of stars, planets and/or roundels around a central sun-like motif,24 may have been designed to evoke the jām-i gītī namāy through which Kay Khusraw scanned the world’s seven climes and the heavens’ seven planets, sun and moon. Interestingly, in one of his ghazals, Hafiz even characterises a drinking cup as saghar-i minā’ī, which Porter has interpreted as made of minā’ī colour or minā’ī-coloured.25 Of course, by Hafiz’s time the specialised minā’ī technique was long past, but it is tempting to imagine that the poet would have known (perhaps even owned!) examples of such precious and brightly coloured wares and understood them as visual and material symbols of the magical and divinatory powers exercised by Kay Khusraw through his jām-i gītī namāy.26 The Freer Beaker as jā m-i gītī namāy

In terms of its size (12 × 11.2 cm), material (variously described as fritware or stone paste) and shape (a cylindrical and slightly flaring body on a foot ring), the Freer Beaker (Plate 33) is a classic example of the fine ceramic drinking vessels produced in Iran and neighbouring regions during the late twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Its originality – and its reputation as a masterpiece of Persian art – derives from its pristine condition, and especially from its decoration, painted in vivid minā’ī colours and consisting of three superimposed registers divided into a series of twelve panels that form an ‘epitomised pictorialisation’ (that is, a selection of scenes) of the Bizhan and Manizha story without parallel in medieval Persian art. Whether the source of the vessel’s iconography was the poetic adventure recounted by Ferdowsi or another, possibly oral, version of the same tale remains an open question.27 Certainly, the absence of the Shahnameh scene in which Kay Khusraw searches for Bizhan in his jām-i gītī namāy would seem to be a rather glaring omission from the beaker’s pictorial narrative. Be that as it may, the vessel’s iconography does contain telling details that suggest that the anonymous artisan(s) who conceived and/or executed its decorative programme was/were aware of the importance of the ‘world-revealing’ cup within the plot of Ferdowsi’s Bizhan and Manizha story. The clues to such artistic sensibility appear in both the opening and closing panels, which both depict vessels that resemble schematic versions of the Freer Beaker itself, as well as looking remarkably like modern-day martini glasses.28 At the very beginning of the Bizhan and Manizha story, Kay Khusraw entertains all his nobles, including Bizhan, at a drinking party. It is in the midst of these festivities that Kay Khusraw receives the beleaguered Armanis and calls on his paladins to come to the petitioners’ aide. The first scene on the Freer Beaker depicts Kay Khusraw enthroned with Bizhan, who raises his filled wine cup as if to volunteer for the mission. In the beaker’s final panel Rustam lifts the boulder sealing Bizhan’s pit, as previously noted, while the now-freed prisoner emerges and Manizha waits at the side. To the princess’ left is another standing figure (possibly Gurgin), who lifts up an empty glass as if to toast Rustam’s heroic feat. Unlike the first scene, however, where Bizhan holding a glass fits into the narrative structure, the presence of a sāqī or cup-bearer in the last panel seems to be an artistic embellishment — 355 —

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without a specific narrative referent.29 It is possible, of course, that the figure was added in visual anticipation of the kudos and rewards, including a goblet filled with royal gems, that Rustam would receive from Kay Khusraw in the story’s finale. In any event, these two cups, incorporated into the start and finish of the minā’ī décor, would seem to be clever, self-referential conceits intended to underscore the Freer Beaker’s raison d’être as a drinking vessel. These initial and final motifs may also signal the social context in which the Freer Beaker originally functioned. While the vessel’s size and shape are suitable for individual drinking purposes, the complexity and quality of its painted decoration suggest that it was not created for everyday use but for a special occasion. That occasion could have been a ceremonial or convivial gathering, such as a drinking party – or more particularly a nawrūz celebration – at which the adventure of Bizhan and Manizha was recited, perhaps by a Shahnameh storyteller or naqqāl, as part of the affair’s entertainment.30 On such an auspicious occasion, the host might have passed around the small, cylindrical beaker, perhaps with the aid of a sāqī, among the assembled guests. As the vessel went from hand to hand, it also would have to be turned in order to follow the progression of the Bizhan and Manizha story from its first to last scenes in the top, middle and bottom registers.31 The beaker’s repeated rotation, necessary for viewing the minā’ī narrative, surely could have called to mind the ‘turning of the heavens’ that Kay Khusraw experienced while gazing into his magical cup in search of Bizhan at the start of the new year. From that connection between epic narrative and visual-cum-performative experience, it could have been easy for the host or another fortunate holder of the beaker to imagine himself as the beholder of the ‘cup that shows the world’ and to view this uniquely decorated vessel as Kay Khusraw’s jām-i gītī namāy, itself a metaphor for royal Persian farr. Notes





1 This essay, originally submitted in August 2010, represents an initial effort of an ongoing research project presented at greater length as the Khalili Memorial Lecture in January 2012 (‘The Cosmic Cup in Medieval and Later Persian Art’). It builds on the existing scholarship about the cosmic cup and jām-i gītī namāy, particularly that of Assadullah Souren Melikian-Chirvani: Islamic Metalwork from the Iranian World, 8th–18th Centuries (London, 1982); idem, ‘State inkwells in Islamic Iran’, The Journal of the Walters Art Gallery 44 (1982), pp. 70–94; idem, ‘Le Rhyton selon les sources persanes: essai sur la continuité culturelle iranienne de l’Antiquité à l’Islam’, Studia Iranica 11 (1982), pp. 263–92; idem, ‘Silver in Islamic Iran: the evidence from literature and epigraphy’, in Pots and Pans. Oxford Studies in Islamic Art 3 (1985), pp. 89–106; idem, ‘From the royal boat to the beggar’s bowl’, Islamic Art 5 (1990–91), pp. 3–111; idem, ‘Les taureaux à vin et les cornes à boire de l’Iran islamiques’, in P. Bernard and F. Grenet (eds), Histoire et Cultes de l’Asie Centrale Préislamique (Paris, 1991), pp. 101–25; idem, ‘The wine-bull and the Magian master’, in Recurrent Patterns in Iranian Religion. Studia Iranica, cahier 11 (Paris, 1992), pp. 101–34, idem, ‘Le Kashkūl safavides, vaisseau à vin de l’initiation mystique’, in J. Calmard (ed.), Etudes Safavides (Paris and Tehran, 1993), pp. 165–94; idem, ‘The Iranian sun shield’, Bulletin of the Asia Institute n.s. 6 (1992), pp. 1–42; idem, ‘The wine birds of Iran from pre-Achaemenid to Islamic times’, Bulletin of the Asia Institute n.s. 9 (1995), pp. 41–97; idem, ‘The Iranian wine horn from pre-Achaemenid antiquity to the Safavid age’, Bulletin of the Asia Institute n.s. 10 (1996), pp. 86–139; idem, ‘Sa‘ida-ye Gilani and the Iranian style jades of Hindustan’, Bulletin of the Asia Institute n.s. 13 (1999), pp. 83–140. See also n. 15. 2 Charles Melville with contributions by Firuza Abdullaeva, ‘Text and image in the story of Bizhan and Manizha: I’, in Charles Melville (ed.), Shahnameh Studies I (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 71–96; idem, ‘Text and image in the story of Bizhan and Manizha: II’ (forthcoming). I am grateful to Professor Melville for sharing part II of his important study in advance of publication. See also: Dick Davis, Epic & Sedition: The Case of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh (Washington, DC, 1992), pp. 167–71. 3 Abu’l-Qasem Ferdowsi, Shahnameh, ed. D. Khaleghi-Motlagh (New York, 1992), vol. 3, pp. 303–97; D. Davis (trans.), Fathers and Sons: Stories from the Shahnameh of Ferdowsi (Washington, DC, 2000), vol. 2, pp. 137–79. 4 Ferdowsi, Shahnameh, vol. 3, pp. 345–7, lines 555–85; trans. Davis, Fathers and Sons, p. 154. 5 Melville, ‘Text and image I’, pp. 90–3. 6 Cambridge Shahnama Project, available at shahnama.caret.cam.ac.uk/new/jnama/index/depiction (initially accessed in July– August 2010, and again in August 2012). 7 Melville, ‘Text and Image II’. See also B. Brend and C. Melville (eds), Epic of the Persian Kings: The Art of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh (London, 2010), no 12; O. Watson, Persian Lustre Ware (London and Boston, 1985), pp. 123–4 and Fig. 102; M.S. Simpson,

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8



9



10 11



12



13



14 15



16 17



18



19 20



21



22



23



24



25 26



27

‘Narrative allusion and metaphor in the decoration of medieval Islamic objects’, in Studies in the History of Art 16: Pictorial Narrative in Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Washington, DC, 1985), pp. 146–7, n. 3. M.S. Simpson, ‘The narrative structure of a medieval Iranian beaker’, Ars Orientalis 12 (1981), pp. 15–24; Sh.M. Shukurov, Shahname Ferdowsi i rannyaya illyustrativnaya traditsiya (Moscow, 1983), pp. 12–37 (I am extremely grateful to Dr Firuza Abdullaeva for providing me with a detailed précis of this discussion); Eleanor Sims, Peerless Images: Persian Painting and its Sources (New Haven, CT and London, 2002), pp. 135–6; Ideals of Beauty: Asian and American Art in the Freer and Sackler Galleries (London, 2010), pp. 132–3. The Cambridge Shahnama Project lists only a few such illustrations, with four in manuscripts of Indian origin and two from Iran. The first recorded Persian example of this scene is in the so-called ‘Big Head’ Shahnameh dated 889/1493–4, so rather late in Iran’s illustrated manuscript history. While the verses on this folio recount Kay Khusraw gazing into his magic cup, the illustration itself actually depicts the enthroned king telling Giv about his discovery of Bizhan imprisoned in Turan. Hanging overhead is a large silvered (and now oxidised) sphere; this object may represent a mirror, and thus perhaps refer to the reflective properties of Kay Khusraw’s magical cup. Be that as it may, the King is neither looking at this hanging object nor holding a cup. Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC, S1986.160; G.D. Lowry with S. Nemazee, A Jeweler’s Eye: Islamic Arts of the Book from the Vever Collection (Washington, DC, Seattle, WA and London, 1988), Pl. 17. The only other Persian illustration, in a Shahnameh dated 31 October 1674, depicts Kay Khusraw enthroned, but again the King does not hold a cup (Princeton University Library, ms 58G, f. 201a). Melville, ‘Text and Image II’. The others are lineage, ability, and wisdom. Ferdowsi, Shahnameh, vol. 3, pp. 3–4, lines 1–13; E. Yarshater, Cambridge History of Iran (Cambridge, 1983), vol. 3/i, pp. 374–6, 405, 436–7, 449 (concerning sanctity), 451–2; Davis, Epic and Sedition, pp. 47–54 and especially n.18. By the same token, it could also be argued that Kay Khusraw already had this power because he possessed farr, recognised as giving legitimate kings their magical abilities, including the prediction of future events. As, for instance, recently in: M. Khare, ‘The wine cup in Mughal court culture – from hedonism to kingship’, Medieval History Journal 8, no 1 (2005), pp. 170–2; O. Pancaroğlu, Perpetual Glory: Medieval Islamic Ceramics from the Harvey B. Plotnick Collection (Chicago, 2007), pp. 34–5. See also note 15. O. Skjaervø, ‘Jamshid I: Myth of Jamshid’, EIr; M. Omidsalar, ‘Jamshid II: Jamshid in Persian Literature’, EIr. For a thorough discussion of the jām-i jam in Persian literature and culture, including in relation to Solomon and Alexander, as well as Jamshid and Kay Khusraw, see M. Murtadawi, Maktab-i Hafiz, ya moqaddama bar Hafiz-shinasi (Tehran, 1370/1991), pp. 149–235. I am grateful to Mohsen Ashtiany for bringing this important study to my attention. Equally invaluable – etymologically, art historically, and thematically – is the succinct introduction by Melikian-Chirvani in his Islamic Metalwork from the Iranian World, pp. 390–1, which the author has expanded upon in a series of important articles from 1982 onwards (see note 1). For another recent and very insightful art historical contribution, see Berlekamp, Wonder, Image, and Cosmos in Medieval Islam (New Haven, CT and London, 2011), chapter 3. See also: Khare, ‘The wine cup’, pp. 155–8; Pancaroğlu, Perpetual Glory, pp. 34–5; E. Esin, ‘And, The cup rites in Inner-Asian and Turkish art’, in O. Aslanapa and R. Naumann (eds), Forschungen zur Kunst Asiens in Memoriam Kurt Erdmann (Istanbul, 1969), pp. 224–61; A. Schimmel, As Through a Veil: Mystical Poetry in Islam (New York, 1983), chapter 3; eadem, A Two-Colored Brocade: The Imagery of Persian Poetry (Chapel Hill, NC and London, 1992), p. 109. The mystical author Suhrawardi (d. 1234) also wrote about the jām-i jam, which has been interpreted as relating to Kay Khusraw; see H. Corbin, En Islam iranien, aspects spirituels et philosophiques II (Paris, 1971), pp. 200–10. For earlier literary usage: E. Yarshater, ‘The theme of wine-drinking and the concept of the beloved in early Persian poetry’, Studia Islamica 13 (1960), pp. 43–53. Murtadawi, Maktab-i Hafiz, pp. 186–207. Ferdowsi, Shahnameh, vol. 3, p. 344, lines 544; p. 353 line 656. Elsewhere, Ferdowsi refers to the cup without any descriptive adjectives (ibid., p. 344, line 547; p. 345, line 562; p. 346, line 567) or as glorious or shining (ibid., p. 345, line 555; p. 353, line 659) and once as Kay Khusraw’s cup (ibid., p. 353, line 661); Murtadawi, Maktab-i Hafiz, pp. 182–4. Bizhan claims one such royal gift before setting out on the first military campaign against Turan, and Rustam receives a similar token of Kay Khusraw’s gratitude after freeing Bizhan and returning him safely to Iran. Ferdowsi, Shahnameh, vol. 3, p. 13, lines 173, 179, 181; p. 395, line 1253. Ibid., vol.3, p.344, lines 536–547; trans. Davis, Fathers and Sons, p. 154. Ibid., vol.3, pp. 345–6, lines 555–73; trans. Davis, Fathers and Sons, 154. Jahāndār-i afsungar also has been translated as ‘wizardking’, see A.G. and E. Warner, The Shahnameh of Ferdowsi (London, 1908, pp. 3, 318) and ‘wonder-working emperor’, see R. Levy (trans.), The Epic of the Kings (London and Boston, 1973), p. 166. Y. Porter, ‘Jam-i Jam/Jamshid’s Cup in Art’, EIr, forthcoming (once again, my thanks to Mohsen Ashtiany for sharing this article in advance of online publication); J. Zick-Nissen, ‘The turquoise “jam” of King “Jamshid”,’ in R. Hillenbrand (ed.), The Art of the Saljuqs in Iran and Anatolia (Costa Mesa, CA, 1994), pp.181–91. See, for example, O. Watson, Ceramics from Islamic Lands (London, 2004), cat. nos L.6, 10–15, 19–20, 22–7; M.1–2, 5–6; also certain pieces decorated in turquoise and black: N.4, 13. Murtadawi, Maktab-i Hafiz, p. 194; Porter, ‘Jam-i Jam’. Melikian-Chirvani has also discussed Persian metaphors for sky in association with medieval objects. Melikian-Chirvani, ‘State inkwells’, p. 89; idem, ‘Iranian sun shield’, pp. 4–5. S. Carboni, Following the Stars: Images of the Zodiac in Islamic Art (New York, 1997), pp. 3–7 (general introduction), pp. 20–1 (specific example). Murtadawi, Maktab-i Hafiz, p. 194; Porter, ‘Jam-i Jam’. Such symbolic association seems all the more apt given that minā’ī wares are also called haft rang, or seven colours. The shiny surfaces of medieval lustreware may have evoked similar associations. Simpson, ‘Narrative structure’, p. 15. For a relevant study in orality focused on Kay Khusraw, see Kumiko Yamamoto, The Oral Background of Persian Epics: Storytelling and Poetry (Leiden and Boston, 2003), chapter 4.

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28 Simpson, ‘Narrative structure’, pp. 16–19, Figs 3 and 14. Also suggestive are the blue bands at the top and bottom of the beaker’s registers and the green band just below the interior rim that may be meant to signify fīrūz, as discussed above. 29 The figure does occupy a prominent place, of course, in medieval art and culture. See Yarshater, ‘The theme of wine-drinking,’ pp.48–53; S. Redford, ‘On saqis and ceramics: systems of representation in the northeast Mediterranean’, in Daniel H. Weiss and Lisa Mahoney (eds), France and the Holy Land: Frankish Culture at the End of the Crusades (Baltimore and London, 2004) pp.282–312; Khare, ‘The wine cup’, p. 158; Pancaroğlu, Perpetual Glory, p. 33. 30 Simpson, ‘Narrative structure’, p. 22; Yamamoto, Oral Background, chapters 2–3 for Shahnameh recitation. J. Bloom and S. Blair mention: ‘The Freer Beaker may well have served as a mnemonic device for the reciter [… ] to reconstruct the entire heroic tale’; see Islamic Arts (London, 1997), p. 271. See also Pancaroğlu, Perpetual Glory, pp. 33–4 for cups as symbols of conviviality in Persian poetry. 31 It actually requires nine turns to view the entire narrative sequence.

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37 The Muraqqa‘ album of the Zand period (PNS 383) in the National Library of Russia Olga V. Vasilyeva and Olga M. Yastrebova

T

he National Library of Russia in St Petersburg (NLR, the former Imperial Public Library and Saltykov-Schedrin State Public Library) holds an outstanding collection of Persian illuminated manuscripts, in which miniature painting and illumination show a great originality of style from the fourteenth century until much later periods. These later artists relied, of course, on the traditions of Iranian art of earlier times in their subjects and decorative elements, which were, however, enriched through acquaintance with European art, sometimes directly, and sometimes via Indian influence. Palette, landscapes, faces, clothes, interpretation of subjects and aesthetic taste changed. Changes also affected the art of calligraphy, as the shikasta style of writing, refined, extremely decorative and difficult to read, came into fashion. The Zand and Qajar Iranian miniatures in the NLR’s collections are above all illustrations in various copies of the Shahnameh,1 in addition to some lacquer bindings of the same period.2 From the standpoint of the art of the book, however, the muraqqa‘ album PNS (Persian New Series) 383 is of particular interest. In this essay we present a description of its contents, decoration, paintings and binding, along with some remarks on the historical circumstances and personalities involved in its composition. The manuscript consists of 50 folios of thick paper (430 × 285mm) attached to each other in concertina style, and is enclosed in two lacquered book covers (433 × 287mm). The verso sides of the folios are pasted over with dark-blue paper.3 The first and the last folios were originally left blank and decorated only with a border frame. All other folios have margins luxuriously — 359 —

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decorated with drawings of flowers against a background of a different colour. Seventeen pages contain only calligraphy, and only 29 pages have miniatures. Two pages have a combination of miniatures and calligraphic text. Calligraphy

Six folios (ff. 2 and 3, 6 and 7, 10, 41) demonstrate 10 qit.‘as (specimens of calligraphy) written by well-known calligraphers of the late fifteenth–early seventeenth centuries who were masters of the nasta‘līq style. The album opens with the double frontispiece, on the right side of which is a text of the Sura al-Fātih.a of the Qur’an written in 1108/1696–7 by Muhammad Salih (d. 1126/1714), master of the nasta‘līq style and author of many monumental inscriptions in Isfahan.4 The left page of the frontispiece contains a qit.‘a signed by ‘Abd al-Rashid. He must be Mir ‘Imad’s nephew who moved to India after his uncle’s assassination and made his mark at the court of Shah Jahan (1000/1592–1076/1666), the Mughal ruler (1628–58).5 The text contains small extracts from the eighth chapter of Sa‘di’s Gulistan, ‘On the duties of society’. Folios 6 and 7 each contain three qit.‘as: one placed horizontally in the upper part of the page, and below it two qit.‘as placed vertically. All six qit.‘as are signed by famous calligraphers with the name ‘Ali:6 the one above on f. 6 is signed by Mir ‘Ali [Harawi] (d. 850/1446–7), and the ones below are signed by Sultan ‘Ali Mashhadi (841/1437–8–924/1518) and ‘Ali Riza ‘Abbasi (d. after 1038/1628–9). Two of the three qit.‘as in f. 7 are signed by Mir ‘Ali and the third one simply by ‘Ali. On f. 10 is a specimen of writing by one of Mir ‘Imad’s pupils, ‘Abd al-Jabbar (d. 1065/1654–5).7 Probably the most interesting of all the calligraphic samples in the album is a qit.‘a by Mir ‘Imad al-Hasani (f. 41, Plate 34), which is remarkable not only because it was composed by this famous calligrapher of the time of Shah ‘Abbas I, but also due to the story behind it. The inscription in bold nasta‘līq by the hand of Mir ‘Imad contains the following two bayts:

Each finger of a skilful man Is a key for the lock, [he has] daily bread in his hand, [While] from the hand which is totally useless A wondrously fruitless burden is there for the body.

In the space near the left margin an inscription in small shikasta describes the circumstances of the creation of this qit.‘a:

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A confectioner’s apprentice took pains to bring sweetmeats to the late Mir ‘Imad, and in exchange for that present (Mir ‘Imad) wrote on that [wrapping] paper of the sweetmeats and gave it to the above-mentioned [confectioner’s apprentice]. The said paper is this one. Let God Almighty’s mercy be upon him!

Indeed, Mir ‘Imad used a low-quality, pulpy, greyish ‘wrapping’ paper on which the ink is slightly blurred. An unknown decorator skilfully surrounded the lines with golden clouds all covered with floral patterns and small birds. In the process of the decoration and mounting the edges of the paper were trimmed and some parts of the text were lost. Another 13 pages of calligraphy (ff. 11, 14–15, 16–17, 26–27, 30–31, 44–45, 48–49) present samples of the shikasta and nasta‘līq-i shikasta style, most of which were written in 1200/1785– 1201/1786 by the renowned calligrapher Mirza Kuchak Isfahani. Other samples of the shikasta style were written either by scribes earlier than Mirza Kuchak or by his contemporaries with whom he certainly was personally acquainted. On ff. 44 and 45 there are eight qit.‘as, seven of which were written by Mirza Kuchak’s teacher and outstanding master of the shikasta style, Darvish ‘Abd al-Majid Taliqani (d.1185/1771–2).8 Two of them on f. 44 bear the signature ‘Abd al-Majīd al-faqīr, one with the date 1173/1759–60. Two of the specimens on f. 45 are also signed and dated Rabi‘ I 1183/ July 1769. The lower qit.‘a on f. 44 was made in 1201/1786–7 by Muhammad b. ‘Ala al-Din al-Husayni, who was copying the writing of Darvish ‘Abd al-Majid. The upper specimen on f. 49 is signed by Muh.ammad Shafī‘ al-H.usaynī shikasta-navīs and probably belongs to the hand of another master of authority, Muhammad Shafi‘ al-Haravi alHusayni, also known as Shafi‘a, or by the nickname Pīshvā (Leader) (d.1081/1670–1 at the age of 85). This calligrapher began his career in Herat, then travelled to India and later spent some time in Isfahan.9 Decoration

The decoration of the double-page frontispiece (ff.2–3) consists of ‘unwāns and broad borders enclosing the calligraphic specimens and seems to have been executed in Mughal style. The qit.‘a on the right side by Muhammad Salih is dated 1108/1696–7, which allows us to presume that both the border, the decoration of which combines floral and geometric patterns, and the interlinear ornamentation may be dated to the late seventeenth century. The possibility that the border was produced earlier cannot be excluded. The interlinear decoration of ‘Abd al-Rashid’s writing on the left side differs from that of the first page; it is difficult to identify when it was made. The decoration of Mir ‘Imad’s qit.‘a (f. 41) – small birds and flowers against the golden background – was doubtless done in India in the 1610s to 1650s. The same can be said of the ornamentation of other pages by old masters, maybe with the exception of the qit.‘a of ‘Abd al-Jabbar (f. 10) and ‘Ali Riza ‘Abbasi (f. 6, lower left).10 These calligraphic pages may have been executed earlier for another Mughal album. The calligraphic specimens of smaller size decorated in the seventeenth century may have been arranged in threes on a page much later, in the middle of the eighteenth century. Such arrangement is not typical of the earlier albums, but it is found in mid-eighteenth-century examples such as the so-called St Petersburg album (Institute of Oriental Manuscripts, Ms. E 14)11 and the muraqqa‘ — 361 —

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Dorn 489 (National Library of Russia).12 Both the calligraphic pages and the miniatures are enclosed in a rather narrow ornamental border, its outer perimeter being from 330 to 290mm high and from 230 to 170mm wide. The border is mostly black or sometimes light-brown or white, with red and white flowers. Some pages have two or three such borders. The margins are decorated with the pictures of plants (iris, dog rose, hyacinth, narcissus, tulip, hazel, and so on), birds and butterflies. The colours are bright and saturated, contrasting with the tinted background. The background of the margins on the double page is usually of the same colour on each of the two pages: white, tea-colour, saffron, violet, lilac, blue and black. On two double pages (ff. 10–11 and ff. 42–43) the margins are not of the same colour, but since all the four pages have margins of different colours this cannot be regarded as the consequence of a binder’s mistake. Probably this was the original intention of the decorator, or perhaps four pages have been lost. The edges of the pages were strengthened during conservation in the 1960s, so it is impossible to say now whether there are any pages missing. Although the name of the artist who decorated the margins is not given, they have a lot in common with some of the margins from the St Petersburg album which are signed by the artist Muhammad Sadiq, who completed them in the late eighteenth century.13 Miniature paintings

The album has 30 miniatures of the Zand period. Only one page (f.39) contains Safavid period works. In the upper part of this page there are two elegant miniatures in the style of Riza ‘Abbasi, maybe even by the hand of this famous artist (Plate 35). In this case, comparison with similar works of Riza ‘Abbasi allows them (or at least one of them) to be dated to the early seventeenth century. Thus the miniature on the right (‘Girl with a ewer’) strongly resembles the miniature ‘Woman with a veil’ from the Art and History Trust, Houston,14 while the ‘Seated youth’ on the left is reminiscent of the ‘Barefoot youth’ from the same collection.15 Both figures, but horizontally flipped, can also be found on the diptych ‘A convivial party’ painted by Riza ‘Abbasi in 1612 and in the Hermitage Museum.16 However, we should not preclude the possibility that either one or both of the miniatures were painted in the middle of the seventeenth century by one of Riza’s pupils. Thus in the Art and History Trust there is a drawing by Muhammad Muhsin entitled ‘Woman carrying a vase’ dated 1059/164917 and a miniature ‘Drunken youth’ attributed to Muhammad Qasim.18 Both the drawing and the miniature are close to the miniatures from our album but show more expression. It is difficult to attribute these two miniatures definitively, but we can roughly date them to the first half of the seventeenth century. On the lower part of the page is the miniature ‘Youth giving a bowl of wine to a dervish’ with an unreadable imprint of a stamp in its lower left corner. The same subject is depicted on a drawing by Riza ‘Abbasi from the Metropolitan Museum,19 but this is the only likeness between them. The turban of the ‘Indian’ fashion that the youth wears on his head allows us to date our miniature to the second half of the seventeenth century. Similar headgear is found on the double portrait of Nawab Mirza Muhammad Baqir and his son Mirza Husayn by Mu‘in Musawwir, dated 1085/1674.20 Other miniatures in the album, 17 of them (ff.4–5, 8–9, 12–13, 14–15, 18, 20–21, 24– 25, 33, 36–37, 43) contain the name of Muhammad Sadiq, often accompanied by the date — 362 —

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1200/1785–6. Sometimes one or both zeroes in the date are omitted.21 The artist who drew them lived in Isfahan at least while he was working on the album. Some of his miniatures use subjects borrowed from the mural paintings of the palace of Chihil Sutun built in Isfahan during the reign of ‘Abbas II (1642–66),22 such as ‘The reception of the Mughal emperor Humayun by Shah Tahmasp’ on f. 19 and ‘Shah ‘Abbas I and the ruler of Bukhara Wali Muhammad Khan’ on f.18. On both miniatures names of the main heroes are inscribed. Thus on f.18 we can read shah ‘Abbās-i buzurg (Shah ‘Abbas the Great), shāhzāda-yi Turkistān (Prince of Turkestan); the figure standing behind ‘Abbas is called Gul ‘Ināyat and the youth with a ewer looking through the door is Yusuf-i thānī (Second Yusuf ). Inscriptions on f.19 are shah T.ahmasb-i buzurg (Shah Tahmasp the Great), Humāyūn shāhzāda-yi Hind (Humayun, Prince of India) and Zahr-i mār sult.ān-i Afshār (‘Snake poison’, Sultan of the Afshar).23 The group of the miniatures on ‘historical subjects’ includes the portraits of Isma‘il I (f.4) and Nadir Shah (f.5),24 whose names are also inscribed. The name Humāyūn Shāh (probably the Mughal emperor Humayun) is inscribed on the miniature in f.29 showing a ruler, surrounded by his servants, who receives a cup from a standing girl. The ruler is young but his posture as well as his turban and dagger are quite similar to those depicted in the miniature ‘Shah Tahmasp and Humayun’ on f.19. The young Humayun appears in another miniature (f.40) where his name is not inscribed. Both miniatures are unsigned and differ slightly from each other, which suggests that one or several other artists could have been working on the album beside Muhammad Sadiq. The signature of Muhammad Sadiq is on three other portraits that are also inscribed: ‘A youth riding out for falconry’ is named Nasr Allah Mirza (f.12); ‘A youth on horseback killing a wild boar with a spear’ is inscribed as shabīh-i Shāhrukh shāh – ‘similar to Shahrukh Shah’ (f.13); ‘A young horseman killing a dragon with a dagger’ is called shāh ‘Abbās-i kuchak – ‘Shah ‘Abbas the Small [= the Second]’ (f. 24). One of the inscribed miniatures shows the legendary beloved of the poet Hafiz, Shah Nabat, surrounded by maidservants. Eight more miniatures illustrate two scenes from the Shahnameh and four of the five epics of Nizami’s Khamsa. They are: ‘Rustam and Afrasiyab’ (f.20), ‘Rustam and the White Div’ (f. 21), ‘Layla visits Majnun in the desert’ (f.8), ‘Khusraw sees Shirin bathing’ (f.9), ‘Yusuf and the Egyptian ladies’ (f. 36), ‘Yusuf being sold in the slave market’ (f.37), ‘Fitna carrying a bull’ (f. 38) and ‘Bahram Gur and Fitna hunting’ (f.43). On the double page ff. 32–33 there are two miniatures; the left-hand one is an illustration of the well-known story of Shaykh San‘an and his love for a Christian girl from ‘Attar’s Mantiq altayr (Conference of the birds).25 In this miniature we see the Shaykh (inscribed as shaykh San‘ān) kneeling before the Christian girl (dukhtar-i tarsā), his tasbīh. (rosary) and Qur’an thrown on the ground. The girl is accompanied by a group of women wearing crosses and holding wine, and with a herd of swine. The figures of the dervishes standing behind Shaykh San‘an are also inscribed: Shaykh ‘Attar, Mansur-i Hallaj, Malik Muhammad, Ghazzal and one called Turk-i sarbur. The second miniature depicts youths dancing by candlelight and elderly shaykhs, named as Shaykh Rabi’, Darvish Kazim, Shaykh Idris, Shaykh Ibrahim, Darvish Azad and Shaykh Mun‘im. Another miniature shows a European couple sitting at a table and surrounded by their attendants, one of whom is a priest wearing a cross (f.28). This miniature faces the abovementioned representation of the young Humayun with a young girl and servants. Thus the double page represents two idyllic couples, a Muslim and a Christian one. — 363 —

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There are two miniatures that are grouped together with calligraphic qit.‘as by Mirza Kuchak: ‘Two youths with a blossoming bush’ (f.14) and ‘A girl giving narcissus flowers to a youth’ (f. 15). Six miniatures depict flowers: bouquet in a vase (ff.22 and 23), a tulip and poppies (f.34), a rose with hyacinths (f. 35), and narcissus shrubs (ff.46 and 47). None of these is signed, but the flowers are very similar to those on the margins which, as mentioned above, may have been painted by Muhammad Sadiq. Binding

The album is bound in concertina style; on both sides of it is a cover made of papier-mâché with lacquer miniature paintings. On the outer side of the back cover there is what seems to be a representation of a young King Sulayman seated on a throne, surrounded by Rustam, divs, helmeted warriors, a white-bearded shaykh wearing a round turban, princes and other figures (Fig. 37.1). There is a lion lying on the ground and there are other beasts including a snake; birds fly over Sulayman’s head. The hoopoe sits near Sulayman on his throne. Queen Bilqis, surrounded by ladies, is sitting on a throne to the left of Sulayman. The subject of the miniature on the outer side of the upper cover is not certain. The main figure is the enthroned young prince. In front of him is a moustachioed man with a crown on his head who is sitting on a chair. Behind each of them stand their attendants: courtiers, warriors

FIG.

37.1 Binding (outer side of the back cover). Iran, Isfahan, c.12[00]/ 1785–6.

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and musicians. In the lower right corner are men in European attire, some dark-skinned people wearing skirts, and priests. Two of the figures wear Indian turbans. Probably this is another interpretation of the subject ‘Shah Tahmasp and Humayun Khan’. The inner sides of the two covers are decorated similarly: a black central field is surrounded by a wide frame with a central turunj and two medallions. The flowers in the frame, the central part and medallions strongly resemble the ornamentation of the margins of the album. It seems that both the figurative painting on the outer sides of the covers and the ornamental designs on the inner sides were completed by the same artist who worked on the album’s miniatures and margins, that is, by Muhammad Sadiq. The history of the album

The sample of the shikasta calligraphy on f. 11 by the hand of Mirza Kuchak Isfahani mentions the circumstances and the time of the album’s production, as well as the name of the owner by whose order the book was made. The very elaborate text basically states that Mirza Muhammad Nasir Bistami, the descendant of the famous eighth-century Sufi mystic Bayazid (Abu Yazid) Bistami, changed his initial plan to unite two muraqqa‘ albums in one binding, for, ‘owing to the abundance of words and multiplicity of meanings, it was impossible to place these two precious pearls in one box, and to fix these two stars in one constellation’, and as a result of this ‘unity has been rolled up and the rug of multitude has been spread out’. We can also conclude that Muhammad Nasir had a son called Fath ‘Ali. This calligraphic page was written in Safar 1201, November–December 1786. The colophon of the qit.‘a on f.27 gives the most complete information about the names of the calligrapher and the owner:

The humble and sinful slave Muhammad Qasim, known as Mirza Kuchak, wrote [this] by the order of the slaves of the high rank […] shaykh Muhammad Nasir b. Shaykh Muhammad Hashim b. Shaykh Muhammad Nasir b. Shaykh Abu Muhammad b. Shaykh ‘Inayat Allah al-Bayazidi al-Bistami.

On f. 31 Muhammad Nasir is called ‘one of the glorious descendants of the padishah of the kings of the (mystic) Path and the leader of the followers of the Truth, shaykh Bayazid Bistami’. Mirza Kuchak Isfahani was a well-known master of the shikasta style of calligraphy who lived in the second half of the eighteenth–early nineteenth centuries.26 He was the most eminent of the pupils of Darvish ‘Abd al-Majid Taliqani.27 In total this album contains 15 qit.‘as signed by his hand (ff. 11, 14–17, 26–27, 30–31 and 4828–49), all of them written during the years between 1200/1785–1201/1786 by the order either of Mirza Muhammad Nasir himself or his followers – ‘slaves’ (bandagān), as they are called in the text. This suggests that Mirza Kuchak was responsible for the choice of calligraphy for the album. The name of the same person who commissioned Mirza Kuchak, Muhammad Nasir Bayazidi Bistami, is also mentioned in the signature on the miniature in f.37 by Muhammad Sadiq. The latter, we can also assume, created the rest of his miniatures specially for the album. — 365 —

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Muhammad Nasir Bayazidi Bistami himself is portrayed surrounded by his household in the miniature on f. 42 (Plate 36). Beside him stands his son Fath ‘Ali together with two young servants ( pīshkhidmat) – Ma‘sum and Najaf Quli, and two more unnamed ones. In front of him two musicians are sitting – Aqa Buzurg, tari ‘performer on string instrument’ (tar), and Ghulam ‘Ali, khānanda ‘the Singer’. Most of the young men’s faces lack expression and individuality, while the head of the family and especially the singer are portrayed quite realistically and doubtless bear some likeness to the real people. Both Muhammad Nasir and his son wear rich garments and headgear typical of the late period of Karim Khan Zand’s reign (1750–79). The artist did not sign the group portrait, but it is obviously drawn by the same hand as the 17 other miniatures signed by Muhammad Sadiq, some of which are also dated 1200/1785–6. It seems that all the other miniatures of the same style, as well as the margins and probably the binding, are the work of the same Muhammad Sadiq. Anatoliy Ivanov has expressed an opinion that at first sight seems convincing. While discussing one of the three artists who adorned the margins of the St Petersburg E 14 album, he says the following about the miniatures of PNS 383: ‘I do not believe that these miniatures can be identified as the work of the Muhammad Sadiq. They are not of good quality and cannot be compared with the work signed by our Muhammad Sadiq.’29 The skilfully drawn miniature ‘A blooming plum branch’ in the NLR album Dorn 489 (f.86r) is signed in gold ‘Raqam-i kamtari.n Muh.ammad S.ādiq 1160’ (Written by the most humble Muhammad Sadiq, 1747) (Plate 37). The same formula is repeated in three signatures on the miniatures from the album PNS 383. At the same time, on the margins of ff.12 and 13 of our album a similar plum branch is included into the decoration. This observation alone cannot be regarded as proof that our miniatures and marginal decorations belong to the same artist who took part in the decoration of the E 14 album, which reveals its connection with PNS 383. Thus the PNS 383 miniature depicting the young ‘Abbas II killing a dragon with his dagger (f. 24) has its earlier ‘prototype’ in the E 14 album (f.95r 30), where the similar composition is correctly attributed to Muhammad Zaman and the Isfahan school of the 1680s and 1690s. The resemblance between the two miniatures is indirect evidence that our Muhammad Sadiq could somehow have been aware of the St Petersburg E 14 album and acquainted with its contents. Another horseman killing a dragon with a dagger can be observed on a painted panel31 signed by the artist Muhammad Sadiq with the same formula that we find on the ‘Blossoming plum branch’ miniature and on some of the miniatures in PNS 383. The background landscape and the composition, and even a small dog biting the dragon, are very similar to our painting, but are horizontally flipped. The only significant difference from the miniature is the horseman’s hat, which is of the Qajar period. This could be the work of our Muhammad Sadiq, but from a later time. The bindings of both albums (E 14 and PNS 383) are similar: the floral design on the frame, central part and medallions on the inner sides of the PNS 383 covers resembles the decoration of the covers of the E 14 album,32 especially their inner sides. The latter binding has two dates, 1147/1734 and 1151/1739, that is, the covers had been made before the E 14 album itself was completed. Taking into account the similarity of the decoration of the two bindings, we might assume that they were made by the same artist, namely, Muhammad Sadiq. However, Muhammad Sadiq was certainly not the only artist who in the eighteenth century — 366 —

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could successfully paint ‘roses and nightingales’. Muhammad Baqir33 and ‘Ali Ashraf,34 for example, were his contemporaries and worked in the same style.  Anatoliy Ivanov has cautiously proposed that it was ‘Ali Ashraf who made the covers of the E 14 album.35 On these covers there is a poem mentioning the name of the artist’s client Mirza Mahdi, who must be a historian and a secretary of Nadir Shah, Mirza Mahdi Astarabadi. It was in his library that a seventeenth-century copy of Nizami’s Khamsa (Bibliothèque nationale de France, Supl. pers. 1029)36 was kept, covered with a stamped leather binding. The outer sides of its covers were renovated in the eighteenth century when Muhammad Sadiq decorated and signed them.37 So even if he did not intermediately participate in the decoration of the E 14 album’s covers, he still could have seen them in the library of Mirza Mahdi. What else do we know about the painter, or painters, named Muhammad Sadiq? Ivanov refers to ‘Abbas Mazda, who mentioned Aqa Sadiq, son of Hafiz Ibrahim and pupil of Aqa Najaf, in his book.38 This artist flourished during the reigns of Nadir Shah and Karim Khan Zand, and he was famous for his watercolour paintings in the European manner covered with lacquer. He is the author of Nadir Shah’s portrait in Chihil Sutun (in our album there is also his portrait) and probably of the outstanding watercolour portrait of Karim Khan, now kept in the Louvre.39 This portrait, like some of his oil paintings, is signed ‘Yā S.ādiq al-Wa‘da’40 (as translated by Robinson: ‘“O he, who speaks truly in his promise,” often addressed to Ja‘far as-Sadiq, the sixth Shi‘ite Imam’41). Could it be the same artist who used to sign his works ‘Raqam-i kamtari.n Muh.ammad S.ādiq’ or simply ‘Muh.ammad S.ādiq’, and wrote his name not in one line but placed the letter dāl above the line (as in some miniatures in our album), and the letter qāf below the line (as on the panel with the horseman killing the dragon)? It would be rather tempting to identify our Muhammad Sadiq with the author of Karim Khan’s portrait; however, the not very high quality of the illustrations of the PNS 383 album prejudices this guess. On the other hand, we do not have any other book illustrations by Muhammad Sadiq that could be used as material for comparison. Besides, any artist can be rather negligent when fulfilling a simple commercial order, or can even put his signature on his pupil’s work. Anyhow, we know the names of two people who worked on the album commissioned by Shaykh Muhammad Nasir. They were the artist Muhammad Sadiq, who dated his works by 1200/1785–6, and the calligrapher Mirza Kuchak, whose works have the date of 1200/1785–1201/1787. It seems from one of Mirza Kuchak’s calligraphic pages in PNS 383 that the album was assembled around the year 1201/1786–7 for Muhammad Nasir, who was obviously a respected Sufi shaykh and a spiritual authority, and whose lineage went back to the famous mystic Bayazid Bistami. Muhammad Nasir was obviously a man of wealth. An example of his philanthropy can be found in the Takht-i Fulad cemetery in Isfahan: on one of the walls of the mausoleum of Baba Rukn al-Din (Mas‘ud b. ‘Abd Allah Baydawi, d.769/1367–8) there is a stone plaque with a calligraphic inscription saying that Muhammad Nasir Bayazidi Bistami sponsored the renovation of the tomb in 1200/1785–6.42 Although the place of production is not mentioned anywhere in the album, there is every indication that it was mounted in Isfahan. Probably soon after the album was made it came into the possession of Muhammad Nasir’s son Fath ‘Ali. His signatures can be seen on three miniatures of the seventeenth century and on some of the older calligraphic pages, but these could have belonged to him even before they were included into the album. On the last page there is an — 367 —

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inscription informing the reader that Fath ‘Ali’s son Muhammad Hasan was born on 8 Jumada II 1203/6 March 1789. Fath ‘Ali mentions himself here as the owner of the album (s. āh.ibuhu). Since on the family portrait Muhammad Hasan is shown at a very young age, it seems logical to assume that the album could have been a wedding gift from the father to his son. The subject of one of the miniatures on the covers showing Sulayman and Bilqis could be a hint of these circumstances. One can notice that the faces of both the young Sulayman (who looks rather more like Yusuf ) and the young ruler on the second cover resemble the portrait of Fath ‘Ali. We do not know for how long the album belonged to Fath ‘Ali and under what circumstances it left his possession, but it was acquired in Iran in the 1830s by Count Ivan Osipovich Simonich (1793–1851), the envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary of the Russian Empire at the Persian court between 1832 and 1838.43 During his years in Iran Simonich assembled a relatively modest but extremely valuable collection of Persian manuscripts.44 In 1868 his son Nikolay Ivanovich Simonich sold the main part of this collection to the Imperial Public Library in St Petersburg, where it is currently preserved. The album discussed in this article is deeply rooted in the historical, cultural, artistic and even, in some respects, social background of Isfahan. It provides visual evidence of the continuity and innovation that characterised the development of Iranian fine art in the Zand period. Notes







1 L.T. Gyuzalyan and M.M Dyakonov, Iranskie miniatyury v rukopisyah ‘Shah-name’ Leningradskih sobraniy (Moscow-Leningrad, 1935), Pl.50; O.V. Vasilyeva, ‘Rukopisi ‘Shah-nama’ v Rossiyskoy natsional’noy biblioteke: istoriko-kul’turnoe znachenie i istoriya postupleniya’, Iran-name 2(10) (Almaty, 2009), pp. 169–86. 2 A.T. Adamova, Persian Painting and Drawing of the 15th–19th Centuries from the Hermitage Museum: Exhibition Catalogue (St Petersburg, 1996), pp. 270–1; eadem, ‘O dvuh lakovyh perepletah kontsa 18 veka iz sobraniya Rossiyskoy natsional’noy biblioteki,’ in Vostochnyi sbornik, VI (St Petersburg, 2003), pp. 200–6; Gyuzalyan and Dyakonov, Iranskie miniatyury, Pl. 27; O.V. Vasilyeva, ‘Podarok Khosrov-mirzy grafu Simonichu’, in Vostochnaya kollektsiya, 3 (Moscow, 2003), pp. 10–7; F.I. Abdullaeva, ‘Divine, human and demonic: Iconographic flexibility in the context of a depiction of Rostam and Ashkabus’, in C. Melville (ed.), Shahnama Studies I (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 203–18. 3 This is the reason why our foliation does not specify recto or verso sides. 4 See, for example, H. Faza’ili, Atlas-i khatt: tahqiq dar khutut-i islami (Isfahan, 1971), pp. 542–46. His father, Abu Turab Isfahani, was a pupil of the famous calligrapher Mir ‘Imad. 5 P. Soucek, ‘Abd-Al-Rašīd Daylamī’, EIr; Faza’ili, Atlas-i khatt, pp. 533–35; A. Rafi’i Mihrabadi, Tarikh-i khatt wa khattatan (Tehran, 1967), pp. 94–5. 6 Reproduced in O.V. Vasilyeva, A String of Pearls: Iranian Fine Books from the 14th to the 17th Century in the National Library of Russia Collection (St Petersburg, 2008), p. 31. 7 On his biography and works see, for example, D. Duda, ‘‘Abd-al-Jabbār’, EIr; Mihrabadi, Tarikh-i khatt, p. 109. 8 On this calligrapher, see P. Soucek, ‘‘Abd al-Majid T.ālaqānī’, EIr; Faza’ili, Atlas-i khatt, pp. 618–21; Mihrabadi, Tarikh-i khatt, pp.156–60. 9 Faza’ili, Atlas-i khatt, pp. 613–14; Mihrabadi, Tarikh-i khatt, pp. 137–8. 10 Similar examples of interlinear decoration can be found in the Minto album and the later Shah Jahan album: E. Wright, with contributions by W.M. Thackston, S. Cohen, Ch. Horton, R. Smith, and J. Baldwin, Muraqqa‘: Imperial Mughal Albums from the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin (Alexandria, 2008), pp. 82–139 and 288–411. 11 The album was published three times: A.A. Ivanov, T.V. Grek and O.F. Akimushkin, Al’bom indiyskih i persidskih miniatyur XVI–XVIII vv., ed. L.T. Gyuzalyan (Moscow, 1962); Il murakka di San Pietroburgo: album di miniature indiane e persiane del 16–18 secolo e di esemplari di calligrafia di Mir Imad al-Hasani (Milan, 1994) and The St. Petersburg Muraqqa‘: Album of Indian and Persian Miniatures from the 16th through the 18th Century and Specimens of Persian Calligraphy by ‘Imad al-Hasani (Lugano and Milan, 1996). 12 O.V. Vasilyeva, ‘Chey al’bom? Istoriya odnogo poiska’, in Vostochnaya kollektsiya 2 (Moscow, 2004), pp. 28–42. 13 It should be mentioned here that Muhammad Baqir, who was the second artist to take part in the decoration of the margins in the St Petersburg album, also decorated some of the margins in the album sold at the Drouot in 1982 (Sale catalogue Art Islamique: Inde – Perse –Turque, H, n. 1–39). 14 S. Canby, The Rebellions Reformer: The Drawings and Paintings of Riza-yi ‘Abbasi of Isfahan (London, 1996), p. 66, n. 34; A. Soudavar, Art of the Persian courts (New York, 1992), pp. 270–1, n. 109. 15 Canby, The Rebellions Reformer, p. 71, n. 35; Soudavar, Art of the Persian Courts, pp. 268–9, n. 107.

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16 17 18 19



20



21



22



23



24



25



26



27 28 29 30 31 32



33 34 35 36



37 38



39 40 41 42



43



44

Canby, The Rebellions Reformer, pp. 100–1, n. 55; Adamova, Persian Painting and Drawing, pp. 208–9, n. 15. Soudavar, Art of the Persian Courts, p. 297, n. 126. Ibid., p.293, n.121. E. Grube, Muslim Miniature Paintings from the XIII to XIX Century from Collections in the United States and Canada: Catalogue of the Exhibition (Venice, 1962), n. 111. Grube, Muslim Miniature Paintings, n. 119; S. Melikian-Chirvani, S. Le chant du monde: L’art de l’Iran safavide: 1501–1736 (Paris, 2007), p. 384, n. 142. As was noticed by Ivanov, ‘near the word “S.ādiq” above its last letter there is always a small letter dāl’. He assumed that it is the abbreviation of the word duvvum ‘second’ (see his introductory article ‘Oformlenie i vremya sozdaniya alboma’, in L.T. Gyuzalyan (ed.), Al’bom indiyskih i persidskih minniatyur XVI–XVIII vv. (Moscow, 1962), p. 13, n. 34; A.A. Ivanov, ‘The compiling and decoration of the album’, in The St. Petersburg Muraqqa’ (Lugano and Milan, 1996), p. 31. In fact the letter dāl is written above the line at the end of the word only in those cases when it is ‘omitted’ from its proper place in the line. Such inversion, mostly decorative in its function, is typical for signatures and seals. See, for example, S. Babaie, ‘Shah ‘Abbas II, the conquest of Qandahar, the Chihil Sutun, and its wall paintings’, Muqarnas 11 (1994), pp.125–42. In the miniature this person stands behind Tahmasp and is wearing a pink robe, a turban with a yellow kulāh and a feather, and a sabre. On the mural painting in the Chihil Sutun he probably corresponds to the stout long-moustachioed man wearing a red robe, who is depicted standing in the lower right corner of the fresco. His right hand is raised and in his left hand he is holding a staff or a walking stick. The Audience hall of the Chihil Sutun Palace in 1796 was decorated with two new frescoes, one of them signed by Aqa Sadiq and another one attributed to him: ‘The victory of Nadir Shah over the Mughal ruler at Karnal’ and ‘The battle of Shah Isma‘il and the Ottomans’. See L.S. Diba and M. Ekhtiar (eds), Royal Persian Paintings: The Qajar Epoch, 1785–1925 (Brooklyn, NY, 1998), p.33. See, for example, the English translation by C.S. Nott: The Conference of the Birds: A Philosophical Religious Poem in Prose (London, 1971), pp.34–43; and by Dick Davis: Farid ud-Din Attar, The Conference of Birds, trans. with an introd. by A. Darbandi and D. Davis (London, 1984), pp. 57–75. The album assembled in the early nineteenth century and now preserved in the Aga Khan collection of Islamic art also contains a number of pages written by Mirza Kuchak in the shikasta script (Ms 23, ff. 2v, 3r, 4v and 5r). Their design and appearance closely resemble some of the pages by the same calligrapher from our album. Another page from the same album demonstrates Mirza Kuchak’s mastery in the writing styles different from shikasta (f. 13v). Two of the published pages are dated: 1210/1795–6 (f. 4v) and 1228/1813 (f. 13r); A. Welch, Prince Sadruddin Aga Khan Collection of Islamic Art (Geneva, 1972–7), vol. 4, pp. 98–9, 102–3, 106–7, 118 and Diba and Ekhtiar, Royal Persian Paintings, 176–8 (in both publications these pages have no attribution). Faza’ili, Atlas-i khatt, p. 621. Two of the three qit.‘as on f. 48 have the signature of Mirza Kuchak and are dedicated to Muhammad Nasir Bayazidi Bistami. A.A. Ivanov, ‘The compiling and decoration of the album,’ p. 31. The St. Petersburg Muraqqa’, Pl. 82. S.J. Falk, Qajar Paintings: Persian Oil Paintings of the 18th and 19th Centuries (London, 1972), n. 4. Pages of Perfection: Islamic Painting and Calligraphy from the Russian Academy of Sciences, St. Petersburg (Milan, 1995), p. 276; Al’bom indiyskih i persidskih miniatyur, tabl. 1–2. Adamova, Persian Painting and Drawing, pp. 269–70. Ibid., p.262. The St. Petersburg Muraqqa‘, pp. 22–6. We would like to express our gratitude to Françis Richard, who drew our attention to this fact. On the manuscript see, F. Richard, Les cinq poèmes de Nezâmî: Chef-d’œuvre persan du XVIIe siècle (Paris, 2001), pp. 92–6; idem, Splendeurs persanes: manuscrits du XIIe au XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1997), p. 219. Blochet, Peintures des manuscrits arabes, persans et turcs de la Bibliothèque nationale (Paris, 1911), Pl. 64. ‘A. Mazda, ‘Nufudh-i sabk-i urupa’i dar naqqashi-yi Iran’, Payam-i naw, p. 3, no 3 (Tehran, 1325/1946), p. 62; Persian Muraqqa’, pp.29–31. Royal Persian Paintings, p. 150. Ibid., pp.151–7, 166. B.W. Robinson, ‘Persian lacquer in the Bern Historical Museum’, Iran 8 (1970), p. 47. See, for example, www.isfahan.ir/ShowPage.aspx?page_=form&order=show&lang=1&sub=10&PageId=132&tempname=AsarT arikhy (accessed 12 April 2013). G.I. Kostygova, ‘Ob odnoy kollektsii persidskih rukopisey’, in Iz istorii rukopisnyh i staropechatnyh sobraniy: Issledovaniya, obzory, publikatsii (Leningrad, 1979), pp. 85–91; O.V. Vasilyeva, ‘Oriental manuscripts in the National Library of Russia’, Manuscripta orientalia 2, o. 2 (1996), pp. 19–35, eadem, ‘Podarok Khosrov-mirzy’, pp. 10–7; eadem, ‘Persian manuscripts’, pp. 41, 50–3. Among the manuscripts of this collection the most valuable is another muraqqa‘ known by its shelfmark as Dorn 489 (Vasilyeva, ‘Chey al’bom?’, pp. 28–42).

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38 Interrogating marks in a Persian painting from fifteenthcentury Herat – a note Barbara Brend

T

he painting in question is in the collection of the Freer Gallery, Washington, DC.1 It has been identified by Zeren Tanındı as from a copy of the Hasht Bihisht of Amir Khusraw of Safar 902/October 1496 in the Topkapı Library (Plate 38).2 Illustrating the story told in the Gulnar pavilion, the picture shows a king watching in anguish as his favourite lady is borne away in a ship by the prince who is the hero of the story. On grounds of style, the picture has been attributed both to Bihzad,3 and to Qasim ‘Ali.4 Having occasion to view it in 2011, I noted some very small marks, apparently in ink and deliberate, that I thought might yield further information. The marks are on the right-hand sleeve of the blue garment of an attendant who is shown bust-length in the extreme lower left corner. By the generosity of the Freer Gallery I received images of the whole and of the detail (Plates 39 and 40). These have been submitted to the scrutiny of the best expert known to me, but unfortunately no words have been discovered.   I am obliged to fall back on the notion that the marks are an experiment in ornamentation. This view finds some support in the impression that the eyebrows of the gentleman in blue may have received an added emphasis.  It is not clear to me when these marks would have been made. This note is submitted in the rather forlorn hope that someone might still decode the marks, but with the rather better hope that it might save time for future investigators.

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Notes

1 F1937.27. 2 Writing in her maiden name, Z. Akalay, ‘Emir Hüsrev dehlevīnin 1496 yılında minyatürlenmiş Heşht (sic) Bihisti’, Sanat Tarihi Yıllığı 6 (1974), p. 353: the parent manuscript is H. 676, Topkapı Sarayı Kütüphanesi. 3 E. Bahari, Bihzad: Master of Persian Painting (London and New York, 1996), p. 168. 4 B. Brend, Perspectives on Persian Painting: Illlustrations to Amīr Khusrau’s Khamsah (London, 2003), p. 185.

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39 Delicate displays: on a Safavid ceramic bottle in the Museum of Cairo University Sussan Babaie

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n homage to Charles Melville’s ‘habit’ of discovering Safavid texts, offering insightful readings of them and generously sharing his findings, and in recognition of his keen interest in and contributions to the visual documents of history, this essay focuses on an unpublished Safavid objet de luxe and attempts to give vent to its historical voice-in-image (Fig.39.1 and Plate 41). The object in question is a green-glazed ceramic bottle with moulded figural compositions on each of its two wider sides. The two sets of images represent interrelated subject matter each with a degree of decorum that activates the way in which the object is to be used and viewed. This note was prompted by a chance encounter, a ‘discovery’, in the Museum of Cairo University.1 The way the object is positioned in its museum case suggests a historically contingent performative function of the imagery on the vessel, an effect that coordinates with the utility of the object as a wine bottle. Furthermore, this essay is conceived as a note along a research trajectory that has explored in various media, including urban and architectural, the intertwined manoeuvrings of visual and spatial experience in the arts of Persia (Iran)2 in Safavid times (1501–1722). It is more specifically concerned with the viewing choreographies and social practices insinuated by art objects. The bottle

Neckless, with prominent, if busy, moulded figural decoration of a musician flanked by two seated pairs, the bottle appears as an oddly shaped bulbous object standing in the far corner of a case in the Cairo University Museum. The elongated neck is cut off at its base at so low a point — 375 —

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of its curvature as to leave an opening of 6 cm but not sufficiently raised to allow for a metallic lip to replace the broken neck, as is usually done. The body of the bottle is an ovoid measuring approximately 20 cm at its widest part, 12 cm at its narrowest, and about 19cm in its extant height. Such ‘flattened’ closed forms – the majority are flasks of a modified square shape, but they also include a few bottles like the Cairo one – were usually at first thrown on the wheel before being removed and the base cut out in order to beat the sides flat.3 A new base, fitting the ovoid section, was attached afterwards. The slightly flattened sides were clearly intended as a backdrop for images, requiring that the clay be pressed into a two-part mould with carved-out relief decoration. The resultant effect, as in the Cairo bottle, is a highly legible and sophisticated low relief that can bear a relative wealth of detail. Moulded and closed forms like this bottle are found predominantly in a monochrome apple-green glaze.4 Without dwelling on the date of these monochrome moulded vessels, it is worth noting that, for their dating, Arthur Lane proposed, and every scholar ever since has accepted, the visual criteria that makes the figural style and compositions of these objects comparable to paintings on paper associated with Reza ‘Abbasi and his students.5 Hence, they are attributed to the period of the reign of Shah ‘Abbas the Great (1587–1629) and the activities of the court painter and his associates into the 1630s. Accordingly, the group has been considered a specialty product of Isfahan (the Safavid capital since 1598), a proposition that Lisa Golombek has further speculated to be related to the workshops of Isfahan’s Qumishah, the kilns to which the so-called Kubachi ware with colourful figural decorations are now securely attributed by Golombek with the help of petrographic analyses done by Robert Mason.6 While the monochrome ware has not been subjected to the same petrographic analysis, similarities in shapes and pictorial schemes with the Qumishah group make her attribution plausible.

FIG.

39.1 Bottle (back and front), glazed ceramic, H. c.19cm, W. 20cm, Museum of Cairo University. This large green-glazed bottle, missing its long neck, was probably intended as a wine bottle. Moulded figural scenes decorate the widest sides of the body of the vessel. There is a decorous and an indecorous side to it, each appropriate to the viewing context, making it untenable to assign to it a front and a back.

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The pictures

On one side, a tripartite composition is organised along a vertical axis consisting of a youthful man playing a daf and standing on the rocky base of a tree with its leafless spiky twigs and its two large branches forking out beyond and above the figure. A rock formation and a couple of clumps of vegetation fill the space to the musician’s left. A seated couple (a man and woman) appears on either side of the central unit, each figural group posed in such a way as to create curving parenthetical termini for the whole composition on this side of the bottle. Each pair is dominated by the larger, turbaned figure of a youth with his arms wrapped around the neck of a diminutive young woman. Her presence is slightly more visible in the left group than the right one, where she almost disappears into the intertwined placement of legs and arms. The woman in the right-hand side pair is so small (her head barely registers) and so tightly held by one of her wrists that it appears as if she is pulling away from the man on whose legs she is leaning out of the picture. While the woman in the right group appears to be pulling away, in the left pair the woman is seated upright, albeit as a smaller figure than her male companion, wrapped in the arms of the youth, whose gesture under her chin appears to force her to look up at him and she now holds a bottle of wine. The web of intertwined limbs, interspersed with volumes of body parts and meaningfully transitional gestures and glances – from resistance to submission – suggests a pictorial reading of the composition on two interlinked schemes. One is fitted into a triangle with a schematic axial focus but with its disparate elements pulled together as a single-shot image. As such, it can potentially be glimpsed and grasped at once as a contiguous picture, alluding, one imagines, to youthful dalliance, love, desire and so forth. The other scheme interweaves through the first by means of a sequential unfolding, suggesting a narrative way of seeing and reading from right to left, from a scene of coy resistance to one of apparent submission. As a courting scene, the relatively cluttered, multi-figured and detailed picture of two couples and a musician comes across in sharp contrast to the composition on the other side. Also delineated on a triangular design, this second picture has only three figures and they are depicted in large curvilinear (low-relief ) forms that fill the surface in an unusually bold manner without crowding the composition. More audacious is the representational clarity of the act of copulating, shown here with a young woman on the ground with her voluminous naked legs wrapped around a young man’s waist above her. She turns her gaze at the viewer while suggestively touching the chin of the youth; he keeps his hat on while keeping his gaze fixed on the girl. The upper portion of the composition gives way to the motif of an old woman seated with one arm stretched to hoist her body on the left side and the other supporting her lowered head. It is hard to tell whether she is awake or asleep, but her posture seems to suggest an uncomfortably dozing figure propped up rather precariously. In contrast to the peculiarity of the large figural composition, the rest of the picture is filled with conventional motifs: a bottle in the shape of the actual object, and a bowl of fruit on the right side of the group; rocky outcrops with a mature tree (large, full leaves) and a bush on either side filling the transitions into the narrow surfaces of the bottle.

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Displaying the bottle(s)

Since display is the driving agenda of this essay, the encounter in the museum with the object is worth recounting. Assuming an interest in the arts of the kiln, one is bound to notice the conspicuously ‘cornered’ spot where the ceramics case stands. There, in the company of a few ‘Islamic’ ceramic shards, tiles and whole vessels, the bottle, despite its location at the farthest corner of the case itself, stands out with its larger size and surface that is more boldly colourful (in apple-green), and shinier (in luster-painted technique) in comparison with the other nearby objects that are smaller, more subtly shaped, and of soberer palette. To see it in its full roundness, and on both sides of it, requires a certain degree of physical exertion, squeezing through the narrow space between its case and the neighbouring one to see what may be on the back of the bottle. Granted, objects in the round are difficult to display in their entirety and they may have only one visually interesting side to show anyway. Nevertheless, in this case, the restriction of one’s access to seeing the other face of the bottle is so deliberate as to invite curiosity. Multiple copies made from this same mould suggest a degree of popularity at the time. In our time, however, the display and publication of all the known examples of the bottle appear to be entangled in contemporary concerns for decorum. Besides the Cairo bottle, I know of one in Tehran’s Abghina Museum, the museum dedicated to glassware and ceramic arts, and another in the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore.7 As in the Cairo University Museum, the Tehran example is pegged against the back of its display case, in this instance so tightly as to make it impossible to see the ‘offensive’ image unless the object is taken out of its case. Interestingly, the Baltimore bottle, while residing in deep storage for a long time, has been once published even though with only a close-up view of the sexually explicit composition and that because of its ‘pornographic’ interest, as evidence in a discussion of erotica in Persian arts and literature.8 One-sided viewing opportunities offered by apprehensive curators in predominantly Muslim societies represent an understandable unease about the bold display of subject matter considered to be unsuitable, and even gravely offensive, for public consumption, or for consumption in public. A corresponding discretion in displaying visual material of this kind seems to drive curatorial decisions in Western museums as well. Rarely does one encounter objects like the Cairo or Baltimore bottles on view from their ‘offensive’ side, and museums rarely show their collections on paper of such compromising themes in the arts from the Islamic world.9 Contrary to, say, Indian erotic arts, which are shown regularly, Islamic ones remain hidden from view in deference to concerns for appropriate segregation of the realms of public and private. Indelicacy in public

The clustering of such thematic pictorial material peaks in the Safavid era of Persian history.10 In works on paper, on objects like the wine bottles, and in wall paintings in the mansions of the wealthy and the palaces of kings, they naturally vary in strategies of display; and some are more explicit than others, some are more in the realm of social commentary than pornography. In principle, however, the swelling in numbers and variety of depictions must have been a response to emerging markets for such art and a corresponding paradigm shift in social toleration of it.11 While the desire for cheaper collectible arts – single-sheet paintings and drawings instead of painted manuscripts, or mass-produced cheaper versions of objects of luxury, although these — 378 —

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glazed bottles were not of the cheap variety – has been linked with the newly enriched, and empowered, social classes and international markets for exotic objects, the case of a corresponding increase in demand for art with erotic connotations remains allusive. There is evidence in Persian material (paintings and poetry as well as religious treatises), however, for a culturally contingent visual view of sex and sexuality in which abstinence from, not desire for, erotic satisfaction is to be considered unnatural and hence contemptible.12 In an earlier study of a group of paintings in which European men are depicted sneaking a view of sleeping naked women, I have argued that the depictions of unfulfilled erotic desire undergird the negative Perso-Islamic views on celibacy, as practised by European missionaries and travellers. Paintings, in that case, foreground cultural practices and habits of seeing, making it possible to channel the representational value of the voices and views of history through the pictorial and the performative. Here, I wish to add to that the extra dimension of strategies of display or manoeuvrings of the privilege of seeing. Paintings on a single sheet have only one side and can be shown or not shown, according to the company and the intimacy of the context. Those choices do not include the subtle possibilities suggested by objects in the round where there is always an awareness of their other, as yet ‘unseen’, sides. Objects like the Cairo bottle allude to the possibility of regulated seeing, of a contextual regimen of sharing in polite company what is tolerable, and reserving the socially intolerable or the indelicate for intimating a different kind of ‘privilege’. In Safavid high society and its cultural habits wine drinking, as an integral part of the rituals of feasting, carried social valences, where, for instance, the shah could confer privilege and invite intimacy by the sharing of wine in public view.13 Considering that the Cairo bottle (and the other examples) were intended for wine, and that sharing in wine, as in food, signalled degrees of proximity and distance among people, the images on the bottle indicate a performative potentiality. The bottle was not so much for intimate use as for a larger circle of social interaction whereby the vessel was given a potentially performative realm of operation with a ‘decent’ and an ‘indecent’ side to its pictures. As such, the object voices strategies of showing and viewing, and alludes to manoeuvrings between private and public zones of social experience; you can be in public but create a private zone within it, to which only a select few may gain the privilege of intimacy and access. The socially delicate side of the object conjures all kinds of poetic allusions and playful references to acts of courting and cajoling; the indelicate side, although also with more subtle allusions and metaphors to expose its social performance, relies nonetheless on its shock value, on the realisation, made visually prominent, of what is going on in the picture. As material cultural evidence, the coordinated functional and visual specificities of the bottle undergird, as suggested here, a facet of social behaviour about which textual sources tend to be less than forthcoming: namely, the protocol regarding seeing, in some form of public setting, a theme that is indecorous and imagery that is sexually explicit. From the vantage point of the twenty-first century, Muslim sexual mores in the pre-modern era are seen by most non-Muslims, and especially by Western Europeans and Americans, to be fixated on the binaries of repression and perversion. Visual evidence, mostly paintings and drawings on paper but also wall paintings, and literary documents, mostly poetic – generally dating from sixteenth- and especially seventeenth-century Safavid Persia – suggest greater nuances of meaning and agentive possibilities than are recognisable to us now. Here, a close reading of the object has aimed to place further emphasis on object ‘sociability’ and on visual performance as one of the most compelling ingredients of Safavid-Persian aesthetic culture. — 379 —

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Notes













1 The bottle has no accession number and is identified in the label to be from China. It is assumed to have come to the University Museum from the collections of the descendents of Muhammad ‘Ali Pasha, whose dynasty ruled Egypt from the nineteenth century to the middle of the twentieth; I thank Dr Hossam el-Din Ismail of Ayn Shams University for this information. My deepest gratitude goes to Dr Sherif K. Shaheen, the Director of Cairo University Central Library, for accommodating my request for access to the object and for photographs. I am also grateful to Mr Mohamed Farid Hussein at the University Museum for making it possible for me to study the object closely and to Mr Ehab for his expert photography of the object. And I thank the Cairo University Library and Museum for the photographs and permission to publish them for this article. I also wish to acknowledge the wonderful opportunity for research I enjoyed as a Fulbright Regional Scholar during the academic year 2009– 10. It was during our initial Fulbrighters’ visit to the Cairo University Central Library that I came across the display case where this bottle sat discreetly in a corner. I wish to thank Dr Bruce Lohoff, the Director of the Binational Fulbright Commission in Egypt and the senior staff, Ranya Rashed and Noha El Kindi, for their assistance in facilitating my access to the object. This will be the first of many publications out of my Fulbright year. 2 The theatrics of Safavid architecture and the performative dimensions of Safavid arts of the seventeenth century have preoccupied a great deal of my research. See, for instance, Sussan Babaie, ‘Visual vestiges of travel: Persian windows on European weaknesses’, Journal of Early Modern History 13 (2009), pp.1–32; eadem, Isfahan and its Palaces: Statecraft, Shi‘ism and the Architecture of Conviviality in Early Modern Iran (Edinburgh, 2008); eadem, ‘The sound of the image/The image of the sound: narrativity in Persian art of the 17th century’, in O. Grabar and C. Robinson (eds), Islamic Art and Literature (Princeton Papers: Interdisciplinary Journal of Middle Eastern Studies special volume) (Princeton, NJ, 2001), pp.143–62; ‘Epigraphy iv. Safavid and Later Inscriptions’, EIr. 3 For technologies of production and dating criteria, I rely on the most recent study of Safavid pottery by Lisa Golombek: Persian Pottery in the First Global Age; the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Toronto, 2010), pp. 65 and 133. I am grateful to Dr Golombek for sharing the manuscript of her superb book. References are therefore to the manuscript sections and not the actual published page numbers. 4 A. Lane, Later Islamic Pottery: Persia, Syria, Egypt, Turkey (London, 1957), p. 109; Golombek, Persian Pottery, pp. 64–5. 5 Golombek, Persian Pottery, p. 65. 6 Golombek’s new book on Persian pottery of the Safavid period focuses on the blue-and-white and the multicoloured, imagerich ware that had been erroneously attributed at first to Kubachi, a village in the Caucasus, and then to north-western Iran, Azerbaijan or even Anatolia. On the evidence of the petrographic analyses of the body materials of these objects and samples from kiln wastes at Qumisheh of Isfahan, Robert Mason and Lisa Golombek have finally settled this question. The Kubachi group was made in Isfahan during the seventeenth century (Golombek, Persian Pottery). 7 I thank Dr Golombek for bringing the Tehran bottle, and the condition of its display, to my attention. As far as I know it is not published. The Baltimore bottle is published in Robert Surieu, Sarvé Naz: An Essay on Love and the Representation of Erotic Themes in Ancient Iran (Geneva, Paris, Munich, 1967), p. 56. I also wish to thank Dr. Amy Landau, Associate Curator in the Department of Manuscripts and Rare Books at the Walters Art Museum, for kindly sending me photographs of both sides of the bottle in that collection. 8 Surieu, Sarvé Naz, p.56. 9 Two Safavid paintings on paper, for example, depict scenes of copulating pairs similar to the moulded ceramic images. Formerly in the Jean Pozzi collection, they are now at the Musée d’art et d’histoire in Geneva. They are published, and have been exhibited, but seemingly only once; Basil W. Robinson et al., Jean Pozzi: L’Orient d’un collectionneur (Geneva, 1992), p.298, nos 293 and 294. 10 For a discussion of this subject, and especially regarding some works on paper, see Babaie, Isfahan and its Palaces. The wall paintings are the subject of a chapter, entitled ‘Frontiers of visual taboo: painted “indecencies” in Isfahan’, in Francesca Leoni and Mika Natif (eds), Eros and Sexuality in Islamic Art (forthcoming, 2013). 11 Various aspects of Safavid social, economic and cultural history have been collected in volumes of essays delivered at the Safavid conferences that used to take place every four years. Charles Melville hosted and edited a volume for one of these: Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society (London, 1996). Others were: Jean Calmard (ed.), Etudes Safavides (Paris-Tehran, 1993; A.J. Newman (ed.), Society and Culture in the Early Modern Middle East: Studies on Iran in the Safavid Period (Leiden, 2003). Rudi Matthee’s studies on the economic history of the Safavids and the socio-political dimensions of consumption of new goods are especially helpful in understanding the actors in the emergent markets of this period: The Politics of Trade in Safavid Iran: Silk for Silver 1600–1730 (Cambridge, 1999); and The Pursuit of Pleasure: Drugs and Stimulants in Iranian History, 1500–1900 (Washington, DC, 2005). On the artistic side, the rise in popularity of single-sheet paintings has been discussed in relation to the newly enriched clientele in such cities as Isfahan and Mashhad: M. Farhad, Safavid Single Page Paintings 1642–66 (PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 1988); Sheila R. Canby, The Rebellious Reformer: The Drawings and Paintings of Riza-ye ‘Abbasi of Isfahan (London, 1996). For a new elite integrated into the royal household but independently wealthy and actively patronising the arts see S. Babaie, K. Babayan, I. Baghdiantz-McCabe, and M. Farhad, Slaves of the Shah: New Elites of Safavid Iran (London and New York, 2004). 12 This is how I have proposed to read the strange group of images with European men peeping at naked Persian women, as commentaries on cultural difference when words would have failed: Babaie, ‘Visual vestiges’. 13 Babaie, Isfahan and its Palaces, pp. 224 ff.

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40 The return engagement of Rostam1 Linda Komaroff

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n his ingenious mixed-media series ‘Rostam 2 – Return’, the Iranian artist Siamak Filizadeh transports the mythical Persian hero Rostam into the context of the present day.2 Riding a souped-up hybrid vehicle – half horse, half motorcycle – Rostam 2 performs his deeds of valour against the backdrop of twenty-first-century Tehran. Filizadeh has cleverly and seamlessly refashioned this ancient account, enacted across four generations and set amidst tragedy, romance, and heroism, in much the same manner as director Baz Luhrmann modernised Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet in the 1996 film version. But in his retelling of this classic Persian tale from the Shahnameh, or Book of Kings, the Iranian national epic, Filizadeh bypasses its universalities in favour of more specific social commentary. As with other literary masterpieces, the Shahnameh has an appeal and an elasticity that has allowed successive generations to discover or invent new meanings. This essay will consider the sources for Filizadeh’s print series, both historical and modern, in order to explore the artist’s satirical manipulation of cultural literacy and national identity. The series consists of 16 prints, most of which are in the form of digitally constructed images juxtaposing photography, illustration and graphic design, which combine to create an implausible reality for the fictitious Rostam and family.3 In drawing upon the rich literary and visual traditions of the Shahnameh, Filizadeh is certainly not unique even among contemporary Iranian artists.4 Indeed, his skilful blending of anachronistic and contemporary details that carry the viewer from the mythical realm of Iran’s greatest hero to the artist’s take on the kitsch consumerism and popular culture of today’s Tehran employs conventions of Shahnameh illustration that are nearly as old as the text itself. — 381 —

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Completed in the year 1010 by the Persian poet Ferdowsi, the Shahnameh recounts the stories of the pre-Islamic kings and heroes of Iran.5 In terms of its epic scope and rhymed narrative, and its sheer impact on the language and life of the nation it immortalises, the text can best be likened to Homer’s Iliad.6 But the Shahnameh is considerably longer than the Iliad, covering as it does hundreds of years of Iran’s mythic and historic past, from the creation of the world to the Arab conquest in 651. It is divided into 50 sections, each devoted to the reign of a king – hence the title ‘Book of Kings’. Unless they were murdered or killed in battle, the kings and heroes who populate the pages of the Shahnameh were exceptionally long-lived and often exhibited magical abilities or supernatural powers. Rostam, his father, Zal, and grandfather, Sam, are the lords of Sistan, a region spanning modern south-eastern Iran and south-western Afghanistan. They are the champions who support the Persian kings and defend them against Iran’s traditional enemy, Turan, the lands of Central Asia north of the Oxus River.7 Sam, the most celebrated warrior of the day, abandoned his newborn son at the foot of the Alburz Mountains out of shame because his hair was white as snow. The infant was rescued by a miraculous bird, the Simurgh, that raised the child as its own. Eventually Sam reclaimed his son, whom he named Zal. The white-haired Zal fell in love with Rudaba, who, although a princess, was a direct descendent of the evil king Zahhak, whose centuries-long reign had decimated Iran. Their marriage was opposed by Sam and the shah but after consultation with astrologers, who predicted that Zal and Rudaba’s offspring would be a great warrior, the lovers were allowed to wed. Rostam was born to Rudaba by Caesarian section with the magical aid of the Simurgh. Possessed of supernatural strength from childhood, Rostam became Iran’s greatest champion. Like his forefathers, he served the shah as a pahlavan, or paladin, triumphing over all obstacles including a series of seven trials, in which he overcame demons and other fantastic beings. A one-night encounter with the beautiful Tahmina, daughter of the king of Samangan, produced a son, Suhrab. Suhrab grew to be a great warrior, but was mortally wounded on the battlefield by his father, Rostam. Only as the youth lay dying did Rostam recognise his son by a keepsake he had given Tahmina. Rostam’s own life, on the other hand, spanned 500 years.8 As befits a legendary hero, Rostam is a multifaceted character, one who often succeeds not merely by strength alone but through magic and cunning.9 Although Rostam is one of the most acutely delineated individuals in the Shahnameh, in visual renditions his innate complexities are generally reduced to his most distinctive physical attributes:10 he wears a tiger-skin robe and a leopard-headed helmet, and rides a magnificent mottled red horse named Rakhsh (Plate 42). Commissioning illustrated copies of the Shahnameh was a preoccupation of Iran’s Islamic rulers, many of whom were neither native to Iran nor literate in Persian.11 In illustrated versions of the epic poem – which only survive from the Ilkhanid period (1256–1353) onward – the king and members of his court are always shown clothed in the style of the day. Therefore, in the earliest preserved illustrated manuscripts of the Shahnameh, Iran’s kings and heroes are represented in the manner of the Mongol elite. In a sense the Ilkhanids first subverted the national epic to support their own agenda, and, in initiating a tradition of illustrated Shahnameh manuscript production, they also instituted a continuing motivation for the patronage of such manuscripts and for the cultural and aesthetic importance of this medium over the following — 382 —

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centuries. Illustrated texts of the Shahnameh could thus be used as a form of political and social propaganda to justify and legitimise the ruling class.12 In extracting the Rostam cycle from the Shahnameh and by blending a well-known mythology with modern-day authenticity, Filizadeh continues in a similar vein to make use of earlier templates, to which he adds his own gloss on the text. Given that Rostam is such a well fleshed-out character, and one who at times exhibits non-chivalrous traits, which may be part of his great appeal, Filizadeh has much material with which to work.13 But the artist’s compositions, like traditional Shahnameh illustrations, are inspired by more than the text itself.14 His imagery is also propelled by the agency of contemporary history lightly superimposed upon the well-known narrative.15 He begins with Sam (Fig. 40.1), a complex figure in the Shahnameh who repents of having tried to kill his infant son, taking an oath to ensure Zal’s future happiness. In Filizadeh’s reworking of the account, the patriarchal Sam is more black and white – literally. Echoing the format of an old studio photograph, Sam is grandly and villainously portrayed as a late nineteenth-century mustachioed Qajar general, covered with medals, and leaning on a sword with jewelled hilt.

FIG.

40.1 Amir Sam, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh (Iran, b. 1974), 2009. Digital print on photo paper.

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Everything is meticulously orchestrated to suggest an historical photograph from the ancien régime, including an inscription across the bottom that supplies the name of a princely photo studio and the hijri date equivalent to 1884. As this is the sole black-and-white image in the series, Filizadeh seems to imply that the colourful images that follow represent a major shift or even rupture. Although Qajar-like in appearance, Sam may therefore serve to embody Iran under the last shah, Muhammed Riza Pahlavi, deposed by the 1979 revolution.16 The next image (Plate 43), which is larger and printed on canvas rather than paper, introduces the main protagonist – Rostam 2. Having been brought up abroad, Rostam 2 has returned home at the age of 30. He is represented as a bazooka-toting, bare-chested bodybuilder, his bulging thighs clothed in the type of short trousers worn by members of the Zurkhana, the traditional ‘House of Strength.’17 To underscore the obvious comparison with Rambo, there is a tiny decal of the film character on Rostam 2’s weapon. Encircling his waist is a Dolce and Gabbana belt, from which hangs a mobile phone, and around his wrist is a Rolex watch. The letter ‘R’ is displayed on his chest, covering a red and yellow insignia reminiscent of the Superman logo. A large tattoo of the magical bird Simurgh covers one arm and serves to link Rostam 2 to the mythical hero. In a similar manner, his face is covered by a mask-like drawing that includes Rostam’s characteristic leopard-headed helmet. In spite of Rostam 2’s exaggerated Qajar-style moustache, the colourful pseudo-Safavid arch that frames the hero and the archaising rocky outcroppings in the background that reference Persian miniature painting, the setting is clearly modern-day Tehran. Visible over Rostam 2’s left shoulder is Burj-i Azadi, or Freedom Tower, built in 1971 to commemorate the 2,500-year anniversary of the Persian Empire. It is a fitting landmark to celebrate the return of Rostam 2, especially given the tower’s pre-1979 Revolution name, Shahyad Aryamihr, or Remembrance of the King.18 In the lower right of the composition is a text box, written in nasta‘liq script and emulating the text blocks in traditional Shahnameh painting (Plate 42). Instead of rhymed couplets, however, this text lists Rostam 2’s bodybuilding awards, his selection as handsomest man of the century, and itemises his deluxe consumer goods, along with their prices. Through words and image, we have here a new iconography for the new Rostam in the new Iran.19 Smaller in scale and printed on paper, the next image in the series mimics a magazine advertisement for ‘Rakhsh ZX–62 Limited Edition’, Rostam 2’s horse-cum-motorcycle that is repeated with slight variation in the following composition (Plate 44), which is in turn captioned: ‘Return of Rostam 2 to Iran to fight the demons of the modern day’. In this largeformat composition printed on canvas, Rostam 2, rendered as a plastic doll with movable arms and upper torso, and carrying an automatic rifle with a martyr-red flower stuck in its barrel, rides Rakhsh through a Persian miniature-style rocky landscape. In the background is the Tehran fast food restaurant ‘Super Star’, with a pair of chador-clad women passing by. Nearby, beneath a tree an ominous figure dressed in a black suit, his back to the viewer, speaks on a mobile phone. This is the first of several glimpses of Tehran’s rich urban topography provided by Filzadeh. The next composition, again large-format and printed on canvas, is the most visually complex and intriguing of the series (Plate 45). Wearing a Hello Kitty necktie, Rostam 2 stands beside his bride, Tahmina. The pair has just exited the wedding chapel, which also serves to divide the print into two sections: the bride or women’s side and the groom or men’s side. To the right of the — 384 —

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bride, who is clothed in a garish green flounced gown with a pink boa and carrying a Burberry bag, is a trio of dancing girls rendered in a distinctive Qajar style. The latter are balanced on the groom’s side by three contemporary jean-clad boys, one of whom provocatively shakes his buttocks towards the viewer. The middle ground includes traditional Persian landscape elements, beyond which are the shops and traffic of Tehran. If the scene is deconstructed along the lines of a Persian miniature painting in which spatial distinctions are often not explicitly delineated, then the dancers on either side of the wedding pavilion occupy some inside/outside adjacency and are clearly engaged in the festivities.20 Their segregation by gender follows the traditional Iranian marriage celebration; this segregation is enforced even today when held in a public space. The sexual nature of the dancing, also in accord with such contemporary events, is not so different from the so-called stag parties that often precede American weddings. Neither the scene nor its caption ‘Rostam 2 meets Tahmina and Straight Away Marries Her’ corresponds to the original text of the Shahnameh but they continue the convention of a later and more prudish interpolation of the account.21 There was no wedding. Instead, Rostam, having lost his horse, Rakhsh, is offered an interesting proposition by the daughter of his host, the ruler of Samangan. Tahmina comes to his chamber by night and offers to assist with the return of Rakhsh if Rostam will allow her to bear his child. He obligingly sleeps with her.22 In updating the scene visually to reflect contemporary customs and mores, Filizadeh also is in accord with earlier illustrators of the text. In one of the first Ilkhanid depictions of this scene, a confident Tahmina, accompanied by a female attendant, is shown entering Rostam’s chamber, probably a reflection of the types of freedom enjoyed by Mongol women. In contrast, in later versions, the female attendant is replaced by a eunuch and Tahmina approaches her eager-looking lover with modest, downcast eyes.23 In shifting the setting to modern-day Tehran, it seems clear that with this badly dressed couple it is the bride, leaning into and towering above the groom, who is the more dominant figure. Filizadeh has interjected among his narrative compositions a group of five magazine covers, which are smaller in scale and printed on paper, and each one highlights a different character. The fictitious, tongue-in-cheek fan magazine is called ‘No! ’, Persian for ‘new’ but here written in Latin characters and rendered as two letters, rather than the more common transliteration ‘naw’ or ‘now’; the cover design is perhaps an allusion to the British tabloid OK!.24 The text on each of the covers is a mixture of Persian and English, the former again in Latin script. On the first cover is the heavily made-up, unibrowed and lightly mustachioed Tahmina (Plate 47). Straight from the realm of the tabloids, the marriage seems already to be in trouble, as Tahmina threatens to file suit against Rostam 2, who has disappeared after the wedding night. Self-proclaimed as the ‘Region’s Biggest Celebrity Magazine’, the covers of No! serve visually both to reinforce the identity of a single character and to expand upon some of the narrative elements, while demonstrating a now universal fascination with celebrity-tinged drama. They also reduce whatever valour, nobility, and mystery these figures possess as they make the transition from mythology to celebrity. Following the story of Tahmina, Rostam 2 is shown, in large-format and printed on canvas, subduing a giant div, or demon (Plate 46). In contrast to the menacing depictions of supernatural divs in historical Shahnameh illustration, this large, curly haired and mustachioed fellow wears colourful ‘JJ Club American Sportswear’ trunks and sits back in a leisurely manner, as though — 385 —

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enjoying a day at the beach. According to the caption, he is one of Tehran’s drug dealers. Unlike Rostam 2’s buff and nearly hairless torso, the div’s untoned and hirsute belly hangs over his waistband; a bottle of vodka is near at hand, perhaps further signaling the div’s debased nature, while his face is pixilated as though to hide his true identity.25 The background is filled with apartment blocks and billboards, suggesting the close proximity of the city. The next character introduced is Zal, father of Rostam 2. Beginning with his own magazine cover, which advertises a world exclusive interview, Zal is personified as an aging, gun-toting redneck with long, white-blond hair and a handle-bar moustache, dark glasses, marijuana-leaf necklace and a belt buckle emblazoned with the word ‘Texas’. In a larger-format print on canvas, Zal poses, rifle in hand, with a reclining lion in a traditional Persian landscape (Plate 48). He has come to join forces with Rostam 2, as the caption of the next print announces (Plate 49). Here, the father and son, armed with high-power rifles and ready to do battle, stand beside a blue truck with puffs of clouds where its tyres should be. That this is a special vehicle intended for the ultimate in off-road driving is further indicated by the blue wings emanating from the truck bed and rendered in the same manner as the wings of the fantastic carved stone guardian beings from ancient Persepolis. In the background is a United Colours of Benetton, one of the dozen branch stores in Tehran. Near a highway overpass Rostam 2 astride Rakhsh overcomes one of the soldiers of evil, as revealed in the next large-format print (Plate 50). The nationality of the cross-eyed, fang-toothed soldier with a Mickey Mouse tattoo, who is riding a hybridised horse-like motorcycle, is revealed by the American flag mounted behind him. As Rostam 2’s sword slices him from helmet to chest, the soldier drops his gun.26 The formalised and rigid combat, set against a quiet, unsuspecting landscape, follows the standard format of battle scenes in Persian miniature painting, rendering it difficult for the viewer to become caught up in the calamity implied by the gory scene. After all, as has often been pointed out, in Persian painting it is always a beautiful day.27 Two more magazine covers follow featuring Rostam 2 and Suhrab, and they build up to and deflate the tragedy that follows. In this version of events, Rostam 2 and Suhrab first take their fight to the tabloids. As in the Shahnameh, the two engage in verbal sparring.28 If Rostam 2 had received the tabloids, it would have become clear to him that Suhrab was his son and the presaged misfortune would have been avoided; nevertheless, he threatens him with ‘I will eat you up, chicken ( joojeh).’29 In contrast to the badly dressed, muscle-bound Rostam 2, Suhrab is recast as the cool, urban hipster with spiky hair, scruffy beard and dragon tattoo. He wears a sleeveless, fishnet shirt and tight jeans; around his neck is perhaps the token Rostam 2 gave Tahmina by which Rostam 2 would recognise his son.30 In what would seem to be the culminating act, in another large-format composition on canvas (Plate 51), and set within a charming, traditional Persian landscape with a flowing river, Rostam 2 cradles the head of his dying son; the motorised loyal Rakhsh waits nearby. In the background is the Burj-i Milad, the tallest structure in Tehran, completed in 2008 as part of the international trade and convention centre. Far below, Suhrab clutches his father with one hand and with the other he gently reaches for a crushed can of Red Bull as though pointing us to the real source of his downfall. Rostam 2 looks toward the viewer, his face, as always, a mask.31 The tragedy does not end, however, with the death of Suhrab as Filizadeh has surprises in store. For his last magazine cover he introduces an undersized and unprepossessing Spiderman — 386 —

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as the grieving friend of Suhrab. But this Spiderman, more like a child in a Spiderman suit than the actual superhero, seems not to be the deus ex machina. Instead, in the final large-format composition (Plate 52), Rostam 2 guns down the petite Spiderman in a quiet park-like setting with the city beyond, and within view of a skip and a billboard advertising Longines watches. As the preceding discussion indicates, Filizadeh is concerned with mixing traditional and modern in terms of form, meaning and technique. He is clearly familiar with the visual language of classical Persian miniature painting; there are often scenes of epic proportions filled with minute detail. As in manuscript illustration in which a whimsically implausible world is created through the juxtaposition of expert draftsmanship, jewel-like colours, and multiple picture planes, Filizadeh constructs a similarly incredible fantasy using recreated images and elements borrowed from manuscript illustrations, contemporary magazine covers and comic books, in which, as in the precision execution of the finest miniature paintings, no element seems too small or insignificant to have escaped the artist’s attention. And just as in manuscript illustration, Filizadeh’s compositions are more about artifice and illusion than reality. Unlike manuscript illustrators, Filizadeh works on a vastly expanded scale. His use of canvas rather than paper as the support for his narrative prints provides an important clue to another more recent source of inspiration. Sometime in the early twentieth century, Iranian artists began to produce large-format oil paintings on canvas that drew especially upon the narrative tradition associated with Shi‘i martyrs, but also stories from the Qur’an and the Shahnameh.32 More folk art than fine art, these so-called parda, or coffeehouse paintings, were closely tied to the performance of naqqālī, or storytelling.33 Episodes from the Rostam cycle were particularly appealing subjects for parda paintings, where such figural compositions could at times overlap or converge with Shi‘i ones;34 this visual conflation of Rostam with Shi‘i martyrology suggests one reason why Shahnameh depictions are tolerated under the Islamic Republic.35 The large, portable, narrative parda paintings have enjoyed renewed interest in recent years both among artists, such as Filizadeh, and with the Tehran public.36 In addition to parda painting, Filizadeh may also have been inspired by some of the many billboards and murals overlooking the major streets and expressways of Tehran.37 In particular, he may have relied on billboards and murals that promote the ideals of the Islamic Republic, such as the ones that commemorate the martyrdom of soldiers in the Iraq war.38 In such oversize images, which mingle photographic or photographically inspired depictions of a shahid, or martyr, and, for example, an open-armed Ayatollah Khomeini welcoming him to a symbolic interpretation of paradise replete with guilelessly rendered birds and flowers, we find the same visual tension and disjuncture between illusion and reality as in Filizadeh’s large-scale compositions. The inclusion of billboards in his cityscapes, though they advertise a more benign product, indicates their omnipresence in the megapolis. Whether his visual inspiration is derived from historical or modern sources, the venue for Filizadeh’s narrative and its meaning is anchored in present-day Iran. Using humour, fanmagazine moralities, and a storyline based on the exploits of Rostam, among the best loved of all Persian narratives, which still resonates deeply in Iranian culture, Filizadeh brilliantly draws us into a kind of strange, contradictory space that is caught between past and present, East and West, and illusion and reality that is perhaps Tehran itself. The main protagonists – Rostam 2, Zal, Tahmina and Suhrab – all enjoy a wide array of high-end Western consumer goods. — 387 —

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Yet it is the symbols of the West and America’s (cultural) invincibility that Rostam 2 blithely destroys – the vodka-drinking giant, the soldier, the ersatz superhero, and even perhaps his own son. By invoking and transforming a common mythology, Filizadeh is able to capture and gently poke fun at one segment of urban society – the bazārīs, the conservative, merchant-based ‘social class’ that supports the ruling elite in Iran.39 Though they have traditionally opposed dependence on the West and the influence of Western culture, the recently affluent bazārīs help drive a consumer economy ranging from northern Tehran luxury condos to imported cars, electronics and designer label clothes and paraphernalia. Rostam 2, with his Zurkhana trousers and white socks and his pricey accessories and transport, personifies this odd dichotomy and he is made menacing by his perpetually masked countenance and deadly weapons. Any inherent contradictions between the milieu of the Rostam cycle and the noncontemporaneous settings of traditional Shahnameh manuscript paintings are largely lost on us, as from the present-day vantage point it is more a matter of the blurred edges of the old and the older. While Filizadeh meticulously fuses old and new imagery in his large narrative compositions, he leaves unintegrated the visually disparate elements of photographic realism and fanciful drawings as though to suggest that the universe of the Shahnameh, personifying the past, does not always easily assimilate into today’s Iran. In this, Filizadeh is echoing the sentiments shared and expressed by other contemporary artists who are likewise contemplating and seeking to define a new Iranian national identity, one that reconciles the past, both distant and recent, with the present.40 By the artist’s reckoning, Rostam 2 was born with the 1979 Iranian revolution; is his paradoxical nature, therefore, intended as a mirror for the post-revolutionary Iranian state? Ultimately, perhaps, Filizadeh’s Rostam 2 series serves as a reminder that epic ideals and storybook heroes often pale in the harsher light of reality. Just as Filizadeh’s Rostam 2 series has an unexpected finale, his work similarly suggests an alternative and darker conclusion. In rendering Iran’s ancient kings and heroes in the guise of their powerful patrons, countless generations of Persian miniature painters were also communicating the agenda of the ruling elite. Perhaps through his Rostam 2 series Filizadeh conveys a related type of message reflecting the new ruling class, which turns a blind eye to the importation of luxury goods from the West but not necessarily its personal freedoms. The literally dark image of Sam (Fig. 40.1) that begins the series and gives way to colour suggests a very specific break with the past and perhaps the notion of kingship. If Sam’s scion Rostam 2 is the new champion of the Iranian state, for those who do not know the new mythology, based on a new type of Book of Kings, although the ruling elite are known by other names, the message is clear: we can destroy you, your heroes, and even your children. The shift from black and white to colour, does not inevitably signal a better world. As the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz would suggest, in the end, Dorothy is grateful to return to black-and-white Kansas. Appropriately, the final words come from a younger colleague based in Tehran, who speaks of the great resonance of the Rostam 2 series. She has said of Filizadeh’s work: ‘It makes me laugh when I see it, and then, a little while later, it makes me cry.’

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Notes









1 I am delighted to be able to contribute an essay to a study in honour of Charles Melville; it is inspired in part by his important work in the area of Shahnameh studies. 2 Filizadeh was born in 1970 in Tehran, where he continues to live and work. LACMA acquired the entire ‘Rostam 2’ series in 2011. I am grateful to Ali Mousavi, Sabrina Lovett, Keelan Overton, Shadi Shafiei, Wheeler Thackston, Sheila Blair and Jonathan Bloom for their kind assistance and/or comments, and to Firuza Abdullaeva for her patience. I am also thankful to Massoud Nader for introducing me to the series and especially to Siamak Filizadeh for producing it; any views contained herein are purely my own, unless otherwise indicated. 3 For a general summary in English, see D. Davis, The Lion and the Throne, Stories from the Shahnameh of Ferdowsi (Washington, DC, 1998), vol. 1, p. 84. 4 For example, Fereydon Ave, Reza Derakhshani, Rokni Haerizadeh, Farah Ossouli, and Khosraw Hassanzadeh in terms of the latter’s interest in the figure of the pahlavān, and, most recently, Shirin Neshat. See M. Milz (ed.), Painting the Persian Book of Kings: Ancient Text and Modern Images (Cambridge, 2010), and especially the preface by Charles Melville, pp. 11–19; several prints from this series are illustrated there as well, see pp. 93–6, 99, 100. The Shahnameh also continues to inspire Iranians working in other media such as writers of fiction and screenplays; for the latter, see Bahram Beyzai, ‘A new prologue to the Shahnameh’, in Mohammad Mehdi Khorrami and Pari Shirazi (eds), Sohrab’s Wars: Counter Discourses of Contemporary Persian Fiction, A Collection of Short Stories and a Film Script (Costa Mesa, CA, 2008), pp. 139 ff. Other non-Iranian artists, who share in a Persianate cultural heritage, especially in South Asia, as well as diaspora artists, also draw upon the Shahnameh for their inspiration, for example, the London-based visual artist Bilal Aquil. 5 On the Shahnameh, see, for example, Davis, The Lion and the Throne; on the date of its completion (8 March 1010), see F. Abdullaeva and C. Melville, ‘Shahnama: the millennium of an epic masterpiece’ (guest editors’ introduction), Iranian Studies 43, no 1 (2010), pp. 1–11. 6 On the comparability of the two epics see, most recently, A. Banani, ‘Reflections on re-reading the Iliad and the Shahnameh’, in F. Lewis and S. Sharma (eds), The Necklace of Pleiades: 24 Essays on Persian Literature, Culture and Religion (Leiden, 2010), pp.63–6. 7 See Dick Davis, ‘Rostam-i Dastan’, Iranian Studies 32, no 2 (1999), pp. 231–42. 8 The Rostam cycle is summarised more eloquently in Davis, The Lion and the Throne, pp. 84 ff. See also Olga M. Davidson, Poet and Hero in the Persian Book of Kings (Ithaca, NY, 1994), pp. 75 ff. 9 See Davis, ‘Rustam-i Dastan’, as well as Sebastiaan den Uijl, ‘The trickster “archetype” in the Shahnameh’, Iranian Studies 43, no 1 (2010), pp.71–90. 10 For an intriguing discussion of Rostam’s character, see Fraser Clark, ‘From epic to romance, via filicide? Rustam’s character formation’, Iranian Studies 43, no 1 (2010), pp. 53–70. 11 Among the most recent studies, see B. Brend and C. Melville (eds), Epic of the Persian Kings: The Art of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh (London and New York, 2010), especially pp. 31 ff. Also, for a summary of Shahnameh studies, see Marianna Shreve Simpson, ‘Shahnameh as text and Shahnameh as image: a brief overview of recent studies, 1975–2000’, in R. Hillenbrand (ed.), Shahnameh: The Visual Language of the Persian Book of Kings (London, 2004), pp. 9–23. 12 See O. Grabar and S. Blair, Epic Images and Contemporary History (Chicago, 1980), which provided the foundation for subsequent studies concerned with the intentionality of the illustrations. 13 See Clark, ‘From epic to romance’. 14 Following in the tradition of manuscript illustration, which generally focuses, and probably quite subjectively, on particular characters and key moments in the text, Filizadeh has selected specific individuals and incidents to visualise the story. For the manuscript tradition, see, for example, R. Hillenbrand, ‘The Iskandar cycle in the Great Mongol Shahnameh’, in M. Bridges and J.C. Bürgel (eds), The Problematics of Power: Eastern and Western Representations of Alexander the Great (Bern, 1996), pp. 203–9. See also B. Brend, Muhammad Juki’s Shahnameh of Firdausi (London, 2010), pp. 137–9, regarding the selection of specific scenes. 15 For the historian of Islamic art, this is an especially exciting process to witness in terms of what it may reveal about traditional illustrated versions of the Shahnameh beyond or apart from the mere service of the text. 16 The Qajars (1721–1924) were succeeded by the short-lived Pahlavi dynasty (1924–79), which was brought down by the Iranian revolution. 17 See L. Ridgeon, ‘Zurkhana between tradition and change’, Iran 45 (2007), pp. 243–66, and especially Fig. 2. 18 Most streets and major monuments built before 1979 carry two names: their official post-revolution names and their previous names by which they continue to be known popularly. 19 Perhaps this is not an entirely new Rostam according to those who closely read the text. The Rostam of the Shahnameh was not without personal vanity – it seems to have been one of his major faults, which leads, in part, to his slaying of Suhrab, while he also appears at times to be rough and uncouth; see Davis, ‘Rustam-i Dastan’. 20 See, for example, the well-known double-page frontispiece from the Bustan made for the Timurid ruler Sultan-Husayn Bayqara, in 1488, in the National Library, Cairo, which depicts a different but equally boisterous celebration; see T.W. Lentz and G.D. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision (Los Angeles, 1989), pp. 260–1. 21 On this, see Davis, ‘Rustam-i Dastan’, p. 237. On the depiction of space and its significance, see R. Hillenbrand, ‘The uses of space in Timurid painting’, in L. Golombek and M. Subtelny (eds), Timurid Art and Culture: Iran and Central Asia in the Fifteenth Century (Leiden, 1992), pp. 76–102. 22 As Dick Davis points out, this is a double transgression for a chivalrous hero: Rostam breaks the rules of hospitality by sleeping with his host’s daughter and has sexual relations outside the bounds of matrimony (Davis, ‘Rustam-i Dastan’, p. 237). 23 See Brend and Melville, Epic of the Persian Kings, nos 18, 48, 75, and 91. See also F. Abdullaeva, ‘Ferdowsi: a male chauvinist or a feminist?’, in M. Milz (ed.), Painting the Persian Book of Kings: Ancient Text and Modern Images (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 103–20. 24 I am grateful to Shadi Shafiei for this suggestion.

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25 The Akvan Div whom Rostam confronts and eventually defeats also has the ability to conceal and change his identity. On this, see den Uijl, ‘The trickster ‘archetype’’’, 77ff. 26 It appears to be an antique Japanese sword rather than an Iranian example in which the hilt has a much wider guard. 27 Perhaps the best examples of this visual dichotomy are to be found in the remarkable Shahnameh of 1444, made for the Timurid prince Muhammad Juki, in the Royal Asiatic Society, London. See Brend, Muhammad Juki’s Shahnameh, nos 7, 9, 16, 17 and 23, in which bloody incidents of murder and mayhem are nearly lost amidst the beauty of the settings. 28 Suhrab taunts his unnamed adversary that he is old, and Rostam counters that with age comes wisdom. When later on Suhrab asks if Rostam, whom he knows to be his father, is the name of his opponent, Rostam, perhaps out of vanity and not wanting to be considered old, denies his identity, and thereby causes the combat to go ahead and Suhrab to be killed; see Clark, ‘From epic to romance,’ pp. 65–66. 29 This unusual form of filicide evokes the Greek myth of the Titan, Kronos, who ate his sons as they were born, for fear that one of them might supplant him. The horrific act is remarkably visualised in Goya’s well-known painting ‘Saturn Devouring his Son,’ c. 1819–23, in the Prado, Madrid. 30 Suhrab’s tabloid response is far more moderate: ‘Young people should be given an opportunity’. The headline above states ‘Military experts say Rostam 2 never fights with children’, which is perhaps a misstatement at least with regard to his own child. On the original Rostam as a father figure, see Davidson, Poet and Hero, pp. 128–41. 31 Rostam, in fact, masks his true identity on more than one occasion by lying about who he really is, see Clark, ‘From epic to romance,’ pp. 65–6. He also physically disguises himself on several occasions, see Davis, ‘Rustam-i Dastan’, p. 235. 32 P. Chelkowski, ‘The art of revolution and war: the role of graphic arts in Iran’, in S. Balaghi and L. Gumpert (eds), Picturing Iran, Art, Society and Revolution (London and New York, 2002), pp. 127–41, and by the same author, ‘Narrative painting and painting recitation in Qajar Iran’, Muqarnas 6 (1989), pp. 98–111; see also I. Flaskerud, Visualizing Belief and Piety in Iranian Shiism (New York, 2010), pp. 85–7. 33 Chelkowski, ‘Narrative painting’. See also H. Sayf, ‘Coffee-House’ Painting (Tehran, 1990), a catalogue of an exhibition at the Riza ‘Abbasi Museum. For an account of such paintings in Tehran coffeehouses in the 1970s, see the book by artist Monir Shahroudy Farmanfarmaian and Zara Houshmand, A Mirror Garden: a Memoir (New York, 2007), pp. 170 ff. 34 See, for example, Sayf, ‘Coffee House’ Painting, nos 39 and 44. 35 See Chelkowski, ‘Narrative painting’, 109. In addition, Ferdowsi’s supposed adherence to Shi‘ism would also help his work to find favour with the present regime in Iran, as might, perhaps, the nationalistic sentiment expressed in the Shahnameh, which at times overrides the notion of kingship, especially in the Rostam cycle; see, for example, Brend and Melville, Epic of the Persian Kings, p.15, and Clark, ‘From epic to romance’, 61 ff. with regard to Rostam’s disregard for Shah Kay Ka’us. 36 Interest in parda painting also includes as well diaspora artists such as Shoja Azari. 37 This is perhaps not surprising given that Filizadeh began his career as a graphic artist. 38 C. Gruber, ‘The writing is on the wall: mural arts in post-revolutionary Iran’, Persica 22 (2008), pp. 15–46. See also H.E. Chehabi and F. Christia, ‘The art of state persuasion: Iran’s post-revolutionary murals’, Persica 22 (2008), pp. 1–13. 39 See A. Keshavarzian, Bazaar and State in Iran: the Politics of the Tehran Marketplace (Cambridge, 2007), especially p. 234; see also N.R. Keddie and Y. Richard, Modern Iran: Roots and Results of Revolution (New Haven, CT and New York, 2003), especially pp.226ff. 40 Perhaps more than that of any other Iranian visual artist, Sadegh Tirafkan’s work reflects this type of questioning. See S. Tirafkan, C. Caujolle and D. Shayega, Sadegh Tirafkan: Iranian Man (Brussels, 2005).

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Index The prefix ‘pl.’ indicates plate.

People Aaron 298, 309 Abaqa, Ilkhan 21, 129–30, 135n50, 141, 143, 149, 154, 310 ‘Abbas I, Shah 184–90, 195, 197, 198n5, 202–5, 261–2, 264, 336, 360, 363, 376 ‘Abbas Khan 193 ‘Abbas Sultan 192–3, 198 ‘Abbasi, ‘Ali Riza 335, 360, 362, 376, pl.17 ‘Abbasi, Muhammadi 335 ‘Abbasids 21, 35, 48, 54, 96–7, 122, 159, 299, 324 ‘Abd al-Jabbar 360, 361, 368 ‘Abd al-Majid, Darvish 361 ‘Abd al-Malik (Umayyad Caliph) 299 ‘Abd al-Rashid, caligrapher 360 ‘Abd al-Razzaq 50 ‘Abdallah Shirazi 337, 339 Abdülhamid II, Sultan 303 Abdullaeva, Firuza 229n1 Abdülmecid, Sultan 298, 303 Abel 306 Abraham 298–9, 307–9, pl.8 Abu ‘Abdallah al-Shi‘i 54 Abu Dulaf b. Muhalhil 15, 19, 21 Abu Hamid Muhammad 64 Abu Hanifa, Imam 34 Abu Sa‘id, Ilkhan 130, 148 Abu Salih al-‘Ajami b. 88 Abu Shama 87–8, 139 Abu’l-‘Abbas Muhammad 54 Abu’l Khayr, Abu Sa‘id 276

Adam 306 al-‘Adil I (Ayyubid sultan) 96 ‘Adil Sultan 173, 174 ‘Adilshah 131 Adur-Burzen-Mihr 17 Afnan, Soheil 2 Afrasiyab 19, 240, 351 Afrin, Dahman 239 Afshar 11, 13 Agha Muhammad Khan 214–15 Ahmad, Qadi 336–7 Ahmad b. Hanbal 62 Ahmad Tegüder, Ilkhan 131, 164n65, 257 Ahmadinejad, Mahmoud 6 Ahmed I, Sultan 300 Ahriman 37, 40, 45n87, 307 Ahura Mazda 41 Akbar 302 Akbar, Sultan 188, 203 Akbar, Ustá 226 Alfonso X 35 Algar, Hamid 265 Alghu 131 ‘Ali 262–3 ‘Ali b. Abi Talib, Imam 265 ‘Ali Ashraf 367 ‘Ali Mardan Khan 197 Allah Verdi Khan 196 Allsen 124 Alp Arslan (Seljuq sultan) 85 — 391 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Altun-aba 95–6 Amini, Fadlallah Ruzbihan Khunji 202 al-Amir (Fatimid) 56 Amir ‘Abd al-Mu’min Han b. ‘Abdallah 342 Amir Khusraw Dihlavi 332, 343, 370, pl.19 Anahid 17 Anaxandridas 26–7 Angra Mainyu 45n87 Anooshahr, Ali 49 Anpu 237–8 al-Ansari, Ayyub 300 Anthia 241 Anushirvan b. Khalid 48, 79–85, 89 Anwari 271, 274, 277 Aqa Buzurg 366 Aram, Ahmad 60, 68n5 Arat, Reşid Rahmeti 163n45 Arberry, A.J. 1–2, 5, 235 Arcimboldo, Giuseppe 347 Arghun Agha 115, 117–18, 129, 131 Arghun Khan 115–17, 251–9, 260n8, 310 Arifi 339 Aristotle 26 Armaghanshah, Mubariz al-Din 101n11 Arnold, T.W. 313n7 Arsake 241 Arslanshah (Seljuq ruler of Kirman) 74 Ashley, Maurice 123 Asiq 131 Asjadi 247 ‘Attar 4, 273–4, 353, 363 Atwood, Christopher 126 Aubin, Jean 169, 171 Avery, Peter 6 ‘Ayn al-Qudat 2 Ayyubids 54, 78–9, 85–9, 95, 97–8, 101n15, 138, 151, 325n15 Azad, Darvish 363 ‘Aziz al-Din 80–1, 83–7 al-‘Aziz Muhammad 98 al-‘Aziz ‘Uthman 88 Baba Faghani Shirazi 275 Baba Ishaq 159 Baba Rukn al-Din 367 Babayan, Kathryn 188 — 392 —

Bacchylides 28 Badawi, ‘Abd al-Rahman 62 al-Badawi, Shaykh Sayyid Ahmad 300 Bafqi, Vahshi 275 al-Baghdadi, ‘Abd al-Latif 105 Baha’ al-Din 85, 115, 117 Bahar, Malik al-Shu‘ara 11, 13, 42n11 Bahram V 12 Bahram Gur 345 Bahram b. Mardanshah 36 Bahram Mirza 332 Bahram al-Mu’ayyad 42n28 Bakharzi, Shaykh Sayf al-Din 171 Baktut 169 Bal‘ami, Abu ‘Ali 33–7, 39–40 Bamberg, James 5 Bamdad 13 Baqir, Nawab Mirza Muhammad 362 Barbaro 181 Barlas, Hajji 171–2 Bastami, Furughi 275 Bata 237–8, 242 Batu 118, 131, 180 Bausani, Alessandro 261, 265 Bayanquli (Buyanquli) Khan 171, 174 Bayazid I, Sultan 174 Baybars 140, 150 Bayhaqi 46, 76 Baynal 154 Bayqara, Sultan Husayn 330 Baysun Temür Khan 171 Baysunqur 245–6 Beerbohm, Sir Max 235–6 Bell, Gertrude 2 Bellan, Lucien 188 Berkyaruq 50 Bidil Dihlavi 275 Bihzad, Kamal al-Din 335–6, 370 Biktash Khan Afshar 187, 188, 190–4, 198 Bilqis 22, 364, 368 Birjand, Ra’is Hasan Salah al-Din Munshi 54 al-Biruni 37, 306–7, 313, 315n53, 315n54, 315n55, 315n65 Bistami, Bayazid (Abu Yazid) 365, 367 Bistami, Mirza Muhammad Nasir 365–6 Bistami, Muhammad Nasir Bayazidi pl.18

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Bizhan 350–2, 355–6, 357n9 Börte 135n51 Bosworth, C.E. 46, 51 Bouver, Major-General 179 Bouyges, Maurice 62, 68n8 Bozqosh, Atabeg 73–5 Brend, Barbara 347 Browne, E.G. 2, 5–6, 218–29, 229n4 229n9, 235, 342, pl.2 Bucephalus 348 Bugha 257–8 Bukhtnassar pl.9 Bulughan Khatun ‘Buzurg’ 129, 130, 131 al-Bundari 49, 78–9, 86, 91n73 Bunyad Beg Dhu ’l-Qadr 196 Buqa, Toghan 130 Burulday 170–1 al-Busti, Abu ’l-Fath 50 Butterworth, Jill 221 Calmard, Jean 261–2, 265 Carpini, Plano di 99 Cartwright, John 185 Catherine the Great 179 Chaghatai (Mochi Yebe) 129, 134n39, 134n41 Chaghatayid Khanate 142, 170–1 Chang-ch’un 108, 127 Chardin, Jean 198 Chariclea 241 Chin-Temür 107, 115–16, 118 Chinggis Khan 105–9, 114, 121–4, 127–9, 131–2, 134n26, 135n51, 141, 148, 170, 179, 186, 312 Chinggiz Khan of Baroach 203 Chingsang, Bolad 123–4 Chishti, Shaykh Mu‘in al-Din 203 Churchill, Winston 123 Çiğ, Kemal 338 Cleaves, Francis Woodman 163n45 Cleomenes 27 Crane, Howard 151 Cyno 241–2 Da’i Shirazi 342 Dalrymple, Theodore 219 Daniel, Elton 33–4, 41n8

Danishmandche b. Hindu b. Turkhan b. Malik b. Ögedei b. Chinggis Khan 170–1 Darguzini, Abu ’l-Qasim 80–5 Daryaee, Touraj 43n33 Da’ud b. Sultan Mahmud (Seljuq) 84 Davis, Dick 238, 240s Dayir 154 Deakin, William 123 Deinomenids of Sicily 28–9 Demainete 242 Demotte, Georges 346 Despina Khatun 135n50 Dickson, Martin Bernard 329, 334 Dionysius I 29 Diya’ al-Din 84 Doquz 129 Dorieus 27 Dorje, Tsewang 179 Du’a Khan 171 Duda, Dorothea 338–9 Durand-Guédy, David 48–50, 79 Durukan, Aynur 162n36 Dust Muhammad 336 Edigü-Temür 116 Edmonds, Cecil J. 2 Edward, Prince 142–3 Eli, High Priest 309, pl.8 Elizabeth II, Queen 6 Ethé, Hermann 236 Euripides 236 Eve 306 Evliya Çelebi 299 Faghani, Baba 275 al-Fa’iz 316 Fakhr al-Mulk b. Nizam al-Mulk 50, 63–5, 69n47 Falsafi, Nasrullah 188 Farahani, Qa’im Maqam 272 Faramarz pl.5 Farangis (Farigis) 352 Farigh-i Gilani 261–5 al-Farisi, ‘Abd al-Ghafir 69n47 Farnbag, Adur 17 Farrukhi Sistani 50, 247, 276 Fath ‘Ali Khan Saba 272–3 — 393 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Fath ‘Ali Shah 214–15, 365, 367–8 Fath Khan 301 Fatima Khatun 117, 135n79 Fatimids 53–6, 316, 320, 324–5, 325n5, 325n15, 326n19 Ferdowsi 100, 210, 236, 238, 240, 245–6, 272–3, 345, 350, 352, 354–5, 382, pl.5 Ferman, James 235 Filizadeh, Siamak 381, 383–4, 386–8, 389n2, pls21–4 Findiriski, Sayyid Abu Talib 187 Fouchécour, C.H. 60 Frik 249–51, 256–9, 259n1 Frye, Richard N. 163n45 Gabriel, Archangel 303 Ganj ‘Ali Khan 197 Gardizi 47–8 Gawhar Khatun 81 Gayumarth 36–41, 43n33, 43n40, 44n46, 44n51, 44n60, 44n71, 45n87, pl.1 Gelon 28 al-Ghazali 59–66, 68n8, 69n47 Ghazan Khan (Ilkhan) 130, 141, 143, 150, 152, 162n36, 258, 308–9 Ghaziyya Khatun 98 Ghaznavids 46–51, 274 Ghuzz 71, 73, 75, 77n18 Gibbon, Edward 212 Giv 351, 353, 357n9 Gog 105 Golden Horde 127, 129, 132, 136n80, 137, 140, 142–4, 177–8, 180 Golombek, Lisa 376, 380n6 Grabar, Oleg 334 Grafftey-Smith, Laurence 2 Graves, Robert 276 Gregory the Illuminator, Saint 258 Gunabadi, Muhammad Parvin 42n11 Gurgani, Fakhr al-Din As‘ad 238, 240, 242, 273 Gurgin 351, 355 Güyük 128

Hafiz-i Abru 44n60, 170–1 al-Hallaj, Mansur see Mansur al-Hallaj al-Hamidi, Hatim b. Ibrahim 55 al-Harawi, ‘Ali b. Abi Bakr 297 Harawi, Muhyi 342 al-Harawi, Qadi Zayn al-Islam Abu Sa‘d Muhammad b. Nasr 83 Harawi, Sayfi 117 Haris 263 Harrell 28 Hasan, Kur 195 Hasan, Muhammad 368 Hasan Hajji 107 Hasan-i Sabbah 65 al-Hasani, Mir ‘Imad 360–1 Hatim Beg Urdubadi 193 Haviland 222–3 Hay, Denys 123 Heliodorus 236, 240 Heraclius 21 Herodotus 27 Hesiod 28 Het‘um 141 Hieron 27–8 Hippocrates 27 Homer 27, 29, 236, 382 Houghton Jr, Arthur A. 332 Houtsma, M.T. 79 Huff, Dietrich 22 Hülegü, Ilkhan 106, 129, 131, 141, 310 Humayan Khan 363, 365 Hurami the Harp Player 247 Husayn, Amir 172–4 al-Husayn, Imam 301, 322 Husayn, Mirza 362 al-Husayni, Muhammad b. ‘Ala al-Din 361 al-Husayni, Muhammad Husayn 343 al-Husayni, Qadi Ahmad b. Mir Munshi see Ahmad, Qadi al-Husayni, Sadr al-Din Abu ’l-Hasan ‘Ali 48 Hushang 37–9, 44n53, 44n68, pl.1 Hystaspes 241

Habibi, ‘Abd al-Hayy 47–8 Habrocomes 241 Hafiz 274–5, 277–8, 353, 355

Ibn al-Athir 81–2, 85, 105, 107, 109 Ibn Battuta 127, 129, 132, 136n80 Ibn Bibi 92, 96–100, 101n2, 161n8, 161n13, 161n16

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Ibn Hubayra 80 Ibn Ishaq 299 Ibn Jaja, Nur al-Din b. Jibra’il b. Baha’ al-Din 147, 149–51, 153–60, 162n28, 162n36, 163n45, 165n59 Ibn Khallikan 84, 88 Ibn al-Muqaffa‘ 36 Ibn Shaddad 86, 150 Ibn al-Shihna 152 Ibn Sina 2 Ibn Wasil 87, 145n1 Ibn Zulaq 53 Ibrahim, Hafiz 367 Ibrahim, Hajji 215 Ibrahim, Muhammad b. 264 Ibrahim, Shaykh 363 Ibrahim, Sheikh 226 Ibrahim, Sultan 340n26 Ibrahim Sultan 347 Idris, Shaykh 363 Idris ‘Imad al-Din 53, 55–7, 79–83, 85–9, 89n2, 90n20 İhsan, E. 149 Ildegüz, Atabeg 72, 74, 76f Ilkhans/Ilkhanids 21, 54, 106, 122–4, 127, 129–32, 134n20, 135n50, 135n73, 137–44, 148–9, 151–2, 154–5, 159, 161n8, 163n55, 164n65, 169, 249, 251, 258, 307–10, 312, 351, 382, 385 see also Mongols Imam Quli Khan 347 Inju, Abu ’l-Muhammad 195 Iqbal, Javid 5 Iqbal, Muhammad 5, 48 Iraj 275 Isfahani, Hamza 37 al-Isfahani, ‘Imad al-Din 48, 76, 78 al-Isfahani, Jamal al-Din al-Jawwad 85 Isfahani, Mirza Kuchak 361, 365 Isfahani, Nishat 275 Isidor of Charax 17 Iskaf, Abu Hanifa 247 Iskandar (Alexander the Great) 22, 239–40, 348 Iskandar Beg Munshi 188, 194, 201, 204–5 Isma‘il, Siraj al-Din 150 Isma‘il I, Shah 189–90, 336, 363 Isma‘il II, Shah 186

Isma‘il b. Ahmad (Samanid) 33, 35 Isma‘il Khan 196 Ismailis 34–5, 52–7, 65, 71, 77n17, 81, 83, 88, 115, 122, 271 ‘Ismat al-Din Malika Khatun al-‘Adiliyya 96, 98 Istakhr 195 It Kujujuk 136n80 Ivanov, Anatoliy 366 ‘Izz al-Din Qilij Arslan III 94, 96 Ja‘far al-Sadiq 56, 367 Jaffier Ali Khan 213 Jahan, Qadi 339 Jajjar Khan Habshi 203–4 Jalal al-Din 106, 108 Jamal al-Din 85 James of Aragon 143 Jami, ‘Abd al-Rahman 236, 238, 242–3, 244n56, 274 Jamillu, Hamza Beg 192 Jebe 108–10 Jesus Christ 17, 62, 240, 281, 292n10, 310–13 John the Baptist 311 John of Plano Carpini (Giovanni da Pian del Carpine) 141 Jones, Sir William 278 Joseph 240 Juki, Muhammad 390n27 Junabadi, Mirza Beg 188, 194 Jungar Khanate 178 Jurbadhqani 48 Juvayni, ‘Ala’ al-Din ‘Ata Malik 54, 107–10, 114–18, 122, 133n6 Juybari, Hidayat b. Mu‘in al-Din Khwaja ‘Abd al-Rahim 347 Juzjani, Minhaj al-Din 106–7, 112n42, 113n49, 119n5, 122 Kabuli, Mas‘um Khan 302 Kabulshah Ughlan 172–3 Kadid, Kyr 99 al-Kafi, al-Kamil b. 82 Kamal al-Din Abu Hamid Muhammad 86 Kamal al-Mulk al-Sumayrami 81, 85–6 Kamyar, Kamal al-Din 96–9 Karim Khan 367 Kashani, Kalim 275 — 395 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Katib of Riza, Muhammad b. ‘Ala al-Din 344 Katouzian, Homa 200n72 Kawad I 13 Kay Ka’us (Avestan Kay Us) 19, 239, 352–3 Kay Khusraw (Khusraw I) 19–20, 23, 350–1, 354–6, 357n9, 357n12 Kayka’us I 101n15 Kaykhusraw I, Ghiyath al-Din 96, 155 Kaykhusraw II, Ghiyath al-Din 92–9 Kaykhusraw III 149 Kayqubad I, ‘Ala’ al-Din 92, 94–5, 98, 100, 101n4 Kazim Darvish 363 Kebeg 169 Kenan 36 al-Khabushani, Najm al-Din 86 Khadivjam, Husayn 60–1, 68n5 Khan, Florence 235 Khaqani 271, 277 Khayyam, ‘Umar 276, 291n1 Khidr 172 Khudabanda, Shah Muhammad 187, 189, 265, 336 Khujandi, Kamal 274–5 Khunji see Amini, Fadlallah Ruzbihan Khunji Khurasani, Bulughan 135n73 Khurshah, Rukn al-Din 54 Khusraw II 21, 24n16 Khwaja, Muhammad 171 Khwarazmi, Sharaf al-Din 115–18 Khwarazmians 93–8, 100, 106, 111, 173, 238 Kirmani, Afdal al-Din 70, 76, 77n19 al-Kirmani, Hamid al-Din 53 Kirmani, Khwaju 263, 274–5 Knuniantz, Zakaria 347–8 Köpek, Sa‘d al-Din 92–100 Köprülü 163n45 Körgüz 115–18 Kuchak, Mirza 364, 367, 369n26 Kül-Bolad 116 Kundughdi, Khassbeg b. 85 Kybele 241 Lambton, A.K.S. 125 Lancaster, Osbert 235 Lane, Arthur 376 Leskov, N. 242 Lloyd Webber, Andrew 236 — 396 —

Lockhart, Laurence 2–3, 5 Loraine, M.B. 2 Louis IX 138, 141–2 Lucifer 307 Lyons, M.C. 2, 235 Mackenzie, D.N. 12 Maclean, Fitzroy 2 al-Mafarrukhi 50 al-Maghribi, Abu’l-Hakam 86 Magog 105 al-Mahdi (Fatimid) 56 Mahdi, Mirza 367 Mahdi Beg 337 Mahmud, Ghiyath al-Haqq wa ’l-Din (Timurid) 174 Mahmud of Ghazna, Sultan 47, 49–50, 246–7, 270–1 Mahmud b. Muhammad, Seljuq sultan 80, 82, 84, 86 Mahpari Khatun 101n4 Majd al-Din 95 Majlisi, Muhammad Baqir 187 al-Makki 62 Malcolm, Major-General Sir John 209–16, 216n1 Malik, Rahim Rida-zada 47–8 Malik Dinar 70, 72, 75, 77n19 Malik Muhammad 363 al-Malik al-Salih Najm al-Din Ayyub (Ayyubid) 87–8, 139–40, 152 al-Malik al-Salih Tala’i (Fatimid vizier) 316 Malik Shah 50 Mamai Khan 180 Mamluks 132, 137–44, 146n32, 149–52, 159, 257, 300 al-Manazi, Abu Nasr 257 Manfred 143 al-Manini, Shaykh Ahmad 47 Manizha 350–2, 354–6 Mann, Thomas 236 al-Mansur (Fatimid Caliph) 56 Mansur I b. Nuh (Samanid) 33–4 Mansur al-Hallaj 363 Manuchihri Damghani 270–1 Maqam, Qa’im 272 Maraghi, Awhadi 273

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Martai Khatun 135n50 Martin of Troppau 123 Martinez, A.P. 48 Marwan b. ‘Ali b. Salama b. Marwan 86 Mary 310–11 Mashaya/Mashyana 37 see also Mishyana Mashhadi, Sultan ‘Ali 360 Mashi 37 Mason, Robert 376 Massé, Henri 48 Mas‘ud of Ghazna, Sultan 49 Mas‘ud b. Muhammad (Seljuq sultan) 84–5 Mas‘ud Sa‘d Salman 271 Mas‘um 366 Mawdud b. Mas‘ud (Ghaznavid) 48 Maymandi, Ahmad b. Hasan 50 Mazda, ‘Abbas 367 Mazdak 13 McGlew, J.F. 30n45 Mehmed II, Sultan 301 Meisami, Julie 34, 60 Melville, Charles 1, 5–6, 11, 26, 34, 68n1, 70, 78, 114, 137, 174, 198n1, 235, 240, 249, 278, 313n1, 329, 334, 341, 351–2, 375, 389n1 Mihr 17 Miltiades 27 Minns, E.H. 2, 5 Minorsky, V. 240 Mir ‘Imad pl.17 Mir Miran 193, 198 Mirza ‘Ali 337, 340n26 Mirza Sa‘id Khan 5 Misha 307 Mishyana 307 Mö’etügen 108 Mohammad Nubbee Khan 210 Möngke, Great Khan 131, 141 Mongols 21–3, 54, 70, 73, 93–4, 99–100, 105–11, 111n4, 112n18, 113n48, 113n63, 113n81, 114–16, 118, 120–33, 135n51, 135n58, 137–44, 147–55, 159–60, 162n32, 163n50, 163n55, 164n63, 169–70, 172, 174–5, 177–81, 186–7, 249–51, 257, 259, 260n8, 260n9, 260n22, 274, 307–8, 310, 313, 314n21, 382, 385 see also Ilkhans/ Ilkhanids

Montesquieu, Charles-Louis de Secondat, Baron de 240 Mordtmann, A.D. 164n78 Morgan, D.O. 124 Morier, James 209, 212 Morton, Alexander 125n4 Mottahedeh, Roy 2 al-Mu’ayyad al-Shirazi 54 Mu’ayyid al-Din 87 Mubad 238 Mughals 199n7, 201–2, 204–5, 275, 302, 331, 333n6, 344–5, 348, 349n14, 360–1, 363 Muhallab b. Muhammad b. Shadi 14n4 Muhammad, Prophet 22, 36, 56, 61–3, 74, 123, 214, 263–4, 297–9, 301–4, 306, 335, 343, pls6–7 Muhammad, Sultan 334, 336, 338–9, 340n26, pls13–14 Muhammad ‘Ali Pasha 380n1 Muhammad b. Bahramshah 70, 72–5 Muhammad Baqir 367 Muhammad Beg 336–9, pl.14 Muhammad Khan Turkman 187 Muhammad Khudabanda see Khudabanda, Shah Muhammad Muhammad Nur, Sultan 337 Muhammad Nur al-Din 48, 85–8, 322–3, 325 Muhammad Tapar b. Malikshah 49, 64, 74, 80 Muhammadi 346 Muhammed Riza Pahlavi see Pahlavi, Muhammed Riza Muhyi al-Katib 342 Mu‘in al-Din Parvana 149–50 Mu‘in al-Din Sulayman 100 Mun‘im, Shaykh 363 Munjik Tirmidhi 247 al-Muqri’, Kafi al-Din Abu ‘Abd Allah Badal b. Abi Tahir b. Shirshahr b. Jājā b. ‘Abdallah al-Jili 161n21 al-Musabbihi 53 Musawwir, Muhammad Sharif 347 Musawwir, Mu‘in 362 Mustafa 303 Mustafa ‘Ali 336 al-Musta‘li 56 al-Mustansir 56 — 397 —

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Mustawfi, Hamdallah 109 Muzaffar ‘Ali Shirazi 337, 339 Muzaffar al-Dawla wa’l-Din 71 Nabchi 154 Nadir Shah 367 Najaf, Aqa 367 Nafisa, Sayyida 320, 325 Nafisi, Sa‘id 48 Na’ini, ‘Ibrat 275 Najm al-Din 87 al-Nasawi, Shihab al-Din Muhammad b. Ahmad 106 Nasir, Shaykh Muhammad 367 Nasir-i Khusraw 53, 271 Nasr b. Ahmad (Samanid) 33 Nasr Allah Mirza 363 al-Nasrani, Abu’l-Hasan ‘Isa b. al-Fadl 86 Natanzi, Afushta-i 171–4, 186, 188, 191, 195 Naumann, Rudolf 22 Nayman, Hamid Khwaja 172 Nazim, Muhammad 47 Nebuchadnezzar 22, 309 Necipoğlu, Gülru 324 Newman, Andrew 188 Nimrod 22 Nishapuri 348 Nizam al-Din 86 Nizam al-Mulk 202 Nizami Ganjavi 273, 329, 332, 353, 363, 367 Nosal 115–16 Noyan, Naya 131 Nujin 135n50 al-Nu‘man, al-Qadi 53, 56 al-Nuwayri 139 Ögedei, 109, 115–17, 129 Oghul, Pulad 173 Oghul, Qadam 129 Oghul, Surghudu 171 Ohrmazd 17–18, 21, 44n60, 45n87 O’Kane, Bernard 347 Öljei Khan 131 Öljeitü, Ilkhan 127, 130–1 Omidsalar 11, 13 Orbelian, Step‘anos 251, 258 Orghina Khan 131 — 398 —

Osiris 239 Otchigin 134n26 Ottomans 35, 60, 68n12, 160n1, 161n8, 162n33, 163n52, 163n59, 174, 178, 189, 192, 204, 212, 298–304, 332, 336, 338, 349n16, pl.7 Özbek 110 Özel, Oktay 164–5n59 Pahlavi, Muhammed Riza 384 Pahlawuni, Grigor Magistros 257 Palaeologus, Michael 142 Paul, Jürgen 147–8, 159–60 Peacock, Andrew C.S. 33–5, 41n8, 47, 50–1 Pelliot, Paul 163n45 Perry, John R. 2 Persinna 241 Petlin, Ivan 178 Petrushevskii, I.P. 105 Phaedra of Seneca 236 Plutarch 27, 240 Poliorcetes, Demetrius 29 Polo, Marco 123, 129, 132 Polonus, Martinus 123 Pope, Arthur Upham 22 Porter, Sir Robert Ker 22 Porter, Yves 354 Prisse d’ Avennes 316–18 Qa’ani 277 Qa’ani Shirazi 272 al-Qadi al-Fadil 79, 88 Qadi Kamal al-Din 86 al-Qa’im (Fatimid) 56 Qajars 211, 214–16, 218, 274, 301, 359, 366, 383–5, 389n16 Qalawun, Sultan 140, 144 al-Qalqashandi 149–50 Qandahari, Muhammad ‘Arif 201–3, 205 Qaraja, Husam al-Din 99 Qaramanlu, Farhad Khan 188 Qaratay, Jalal al-Din 99 Qashani 123 Qasim, Muhammad 362 Qasim ‘Ali, 370 Qaymari, Husam al-Din 95, 98

i n d e x o f pe o ple

Qaytbay 300 Qazaghan 170–2 Qazan 170–2 Qazvini, Mirza Muhammad 47 Qizil Arslan, Atabeg 71–5, 76f, 77n10, 77n17 Qizilbash, Shi‘i 261 Qubilai Khan 132, 308 al-Quda‘i 53 Quli, Najaf 366 al-Qummi, Abu Tahir 82 Qummi, Najm al-Din 83, 89 Qummi, Qadi Ahmad 188, 193, 196 Qummi, Umayra b. Dara 83, 85, 87 Qutlughshah Khatun 130 Qutui Khatun 131 Qutuqu, Shigi 135n51 Ra 237 Rabi’, Shaykh 363 Rabib al-Dawla 81 Rachewiltz, Igor de 124 Racine, J. 236 Ra‘il 242 Ramstedt, G.J. 163n44 al-Rashid Billah (‘Abbasid) 84, 86 Rashid al-Din 106, 121–4, 129–31, 134n36, 134n38, 134n40, 141, 309–10 Rasulids 55, 57 Rawandi 111 Rawghani, Sultan Muhammad 336–7 Rawlinson, Henry Creswicke 22 Rawshan 24n11 Ray, J. 238 Razi, Najm al-Din 106 Rexroth, K. 236 Reynolds, J. 48 Ritter, Hellmuth 60–1 Robinson, B.W. 367 Roemer, Robert 188 Ross, Denman Waldo 342 Rostam 381–3, 385, 388, 389n19, 390n25, 390n28, pls21–4 see also Rustam Rostam 2 384–8 Roxburgh, David 335 Ruben, Walter 157 Rudaki 271–2, 279–91

Rukn al-Din III 96 Rumi, Mawlana Jalal al-Din 158, 272–4, 277, 353 Ruqayya, Sayyida 322, 325 Russell, J. 239 Rustam 213, 347, 352, 355 see also Rostam Sabiq al-Din Abu Bakr 72 Sabir, Adib 277 Sa‘d al-Dawla 258, 260n8, 309 Sa‘di 272–7 Sadiq, Aqa 367 Sadiq, Muhammad 362–7, pl.18 Sadiqi Beg Afshar 337, 345 Safavids 148, 185–90, 192, 194, 197–8, 200n70, 201–2, 204–5, 261, 274, 329, 331–7, 339, 346, 348–9, 350n40, 362, 375–6, 378–9, 380n2, 380n9, 380n10, 384, pl. 21 Safi, Shah 185, 188, 190, 198n4 Safi al-Din 80, 84–5, 90n54 Sa’ib Tabrizi 275 Said, Edward 209–10 Saladin 78–9, 88–9 Salih, Muhammad 361 Sam (grandfather of Rostam) 382–3 Sam Mirza 337–8 Samaghar 154 Samanids 33–5, 40–1, 47, 49 al-Samarqandi, Abu ’l-Qasim 35 Samarqandi, Hakim 35 Samarqandi, Muhammad Murad 347 Samdaghu 154 Sana’i Ghaznawi Tanındı 271, 273–4, 341–4, 348–9 San‘an, Shaykh 363 Sanjar, Sultan 50, 65, 74, 81–2, 84 Saray Mulk Khatun 171 Sartaq 131 Sasanians 11–13, 15–24, 24n5, 36–7, 41, 42n29, 43n33, 43n42, 242, 244n24 Savaji, Salman 274 Savory, Roger 188, 198n5 Sayili, Aydin 157 Sayyid Mas‘ud Ghazi 301 Sayyidi ‘Ali 339 — 399 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Schimmel, Annemarie 339n2 Schmidt, Erich F. 22 Schmitz, Barbara 346 Sebüktegin 47, 50 Seljuqs 21, 48–51, 54, 121, 152–3, 155, 158–60, 161n16, 164n66, 274, 324 of Anatolia 92–100, 101n11, 101n15, 101n16, 148–50, 323 of Iran, Iraq and Central Asia 63–5, 70, 72–6, 76f, 77n7, 77n23, 78–81, 83–9, 91n78, 126 Senih 303 Shabistari, Mahmud 273, 343 Shabuhr I 16–17 Shadishah, Muhammad Qasim 342 Shaghad pl.5 Shah Jahan 360 Shah Verdi Sultan 196 al-Shahrazuri, Kamal al-Din 85–6 Shahriyar, Muhammad Husayn 275 Shahrukh 174, 245 Shaked, Shaul 43n33 Shakespeare, William 240 Shami 173–4 Shams al-Mulk b. Nizam al-Mulk 81–2, 84, 90n37 Shaybani, Fathullah Khan 272 Sherley, Anthony 185 al-Shihab As‘ad 83 Shirkuh, Asad al-Din 87–8 Shirvani, Khaqani 271 Shklovsky, Viktor 275 Shukrallah, Derwish 229 al-Sijistani, Abu Ya‘qub 53 Simonich, Count Ivan Osipovich 368 Simonides 29 Siyamak 37, 39–40, 44n51 Siyavush, Prince 238, 244n40, 352–3, pls3–4 Smidt, Jan 198n4 Spendarmad 37, 44n46 Spenta Mainyu 45n87 Srosh 40 Stchoukine, Ivan 334, 338 Stokes, G.G. 6 Sübe’etei 108–10 Subtelny, M.A. 174 — 400 —

Sudaba 238–40, pls3–4 Suhrab 386–7, 390n28, 390n30 Sulayhids 55–6 Sulayman (Solomon) 22, 364, 368 Sulayman, Shah 186 Sulayman, Shaykh 229 Sulduz, Amir Buyan 171–2 Sultan Muhammad Khandan 346 Suratgar, Lutf ‘Ali 335 Sutun, Chihil 367 Suyurghatmish, Mahmud b. 173–4 Suzani 277 Tabari 12–13, 33–7, 240, 242 Taghachar 258 Tahir, Baba 276 Tahmasp, Shah 187–9, 194, 329–33, 335–7, 339, 363, 365, 369n23, pls11–12 Tahmina 382–3, 385 Tahmurath 44n71 Taj al-Din 96 Talajooy, Saeed 229n1 Taliqani, Darvish ‘Abd al-Majid 361, 365 Tamerlane (Timur) 172–5, 186 Tanındı, Zeren 370 Tarım, Cevat Hakkı 149 Tarmashirin Khan 170 Tegüder, Ahmad, Ilkhan see Ahmad Tegüder, Ilkhan Temir, Ahmet 149, 153, 163n50 Temur, Esen 135n69 Temürshah Ughlan 171 Tetley, G.E. 50 Tevhid, Ahmet 153 al-Thamiri, Ihsan Dhunun 47 Theagenes 241 Themis 28 Theron 27–8 Timoleon 27 Timur see Tamerlane Timur, Taghay 148 Timurids 22, 35, 148, 169, 172, 174, 195, 201, 205, 245, 274–5, 330, 332, 335–7, 389n20, 390n27 Tirayr, Archbishop 256 Togan, Zeki Velidi 150, 161n5, 163n44

i n d e x o f pe o ple

Tögen Khatun 129, 134n41 Toghachar 108 Tolui 108, 131 Toqtamish Khan 174, 180 Tor, Deborah G. 49–50 Töregene 117–18, 131, 135n79 Tranchell, Peter 235 Tsvetaeva, M. 236 Tughluq, Firuz Shah 301 Tughluq Temür 172, 175n6 al-Tughra’i, Mu’ayyid al-Din 86, 89 Tughril, Sultan 83–4 Tughril III b. Arslan 72–3, 75, 76f, 77n10, 88 Tughrilshah, Sultan 74 Turan, Osman 101n4, 163n45 Turanshah, Sultan 74 Tusi, Nasir al-Din 157, 164n65, 242 ‘Ubayd-i Zakani 242, 274, 277 Ülken 60, 68n12 ‘Umar (Caliph) 62 ‘Umara al-Yamani 56 Umayyads 299 Ummat Beg 195 ‘Unsuri 247 ‘Urfi Shirazi 275 Ustajlu, Murshid Quli Khan 187–9, 191 al-‘Utbī 47–8 ‘Uthman (Caliph) 48 Uzbek Khan 129, 132 Uzun Hasan 180 Vever, Charles 346 Vis 238 Visal Shirazi 275 Wali Beg Afshar 189 Wali Khan 196–7 Wali Muhammad Khan 363 Warner, A.G. 19

Warner, E. 19 Welch, Stuart Cary 329, 332, 334–5, 339 Wellesley, Arthur, Duke of Wellington 209 William of Rubruck 127–9, 141 Wolper, Ethel Sara 151 Xenophon 236, 241–2 Yaghma 277 Ya‘qub Khan Dhu ’l-Qadr 187, 188, 190–3, 195–8 Ya‘qub b. Yusuf 154 Yaqut 110 Yasa’ur 169 Yasin Khan 302 Yazdi 173–4 Yazdi, Mir Ghiyath al-Din Muhammad Miran 191 Yazdi, Munajjim 204 Yazdi, Qutb al-Din Muhammad 336 Yazdigird 12–13 Yesülün Khatun 129, 134n39 Yohannan 236 Yuli Beg 195 Yusuf 242, pl.3, pl.5 Yusuf, Muhammad pl.5 Yusuf Khan 194 Zada, Shaykh 337 al-Zafir 316 Zahedi, General Fazlollah 2 Zahhak 100, 382 Zal (father of Rostam) 382–3, 386–7 Zand, Karim Khan 366 Zands 216, 359, 362, 367–8 Zangi b. Aqsunqur 85, 131 Zayn al-‘Abidin 336–7 Zaynabi 247 Zeus 28–9 Zick-Nissen, Johanna 354 Zulaykha 236–7, 242, pl.3, pl.5

— 401 —

Places

Abghina Museum 378 Abulustayn (Elbistan) 143, 150, 163n55 Acragas 28 Acre 143 Adana 161n8 Adıyaman 98, 161n8 Adur Gushnasp, Fire of 17, 18, 19–23 Aetna (Catana) 27 Afghanistan 49, 105, 382 Ahlat 161n8 Ahmadnegar 188 Ahmedabad 297, 301 Aksaray 155–6, 158, 161n5 Akşehir 161n5 Alamut (fortress) 54 Alanya 161n8 Aleppo 60, 86, 88, 101n15, 162n42 Alexandria 241 Amasya 159, 161n5 Amid 97, 100 Amul 110 Anatolia 51, 98, 100, 143, 147–54, 159, 160n2, 163n55, 175, 219, 323, 380n6 Andkhud 107 Ani 152, 162n35 Ankara 96, 151–3, 155–8, 161n5, 163n49, 163n50 Antalya 95–6, 161n8 Aragon 142 Ardabil 106, 162n32 Armenia 249, 251 Armenian Cilicia 141 Arran see Baylaqan Asqalon 320, 324–5 Athens 29 Aydın 161n8 ‘Ayn Jalut 139–40 Azerbaijan 15, 21–2, 51, 70–1, 73–4, 106, 110, 203–4, 380n6 Baghdad 65, 81, 83, 86, 100, 122, 159, 161n21, 308 Bahraich 297 — 402 —

Bakharz 343–4 Balasaghun (Quz-baligh) 107, 111 Balkh 50, 106, 108, 173, 342 Baluchistan 197 Bam 197 Bamiyan 106, 108 Bangladesh 297, 301 see also Chittagong; Nabiganj Barchinlighkent 107 Bardasir 70, 72–3, 75, 77n19 Bayburt 161n5 Baylaqan 109–10 Beijing/Peking 179, 308 Beirut 60 Bengal 297, 301 see also Gaur; Murshidabad Berlin 11, 47 Beth Shean 139 Beyşehir 161n8 Bibliothèque national de France (B.N. Paris) 11, 48–9, 78, 343, 345 Bilecik 161n8 Birjand 197 Bistam 191 Bombay/Mumbai 57 Boston Museum of Fine Art 342 British Library 263, 332, 345 Bukhara 107–8, 178, 344, 363 Burghulu (Uluborlu) 96 Bursa 161n8 Byzantine Empire 158 Cairo 47, 53–4, 87, 96–7, 300, 303, 316, 322, 325–6, 376, 378–9 Cairo University Museum 375, 378 Cambridge 5 Cambridge University 224, 227–8, 235, 243 see also Pembroke College Çankırı 161n5, 161n8 Çemişgezek 98 China 121, 123–6, 129, 132, 178, 348, 380n1 see also Beijing/Peking Chittagong 297, 302 Constantinople see Istanbul/Constantinople

i n d e x o f pl a ce s

Çorum 159 Ctesiphon 21 Dabusiya 107 Damascus 88, 100, 139, 297–8, 300, 323, 325–6 Dandanqan 49 Delhi 106, 121, 174, 297, 300 Denizli 161n8 Diblin 300 Dihbid 226 Diyar Mudar 95 Dome of the Rock 299, 309 Dunhuang 310 Egypt 21, 54–6, 86–8, 90n58, 109, 137, 139, 141, 143, 236–8, 241, 300–1, 316 see also Alexandria; Cairo; Tanta Elbistan see Abulustayn England 142, 218, 221 Ephesus 241 Erzincan 159, 161n5, 161n8 Erzurum 159, 161n8, 223 Eskişehir 161n8 Ethiopia 241 Fars 72, 74, 187–91, 193, 195–7 Fatehpur Sikri 203 France 142 see also Paris Freer Gallery of Art, Washington, DC 346, 370 Ganduman 195 Gaur 297 Genoa 142 Georgia 74, 142 Ghazna 49–50, 109, 172, 247, pl.5 Ghur 106 Gilan 262 see also Rudbar Greater Armenia 142 Greece 26–7, 29 see also Athens Gujarat 45n88, 55, 57, 203–4 Gümüşhane 159, 161n8 Gurganj 108 Hama 316, 322, pl.10 Hamadan 106, 110

Harput 95 Harran 95 Harvard University 345 Hebron 320 Herat 50, 106, 109, 187, 191, 330–3, 337, 361 Hungary 106, 120, 144 Ifriqiya 53–4 India 41, 49, 52, 55, 106, 169, 171, 175, 209– 10, 275, 297, 301, 342, 346, 361 see also Ahmedabad; Bahraich; Bombay/Mumbai; Delhi; Gujarat; New Delhi; Surat Institute of Ismaili Studies Library 57 Institute of Oriental Studies 60 Iran/Persia 15–19, 21–2, 41, 52, 54, 60, 64, 73–4, 78, 105, 115, 117, 122, 124, 126–7, 135n72, 137, 141, 144, 169, 185, 187, 189, 191, 204, 209, 211–13, 215, 218, 221, 239, 275, 278, 307–9, 312, 329, 350–1, 355, 368, 375, 379, 380n6, 381–2, 387, pls 14–18, pls 20–21 Iraq 2, 37, 41, 74, 78, 90n58, 106, 109, 111, 122, 323 see also Mesopotamia Isfahan 50–1, 72, 85–6, 185–8, 191, 193, 195, 218, 349, 360, 363, 367, 376, 380n6 Isfarayin 110 İskilip 153, 155–8 Isparta 161n8 Istanbul/Constantinople 60, 142, 154, 297, 299– 301, 303, 348, pls6–7 Ja‘farabad 195 Jand 107 Jazira 97–8 Jerusalem 21, 111, 143, 297, 299–300, 303–4, 311, 348, pl.9 Jibal 51, 71–2 John Rylands Library, Manchester 347–8 Jurjan (Gurgan) 110 Kabul 172, 174, 238 Kahta 98 Karbala 262, 301 Kastamonu 161n8 Kayseri 151, 153, 157–9, 161n5, 161n8 — 403 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Kazan 178 Kesikköprü, 165n82 Khabushan 110 Khujand 107–8, 112n13 Khurandiz 106 Khurasan 49, 51, 63, 65–6, 74, 105–7, 109, 114–15, 170, 187, 190, 192, 342–4, 346, 348–9 Khuzistan 189 Khwarazm 106–7 Kirman 72–6, 187–91, 195–7, 218–19, 222, 226–9, 230n34 Kirmanshah 301 Kırşehir 148, 151–3, 155–8, 160, 161n5, 161n8, 162n36, 163n48, 164n78 Kish 171–2, 174 Koçhisar 155, 158 Konya 95, 97, 99, 155–6, 158, 161n5 Korea 120 Kösedağ 151 Kuh-i Giluya 189, 193 Kurdistan 5, 189 Lar 191 Lhasa 179 London 5, 57, 235 Louvre 346, 367 Malatya 161n8 Manisa 161n8 Maragha 106, 109, 164n65 Maraş 161n8 Mardin 161n8, 162n28 Marv 106, 108 Mashhad-i Riza 343 Masjid Athar al-Nabi 300 Maymand (Maymana) 107 Mazandaran 106, 347 Mecca 297–9, 301–2, 304, 344 Media Atropatene 24 Medina 263, 299 Mesopotamia 2, 17 see also Iraq Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York 330, 344 Milas 161n8 Minab 197 — 404 —

Mongol Empire 105–11, 114–18, 120–5, 126–33, 134n20, 137–44, 147–60, 169, 249–59 Mongolia 126, 177 Moscow 178, 181, 246 Mosul 85–8 Mount Abu Zubayda 299 Mughal Empire 275 Mumbai see Bombay/Mumbai Murshidabad 297 Musalla 195 Musée d’art et d’histoire 380n9 Musée de Genève 345 Musée Guimet, Paris 349n14 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 342, 344 Nabiganj 297, 302 Najaf 265 Nakhjavan 204 Nakhshab 172 Naqsh-i Rustam 16 Narmashir 73 Nasa 106, 108 National Library, Cairo 344 National Library of Tabriz 262 Nayriz 197 Nevşehir 159, 161n8 New Delhi 343 New York 346 Niğde 159, 161n8 Niksar 161n5 Nishapur 49, 86, 106, 108, 110 Nusrat-kuh 108 Olympia 27, 29 Ordobazar 181 Ordu 161n8 Ottoman Empire 60, 174, 189, 301 Oxford 235–6 Oxford University 50, 216, 243 Özkend 107 Pakistan 5 Palestine 21 see also Jerusalem Paphlagonia (Kastamonu) 150 Paris 11, 47, 78, 344, 346 Parvan 108

i n d e x o f pl a ce s

Pasargadae 24 Peking see Beijing/Peking Pembroke College 1–2, 5–6, 220, 222, 229n1, 235 Persepolis 16, 22–3, 386 Poland 106, 144 Qandahar 197 Qariyat 107 Qashan 110 Qazvin 109, 191, 195, 342, 348, pl.14 Qubaqan Yaghach 174 Qumm 106, 110 Qus 316, 320, 322, 324–5, pl.10 al-Raqqa 98 Rayy 106, 110 Reza ‘Abbasi Museum 335, 344 Roman Empire 218 Rudbar 264–5 Russia 140, 178–9 see also Moscow; St Petersburg Russian Empire 368 Russian National Library, St Petersburg (NLR) 345, 347, 359, 366, 368 Sackler Gallery, Washington, DC 346 St Petersburg 60, 262, 345, 347, 359, 361, 362, 368n13 Samarqand 107, 111, 171, 178 Samsun 159, 161n8 Sanjan 45n88 Sar-i Pul 107 Sarab 110 Sarakhs 106 Saturiq/Sagurluq 22 Sawa 110 Shaburghan 106 Shahr-i Sistan 108 Shibam 55 Shiraz 191–2, 194–5, 211, 218–19, 224–6, 347 Sibir 178 Sicily 27, 29 Sighnaq 107 Sijistan 106 Sinop 161n8

Sistan 197 Sivas 159, 161n5, 161n8 Siyah Kuh 131 Sultan Öyüğü (Eskişehir) 151, 153, 157–8 Sumaysat 97–8, 101n15 Surat 57, 204 Syracuse 27–8 Syria 2, 52, 86–7, 90n58, 98, 137, 139, 141, 143–4, 150, 152, 162n36, 300 Tabriz 123, 192, 203–4, 218, 331, 336, 348, pl.12, pl.14 al-Ta’if 297 see also Mount Abu Zubayda Takht-i Sulayman (Shiz) 15–16, 20–3, pl.1 Talımeğini 151, 153 Taliqan 106, 108 see also Nusrat-kuh Tanta 300 Tashkent 178 Tehran 5, 22, 218, 222, 224, 335, 344, 378, 380n6, 381, 383, 385–8 Tehran University 262 Temple of Solomon 311 Tibet 179 Tikrit 84, 87 Tokat 159, 161n5, 161n8 Topkapı Library 370 Topkapı Museum 348 Topkapı Palace 301–2 Transcaucasia 51, 105 Trebizond 218, 222 Tunceli 159, 161n8 Tunisia 142 Turan 351–2, 354, 357n9, 382 Turkey 221 Turkistan 106 Turkmenistan 17 Tus 64 Ukraine 140 Uluborlu see Burghulu United Kingdom (UK) 68n1, 211 United States of America (USA) 6, 388 Urfa 95, 98 Utrar 106–7 Venice 142 — 405 —

F e r d o w s i , t he M o n g o l s a n d t he H i s t o r y o f I r a n

Wadi al-Khaznadar 143 Walters Art Museum, Baltimore 378 Washington, DC 346, 370 Yazd 74, 187–8, 192–3, 197, 218 Yemen 52, 54–7 see also Shibam

— 406 —

Yerevan 204 Yozgat 159 Zindan-i Sulayman 22 Zonguldak 161n8 Zuzan 107

1 Takht-i Sulayman (lake). 2 Hushang (centre) and Gayumarth battling against the demons, as Hushang, depicted as a child, kills a lion. Bal‘ami, Tarikhnama.



Opposite

3 Portrait of E.G. Browne by W.C.H., Cambridge, 1908, watercolour, flyleaf of Francis Joseph Steingass, A Comprehensive Persian–English Dictionary, Including the Arabic Words and Phrases to be met with in Persian Literature.



This page

4 Siyavush fleeing from Sudaba. Ferdowsi, Shahnameh, 1648, Mashhad. 5 Yusuf fleeing from Zulaykha. Jami, Haft Awrang, Iran, 1529.

6 Sudaba entertains Siyavush in her quarters. Hamid Rahmanian, Shahnameh: The Epic of the Persian Kings, New York, 2012.

7 Faramarz burns the body of Shaghad, attributed to Muhammad Yusuf. Ferdowsi, Shahnameh, 1648, Mashhad. 8 Yusuf fleeing from Zulaykha. Sa‘di, Bustan, Bihzad, Herat, 1488.

9–10 Ferdowsi and the Poets of Ghazna, Shahnameh, Herat, 1430.

11 The Prophet Muhammad’s footprint in the shrine of Abu Ayyub al-Ansari, Istanbul, date unknown. 12 Footprint of the Prophet Muhammad on porphyry and encased in gold, Istanbul, 1877.

13 Silver footprint of the Prophet Muhammad, Istanbul, 1644. 14 Ottoman tile with the Prophet Muhammad’s footprints, Istanbul, 1706–7.



Opposite 15 Abraham destroys the idols of the Sabians (Biruni, al-Athar al-Baqiya).

16 The death of Eli (Biruni, al-Athar al-Baqiya).

This page

17 Bukhtnassar destroys the Temple of Jerusalem (Biruni, al-Athar al-Baqiya). 18 The Annunciation (Biruni, al-Athar al-Baqiya). 19 The ‘baptismal’ scene (Biruni, al-Athar al-Baqiya).

20 Minbar of the Jami‘ al-‘Amri at Qus (550/1155–6). 21 Detail of painting on dome of Hama minbar.

22–23 Double-page illuminated frontispiece (sarlawh.), fols. 2v and 3r, Shahnameh of Shah Tahmasp, Tabriz, 1524–35.



24a Shamsa, fol.16r, Shahnameh of Shah Tahmasp, Tabriz, 1524–35.



24b ‘Unwān, fol.16v, Shahnameh of Shah Tahmasp, Tabriz, 1524–35.



25 Illuminated triangles (chalipa) and rubric on a text page, Shahnameh of Shah Tahmasp, Tabriz, 1524–35.

26 Binding of the manuscript of a Diwan of Hafiz, c.1527, attributed here to Sultan Muhammad. 27 Lovers Picnicking, painting (recto), text (verso), folio from a manuscript of the Diwan of Hafiz, c.1526–7, attributed to Sultan Muhammad.

28 Lacquer playing card, Tabriz, Iran, c.1520–30, attributed here to Sultan Muhammad or Muhammad Beg. 29 Upper cover of a lacquer book binding of the Diwan of Nava’i, Tabriz or Qazvin, Iran, 1530–45, Sayyidi ‘Ali.

30 Elephant composed of humans and animals, Sana’i, Hadiqat al-Haqiqa, Iran, 1573. 31 Horse composed of human beings, Muraqqa‘ Farisi Tarikh 42, c.1580. 32 Maiden in a robe composed of humans and animals.

33 Beaker, early thirteenth century, Iran, stone-paste overglaze painted in polychrome colours.

34 Calligraphy by Mir ‘Imad al-Hasani, Iran, late sixteenth–early seventeenth century. 35 Two upper miniatures, ‘Girl with a ewer’ and ‘Seated youth’, first half of the seventeenth century in the style of Riza-yi ‘Abbasi. The lower miniature, ‘Youth giving a cup of wine to a dervish’ is from the second half of the seventeenth century, Iran.

36 ‘Portrait of Muhammad Nasir Bayazid-i Bistami and his household’, Iran, Isfahan, c.12[00]/1785–6. 37 Signature of Muhammad Sadiq.

38 ‘The prince and his friends carry off the lady’, from a Hasht Bihisht of Amir Khusrau Dihlavi of 902/1496. 39 Detail: the attendant in blue. 40 Detail: marks on the sleeve of the attendant in blue.



Opposite

41 Bottle (back and front), seventeenth century, Safavid Persia, glazed ceramic.

This page 42 Rostam shoots Isfandiyar with a double-pointed arrow. Page from a dispersed manuscript of the Shahnameh, Iran, Shiraz, c.1575–90.

43 Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh, 2009.



This page 44 Return of Rostam 2 to Iran to fight the demons of modern day, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh, 2009.

45 Rostam 2 meets Tahmina and straightaway marries her, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh, 2009. 46 Meanwhile Rostam 2 is fighting the drug dealers at megacity of Tehran, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh, 2009.

Opposite

47 Tahmina is pursuing Rostam 2 after he disappears following the wedding night, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh, 2009. 48 Zal picks up arms to help Rostam 2, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh, 2009. 49 Rostam 2 and Zal Join Forces, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh, 2009.

50 The soldiers of evil are killed by Rostam 2, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh, 2009. 51 Finally Rostam 2 kills his son (Suhrab) not knowing that he is the father, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh, 2009. 52 Spiderman is pursuing Rostam 2 and demands revenge for the death of Suhrab, Rostam 2 – The Return, Siamak Filizadeh, 2009.