Safavid Persia in the Age of Empires Volume Volume X: The Idea of Iran 9780755633814, 9780755633784

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Illustrations (Colour Plates inserted between pp. 374-375) Esfahan – sketch plan showing the main thrust of the urban development starting in 1590-91, with the Meydan and the Chahar Bagh (drawing by Tasnim Eshraqi).

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Farahabad, Mazandaran – sketch plan showing the Meydan on a northsouth axis with the Masjed-e Jame‘on the south side and the gardenpalaces on the north (after Mahvash Alemi, drawing by Tasnim Eshraqi).

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Qazvin – the new long Meydan, which replaced a hippodrome, and the royal precinct, of gardens and pavilions to its north extended the urban developments to the east and south of the old city and re-used the old jame‘, seen on the far southwest of the meydan in this sketch (drawing by Tasnim Eshraqi).

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Kerman – the Meydan complex of Ganj ‘Ali Khan extended the urban development from the Mozaffarid Friday Mosque and marketplace to the east and initiated the later developments to the west (drawing by Tasnim Eshraqi).

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Kerman – the Meydan complex of Ganj ‘Ali Khan demonstrates the deliberate regularity of a meydan and the clarity of purpose in articulating the political (a mint and a private chapel-mosque) and social-commercial (caravanserai, hammam, cistern) necessities to represent urban centring.

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Esfahan – sketch of the Meydan-e Naqsh-e Jahan with its main foundations highlighting the Masjed-e Jadid-e ‘Abbasi, the new city’s new congregational mosque (drawing by Tasnim Eshraqi).

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Esfahan – sketch shows the two later developments in Esfahan: to the east lies the Khvaju quarter with its own chahar bagh boulevard, bridge and residential and palatial structures. The Chahar Bagh madrasa, a foundation commissioned by Shah Soltan-Hoseyn, is also marked in darker colour on the east of the main Chahar Bagh while his new city, Farahabad, is seen in this sketch to the southwest (composite plan drawn by Tasnim Eshraqi).

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‘Portrait de Shah ‘Abbas Ier, roi de Perse, 1596’, from ‘Effigie naturali dei maggior prencipi et piu valorosi capitani di questa eta con l’arme loro’, by Giacomo Franco (1550–1620) © Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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‘Equestrian portrait of Shah ‘Abbas I, king of Persia’, from Thomas Herbert, Some Yeares Travels into Africa and Asia …, 1638.

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ILLUSTRATIONS

Engraving from the collection of ‘Portraits de schah de Perse Abbas II’ © Bibliothèque nationale de France, départment Estampes et photographies, N-2 (ABBAS 2, schah de Perse).

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‘Portrait of Henri IV on horseback, galloping to the right’ © Bibliothèque nationale de France, départment Estampes et photographies, réserve FOLQB-201 (17).

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Georgian Kingdoms and Principalities, beginning of the sixteenth century.

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Plate I - Georgia in the seventeenth century. Plate IIa - Attributed to Behzad, ‘The elders pleading before Hormozd on behalf of the young Khosrow’, Khamsa of Nezami, Herat, 1495, bound manuscript, British Library, Ms. Or. 6810, fol. 37v. Plate IIb - Attributed to Aqa Mirak, ‘Ferdowsi encounters the court poets of Ghazna’, fol. 7r, Shahnama of Ferdowsi, ca. 1530, Aga Khan Museum (AKM 00156). Plate IIIa - Attributed to ‘Abd al-Vahhab, ‘The feast of Fereydun and Kondrow’, fol. 35r, Shahnama of Ferdowsi, Tabriz, ca. 1525, Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. Plate IIIb - Attributed to Aga Mirak, ‘Bahram Gur negotiates for the throne’, fol. 555v, Shahnama of Ferdowsi, Tabriz, ca. 1530, Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. Plate IV - Attributed to Bashdan Qara, ‘Rostam avenges his own impending death’, fol. 472r, Shahnama of Ferdowsi, Tabriz, ca. 1530, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of Arthur A. Houghton Jr., 1970 (1970.301.56). Plate V - Attributed to Qasem ebn ‘Ali, ‘Kay Khosrow slays Shida in single combat’, fol. 360v, Shahnama of Ferdowsi, Tabriz, ca. 1525-30, Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. Plate VI - ‘Venus and Cupid’, Mohammad Zaman, 1676-77, opaque watercolour, gold and ink on paper, 17.9 x 24 cm, Album, E-14, fol. 86r, Institute of Oriental Manuscripts, Russian Academy of Sciences, St Petersburg. Photo: © IOM, RAS. Plate VIIa - ‘Abraham’s sacrifice’, Mohammad Zaman, 1682-83, opaque watercolour, gold and ink on paper, 17.9 x 24.9 cm, Album, E-14, fol. 89r, Institute of Oriental Manuscripts, Russian Academy of Sciences, St Petersburg. Photo: © IOM, RAS.

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Plate VIIb - ‘Judith and Holofernes’, Ya Saheb al-Zaman (attributed to Mohammad Zaman), ca. 1674-89, opaque watercolour, gold and ink on paper, 20 x 17 cm, The Nasser D. Khalili Collection of Islamic Art, MSS 1005. ‘Virgin and Elizabeth’, Mohammad Zaman, 1678-79, Private Collection, current whereabouts unknown. Plate VIII - ‘The Return from the Flight into Egypt’, Mohammad Zaman, 1689, Ink, color and gold on paper, 21.6 x 14.5 cm, Harvard Art Museums/Arthur M. Sackler Museum, Gift of John Goelet, 1966.6. Photo: © President and Fellows of Harvard College.

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Acknowledgements This tenth volume in the ‘Idea of Iran’ series could not have been achieved without the patient and sustained work of many people, starting most notably with the generous support of the Trustees of the Soudavar Memorial Foundation, particularly Mrs Fatema Soudavar-Farmanfarmaian and Dr Layla Diba, both of whom are constantly ready with advice and encouragement, not only in the framing of the academic programme but also in discussions with the publishers and negotiating the future of the series at its home base in SOAS. This has been a difficult year, not least with the closure of The London Middle East Institute (LMEI) and change of personnel; the management of the symposia is now coming under the wing of the ‘Regional Centres and Institutes Africa, Asia & Middle East’ at SOAS. This is a good moment to acknowledge the efficient and helpful support of Vincenzo Paci and Louise Hosking over many years, and to thank Angelica Baschiera for taking up the practicalities of the organisation from now on. I acknowledge and thank my colleague, Dr Sarah Stewart, for her support and assistance in overseeing the arrangements of the symposia on which this volume was based, in October 2018 and May 2019, and I continue to rely on her experience and good sense. As before and always, Parvis Fozooni has typeset and formatted the chapters as a labour of love, with great skill and dedication and attention to detail, a contribution to the series that must never be taken for granted. A great enhancement of this volume is the introduction of an attractive nasta‘liq font for the Persian poetic quotations. Andy Platts has been a pleasure to work with on the copy-editing, bringing rigour and humour to the task and greatly enhancing the text of all contributions, despite my efforts to give her as little to do as possible. This volume is dedicated to the memory and scholarship of Michael Axworthy, David Morgan and David Stronach, whose work in different fields did so much to bring knowledge of Iran and Persian culture to a wider audience and who passed away while this volume was in preparation. Thanks also to Rory Gormley and Yasmin Garcha at I.B. Tauris/Bloomsbury for their care over the production of this volume and breathing fresh life into the series as we introduce new features. I am grateful to all those institutions that have willingly provided images for reproduction and granted permission for their publication, detailed in the list of illustrations.

Contributors Maryam Ala Amjadi earned her Erasmus Mundus joint doctorate degree in July 2017 from University of Kent (UK) and Universidade do Porto (Portugal). Her research focuses on the complex relationship between mobility and identity in Persian Safavid travel narratives. She has previously worked as a writer for the Tehran Times Daily, where she founded and wrote a weekly page dedicated to Iranian culture and society. Ala Amjadi is a published poet and translator of poetry. Her book chapter on poetry in Iran’s contemporary theo-political culture will appear in the Routledge International Handbook of Religion in Global Society. Gregory Aldous earned a PhD in medieval Middle Eastern history from the University of Wisconsin–Madison and an MS in Urban Planning from Florida State University. His PhD thesis was on the relationship between Shah Tahmasp and the Qezelbash at the beginning of Tahmasp’s reign. He has taught Middle Eastern and world history at Concordia University Wisconsin and the University of Pittsburgh at Greensburg. His main research interests are the political history and urban history of the early Safavid period. Ali Anooshahr is a Professor of History at the University of California, Davis. He is a scholar of ‘comparative Islamic empires’ with a focus on historiography, history of memory, and the cultural history of Persianate societies in the early modern period. He is the author of two books: The Ghazi Sultans and the Frontiers of Islam (Routledge, 2009) and Turkestan and the Rise of Eurasian Empires (Oxford, 2018), and articles published in Iranian Studies, Indian Economic and Social History Review, Journal of Royal Asiatic Society, Journal of Early Modern History and the Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient. Sussan Babaie is Reader in the Arts of Iran and Islam at The Courtauld Institute of Art, University of London. She is the author of Isfahan and its Palaces: Statecraft, Shi‘ism and the Architecture of Conviviality in Early Modern Iran, the co-editor/co-author of Persian Kingship and Architecture (I.B. Tauris, 2015) and Slaves of the Shah (I.B. Tauris, 2004), and the editor of Iran after the Mongols, vol. 8 in the The Idea of Iran series (2019). Sheila Canby spent eighteen years as Curator of Islamic Art and Antiquities at the British Museum before being appointed Patti Cadby Birch Curator in Charge of the Islamic Art at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 2009. She became Curator Emerita upon her retirement in 2019. Her publications include Persian Painting (1993), The Golden Age of Persian Art, 1501–1722 (1999), Hunt for Paradise: Court Arts of Safavid Iran, 1501-76, with Jon Thompson (2003),

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Islamic Art in Detail (2005), Shah ‘Abbas: The Remaking of Iran (2009), The Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp (2011 and 2014), and with Deniz Beyazit and Martina Rugiadi, Court and Cosmos: The Great Age of the Seljuqs (2016). Ferenc Csirkés received his PhD in Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago and is currently an Assistant Professor of History at Sabancı University in Istanbul. Prior to that, he worked at Central European University (CEU) in Budapest and the University of Tübingen in Germany. Straddling literary, intellectual and cultural history on the one hand, and Persian and Turkish on the other, his research focuses on the interrelation of the politics of language, confessionalization and state building in the larger Turko-Persian world during the late medieval and early modern periods. He has two ongoing book projects, one being the history of Turkic literary culture in Safavid Iran and the other the intellectual biography of Sadeqi Beg, a major painter and litterateur of the period. Roy S. Fischel is a lecturer (assistant professor) in the History of South Asia at SOAS University of London. He completed his PhD in History and South Asian Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago in 2012. His work focuses on the formations of states, societies, ideologies, identities and cultures – and the intersection between them – in early modern South Asia and the Muslim world, building on sources in Persian and Arabic as well as Marathi and Dakhani. His monograph Local States in an Imperial World: Identity, Society and Politics in the Early Modern Deccan was recently published by Edinburgh University Press. His current work examines kingship, sovereignty and historiography in Bijapur between the Persianate, Islamic and Indic worlds. Willem Floor, independent scholar, writes books and articles on the socioeconomic, cultural and medical history of Iran. His most recent book is Persian Pleasures. How Iranians Relaxed through the Centuries. Food, Drink & Drugs (Washington DC: Mage: 2019). Negar Habibi is an art historian and lecturer in Islamic Art History and Soudavar Foundation Fellow at the University of Geneva, Switzerland. Her research focuses principally on paintings from early modern Iran. Adopting a multidisciplinary approach, her academic work centres on the artists’ career and life, the authenticity of their signature, gender issues and artistic patronage. She has published several articles on the art and artists of late seventeenth-century Iran, and her book titled ʿAli Qoli Jebādār et l’occidentalisme safavide: une étude sur les peintures dites farangi sāzi, leurs milieux et commanditaires sous Shah Soleimān (1666-94) was recently published by Brill. Rudi Matthee, John and Dorothy Munroe Distinguished Professor of Middle Eastern History at the University of Delaware, works on the political and socioeconomic history of early modern Iran and its connections with the wider world. He is the author of four-prize-winning scholarly books, most recently The

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Monetary History of Iran (2013, co-authored), and the co-editor of another four books, most recently Russians and Iran: Diplomacy and Power in the Qajar Era and Beyond (2018). He is the former president of the Association for the Study of Persianate Societies (2002–5 and 2008–11), currently serves as the President of the Persian Heritage Foundation. He is also co-editor of Der Islam and a consulting editor for the Encyclopaedia Iranica. Charles Melville became ad hominem Professor of Persian History at Cambridge University in 2008, now emeritus. He is President of the British Institute of Persian Studies (British Academy) and director of the Cambridge Shahnama Project. Publications on Safavid Iran include ‘The illustration of history in Safavid manuscript painting’, in New Perspectives on Safavid Iran: Empire and Society, ed. Colin Mitchell (2011); ‘Editors’ Preface’, in A Chronicle of the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas. Fazli Beg Khuzani Isfahani, with Kioumars Ghereghlou ( 2015); ‘New light on Shah ‘Abbas and the construction of Isfahan’, Muqarnas 33 (2016); ‘A mechanical clock in Kashan in the early 17th century’, in Studia Litteraria Universitatis Iagellonicae Cracoviensis (Cracow, 2019); ‘Shah Tahmasp Shahnama paintings in the Shah Tahmasp Album’, in Art and the Culture of Books in the Islamic world, with Firuza Abdullaeva, ed. Aslihan Erkmen & Sebnem Tamcan (2020, in press); and ‘Shah ‘Abbas’s patronage of the dynastic shrine at Ardabil’, Muqarnas 37 (2020, in press). Colin Mitchell is an Associate Professor of History at Dalhousie University in Halifax, Canada. He completed his PhD in 2002 at the University of Toronto and held a Mellon Postdoctoral Fellowship in Persian Studies at Cornell University in 2002-3. In addition to various articles on the Safavid Empire, he has published The Practice of Politics in Safavid Iran: Power, Religion, and Rhetoric (I.B. Tauris, 2009), which is an in-depth analysis of the Safavid chancery during the sixteenth century and its production of diplomatic texts which borrowed and adapted from a panoply of traditions (history, poetry, law, exegesis, philosophy, mysticism). He also edited a festschrift on behalf of the noted Safavid historian Roger Savory, entitled New Perspectives on Safavid Iran: Empire and Society (Routledge, 2011). Andrew Newman is Personal Chair of Islamic Studies and Persian at the University of Edinburgh. He holds a BA in History from Dartmouth College and an MA and PhD in Islamic Studies from UCLA. He came to Edinburgh in 1996 from the Wellcome Unit for the History of Medicine and Green College, Oxford, where he was researching topics in the history of Islamic medicine. Newman has published on early Twelver Shi‘ism and Shi‘i history and thought and on Shi‘ism in Safavid Iran. His most recent monograph is Twelver Shiism, Unity and Diversity in the Life of Islam, 632 to 1722 (Edinburgh, 2013). He is the founder/moderator of Shī‘ī News and Resources.

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Benedek Péri is the director of the Institute of Oriental Studies and the head of the Department of Turkic Studies at Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest. His research interests include various aspects of the history of Persianate literary traditions (Chaghatay, Persian, Ottoman, Türkī-yi ʿAjamī) with a special focus on the fifteenth–sixteenth century, the history of Turkish language and literature on the Indian subcontinent and the history of drug consumption in Persianate societies. His latest book, Catalogue of the Persian Manuscripts in the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences was published in 2018. He is currently working on a critical edition of Yavuz Sultan Selim’s (r. 1512–20) Persian divan. Sajjad Rizvi is Associate Professor of Islamic Intellectual History and Director of the Centre for the Study of Islam at the University of Exeter. A specialist on Safavid-Mughal philosophy, he is the author of Mullā Ṣadrā and Metaphysics (Routledge, 2009), and is currently writing a monograph on philosophy in eighteenth-century Iran and North India, as well as an introduction to Mir Damad and another short study on the intellectual history of time in Islamic thought. Aurélie Salesse-Chabrier, Doctor in modern history, is a specialist in political and cultural relations between Safavid Iran and Europe. She has taught Iranian history and civilization at the National Institute of Oriental Languages and Civilizations (INALCO, Paris) and also at the Paris III-Sorbonne Nouvelle University. Her current research focuses on diplomatic, cultural, and economic relations between France and Iran in the seventeenth century. She currently teaches history in the Lyon area. George Sanikidze is Professor at the Ilia State University, Georgia (Head of the programme of Middle Eastern Studies) and Director of the G. Tsereteli Institute of Oriental Studies at the same University. His research topics include the history and politics of the Middle Eastern countries (especially Iran) and the Caucasus, the medieval and modern history of Islam, and East-West interactions. George Sanikidze has worked as a visiting scholar at Paris-Sorbonne-III and Paris-Sorbonne-IV Universities, University of California-Berkeley, Universities of Hokkaido and Osaka, Japan. He is the author up to 70 scientific works, published in Georgia, UK, France, Japan, USA, Holland, Turkey, Iran and elsewhere. Florian Schwarz is Director of the Institute for Iranian Studies at the Austrian Academy of Sciences in Vienna, Austria, and affiliate professor for Iranian Studies at the University of Vienna. Following his PhD in 1998 from the University of Tübingen, he taught Islamic Studies at the University of Bochum (Ruhr-Universität Bochum) and Middle Eastern and Central Asian History at the University of Washington in Seattle. He is the author of monographs and articles on the history of medieval to early modern Middle East, Iran and Central Asia.

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Sunil Sharma is Professor of Persianate and Comparative Literature at Boston University’s Department of World Languages and Literatures. He received his PhD in Persian literature from the University of Chicago. His research interests are in the areas of Persian(ate) literary and visual cultures, translation, and travel writing. His most recent book is Mughal Arcadia: Persian Poetry in an Indian Court (Harvard University Press, 2017). He serves on the editorial board of the Journal of Persianate Societies and Studies in Persian Cultural History. He is the current outgoing President of the Association for the Study of Persianate Societies (ASPS).

Introduction Charles Melville (University of Cambridge)

W

ith the Safavid era, the ‘idea’ of Iran seems to take on a whole range of new dimensions; for a start, we know much more about it, and from a deeper pool of source material and a wider variety of viewpoints and perspectives. We could imagine separate volumes of essays on what the Ottomans, or the Mughals or the Ozbek khans, thought of Iran on the basis of their political correspondence and propaganda, the rhetoric and debates of their religious scholars, the way their poets and artists reacted to Persian cultural creativity, and their perception of the prospects and difficulties of travel and trade in the Safavid realms. Not that such volumes have been produced. Then again, Iran under the Safavids appears to be recognizably similar in many respects to the Iran of today, certainly more so, at least, than Ilkhanid or Timurid Iran; not in terms of its geographical boundaries, which have slowly taken on more definition and enclosed a reduced area, but in terms of its core territory on the Iranian Plateau and a distinctiveness vis-à-vis its neighbours, partly marked by religious differences and partly by the Perso-Islamic (or even better, Perso-Turko-Islamic) synthesis of religion and state that seems to characterize the nature of government and society as it evolved under Safavid rule (and across the other empires of the age). This synthesis of different competing elements is exemplified in a small way by the calendars used to measure and record the passage of time and the occurrence of events (solar, animal and lunar-hejri);1 a synthesis that, in this case, involved a considerable element of confusion, which could even be stretched to argue for some degree of uncertainty as to identity: are we mainly Persians, Turks or Muslims, or happy to be all three? This distinctiveness comes partly from the fact that Iran’s neighbours also became more distinctive. In place of the sprawling and amorphous ‘Abbasid caliphate, the Mongol and Timurid Empires, of which Iran was a part – a choice part, maybe, but nevertheless part of someone else’s empire – the Iranian Plateau became home (again) to its own empire, regardless of whether the rulers themselves were ‘Persian’,2 Kurdish or of Turkmen background. At more or less the same moment, the Ottoman, Mughal and Safavid states emerged in relatively well-defined territories that remained stable (at least in regions where they were contiguous) throughout the centuries of their

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existence, and alongside these ‘big three’ must be included the Ozbek khanates of Transoxania, routinely omitted from comparative studies of the ‘gunpowder empires’,3 but forming a significant leg of the huge and culturally productive triangle of interactions between eastern Iran, Central Asia and northern India. Another reason for the greater sense of familiarity is the fact that the standard image of Safavid Persia is our (Western) creation, based largely on the increasing number of travellers’ accounts of their journeys and residences in the kingdom. It is these accounts, indeed, that provide the greatest incremental body of information about Iran and Persian society in the sixteenth and particularly the seventeenth centuries. These travellers – I have collected itineraries and notes on more than 70, certainly incomplete – provide us with more than factual (even if sometimes erroneous) information, giving us their views and perceptions of the country and its peoples. These travel accounts, too, could furnish more than one volume on their idea of Iran but, on the whole, the topic has been explored piecemeal, with several studies of individual travellers, often focusing on their value as sources, or their bibliographical history.4 Their rich perceptions of Iran, which often tell us as much about the travellers and their outlook as the reality of what they saw, all form part of the idea of Iran that strongly influenced the scholarly study of the Safavid period, which was rather slow to develop in Western academia. Even Vladimir Minorsky, whose seminal works on Shah Esma‘il’s poetry and especially his translation and commentary on the Tazkerat al-moluk date from 1942 and 1943 respectively,5 scarcely returned to the Safavids in the following 20 years of highly productive research. In Germany, Walther Hinz and Hans Roemer opened up the field of Safavid history, which had a strong following, especially in diplomatics and administrative history; other notable exceptions to the general neglect (caused partly, no doubt, by the dearth of edited Persian sources) are the two-volume special issue of Iranian Studies that focused on the city of Esfahan, arising from a conference at Harvard,6 well before the field became so animated, as well as the classic work of Laurence Lockhart and pioneering studies of Roger Savory.7 Essentially a product of these early years also was the Cambridge History of Iran, volume 6, planned in 1961 but not published until 1986.8 The field, however, has flourished dramatically in the last 30 years or so, partly as a result of a French initiative launched by the late Jean Aubin and the impressive team of researchers that formed round him at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes (EPHE), section IV, ‘Sciences historiques et philologues’ in Paris. Apart from Aubin’s own important and characteristically revolutionary ‘Études Safavides’,9 this initiative led to a ‘Table Ronde’ held in Paris 7–9 March 1989, from which a conference volume appeared in 1993, edited by Jean Calmard.10 Two of those presenting at that meeting have contributed to the current volume (apart from the editor), demonstrating if nothing else a threedecade dedication to pursuing Safavid research. The Paris round table was

INTRODUCTION

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followed by a second, held at Pembroke College, Cambridge in September 1993, and a third in Edinburgh in 1998, both subsequently published.11 The fourth, and what turned out to be the final, round table was held in Bamberg in 2003, but the proceedings were never published. Since then, apart from many excellent individual studies, including those by several of the authors of the chapters here, there have been numerous conferences and collective volumes, many of which appear in one way or another in the bibliographies attached to the various chapters in this volume; there is now, indeed, a massive international literature on the Safavids.12 The main reason for the renewed interest in the Safavid period (though not for its previous relative neglect) was, of course, the 1978–79 Islamic Revolution in Iran, long-term explanations for which quickly went back to the Safavid period and the antecedents of Shi‘ism becoming the official state religion, its initial promotion by the rulers and the inevitable questions that arose subsequently over the limits and demarcation of secular and religious authority. Nothing new in Islam, of course, any more than in the Christian West, but for the heirs of the Safavids, a debate that ended with the destruction of the productive symbiosis and balance of authority between Church and State. As Andrew Newman’s contribution to this volume shows, the ‘bigoted and intolerant’ Shi‘i clerics, epitomized by Mohammad Baqer Majlesi (d. 1699), were considered at least partly responsible for the collapse of the Safavid dynasty, a narrative only slightly deconstructed post 1979 – while providing a lazily attractive precedent for the rise of Ayatollah Khomeini and the fall of the Pahlavi regime. The purpose of this collection, as of earlier volumes, in the ‘Idea of Iran’ series, is not to present another general contribution to the populous field of Safavid studies, even less to participate in the numerous deliberations on the formation and contours of Iranian ‘identity’, which have generated several works often incorporating a Safavid perspective.13 The idea of Iran certainly forms part of this identity, which is usually the idea and the perception of Iran held by others, as in the case of French travellers, discussed in this volume by Aurélie Salesse-Chabrier;14 many of them were merchants, whose reports are valuable sources of economic data, but low on penetrating engagement with local society, as discussed here (and elsewhere) by Willem Floor. Regrettably, little space can be given to such topics here, well-covered as they have been by others, despite the endless possibilities for further work on the views of outsiders. The main thrust of the symposia is to explore not only the views from without, or the ‘idea of Safavid Iran’ – or Safavid Persia as it was called at the time – in modern scholarship, but also what the Iranians’ own view of Iran might have been during this long and evolving period. This requires Safavid Iran to be located in its own time and place, as it has been in some recent volumes,15 and, even more specifically, her regional interactions to be seen, not just for what they were, but how they might have

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looked, from one side or the other, or ideally both. The volume therefore touches, however briefly, on ‘Safavid’ Turkey, ‘Safavid’ India, ‘Safavid’ Central Asia and ‘Safavid’ Georgia. As for Safavid Iran itself, how the Persian historians chronicled their history provides vital insights into the ideas on the ground. As the first few chapters show, the concept of ‘Iran’ in its modern sense was almost non-existent; the name is barely mentioned in the chronicles of the early period. When Shah Esma‘il captured Tabriz, he assumed he had conquered Iran, a circumstance that applied also to earlier periods, as observed by Daniel Zakrzewski.16 Through a close analysis of Amini Haravi’s account of the rise of the Safavids up to 1513, Ali Anooshahr also shows the unplanned nature of Esma‘il’s conquests (fotuhat) and how strong were the continuities with the Aq Qoyunlu era. This theme is taken further by Greg Aldous, who argues persuasively for the real change in the nature of Safavid rule coinciding with Shah Tahmasp’s shift of capital to Qazvin and the adoption of a sedentary lifestyle from around 1558. The change was marked in the historiography of the second half of the sixteenth century in the works of Ghaffari Qazvini, ‘Abdi Beg Shirazi, Budaq Monshi Qazvini and Hasan Beg Rumlu, all of whom conveyed a concept of Safavid rule distinct from that of earlier periods, a concept that was essentially dynastic rather than territorial. One strand of continuity with the past was the role of the scholarbureaucrats in serving the state and providing a traditional administration across the divisions of regime change, based on the exercise of justice and literary patronage. Colin Mitchell examines the career of Hatem Beg Ordubadi, chief vizier and pillar of the state (e‘temad al-dowla) under Shah ‘Abbas I. Coming from a long-serving bureaucratic family and a direct descendant of the celebrated Shi‘i scholar Nasir al-Din Tusi, Hatem Beg was well equipped to champion and put into effect the vision of the shah as traditional absolutist ruler and deputy and descendant of the Prophet’s family, while introducing administrative reforms and a new epistolary style. He helped to forge, in short, an effective government bureaucracy that survived through the seventeenth century and was the architect of the idea of Safavid Persia at its peak that long endured within Iran, not unlike the role of Rashid al-Din in creating the image of the Mongol ruler Ghazan Khan as the ‘king (padshah) of Islam and Iran’. The determining idea of a dynasty buttressed by faith and an urban, metropolitan culture developing under Tahmasp, finds an echo in the chapter by Rudi Matthee, who has contributed so many pieces to the mosaic of perceptions of Iran and her relations with the outside world. In emphasizing the sense of dynasty and urban pride, rather than the notion of Iran as an ‘integrated territorial unit’, Matthee sees Persian culture as the dominant strand in the contemporary Iranians’ idea of their country and what they missed when they left – referring in particular to Mohammad Mofid, who wrote from self-imposed

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exile in India in the late seventeenth century. Many of these themes recur in later chapters. Urban pride is very much the focus of Sussan Babaie’s exploration of the deliberate and planned development of Esfahan, Kerman and the new foundation of Farahabad in Mazandaran under Shah ‘Abbas, continued in Esfahan by some of his successors. Beyond simple infrastructure and building work (‘emarat: always praised as an example of ‘good rule’ leading to prosperity and the antithesis of veyrani, destruction), these developments created new schemes for political expression and religious practices, thus once again promoting the idea of the legitimacy of the religiously endowed and mandated government of the Safavid shahs. The focus on the dynasty, and specifically the rule of the shah, is the topic of Aurélie Salesse-Chabrier’s chapter, as observed and studied in French travel writing and the reports of diplomats, preoccupied as they and their readers were with questions of absolutism and tyranny in seventeenth-century France. They saw in ‘Abbas I a paragon of centralizing strength and control, albeit achieved sometimes by violent means, justified by results and the underlying care for the well-being of the people. The continuing religious tolerance (towards Christians) of his successors also attracted favourable notice. By the end of the century, however, the ‘unenlightened despotism’ of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn and his withdrawal from public life led to the downfall of the state. Success and failure are laid entirely at the door of the shah, held solely responsible for the effectiveness of dynastic rule. Interestingly, the supposedly pernicious influence of the Shi‘i ulema is not adduced here as a factor in the decline. Nevertheless, as mentioned, Andrew Newman documents the persistence of the notion of Shi‘i religious bigotry in the secondary studies of the late Safavid period, while concluding with some indications of the attitudes of Mohammad Baqer Majlesi, as revealed in his own writings, towards Sufism, philosophy and medicine that show this key figure in a different light. Maryam Ala Amjadi notes how some of Majlesi’s writings help to inform travellers of the appropriate Shi‘i behaviour in a number of situations; written in Persian, his work makes Islamic religious literature, usually written in Arabic, available to Persian audiences.17 Majlesi is also invoked, briefly, in Sajjad Rizvi’s chapter on philosophy and the perception of Iran as a space for the revival of ancient wisdom and heritage, whether from Shi‘i tradition (as retrieved by Majlesi) or Hellenic Neoplatonism and ancient Iranian wisdom (as formulated by Sohravardi). Despite ‘invectives against philosophy’ in the second half of the seventeenth century (Majlesi is not named in this connection), Rizvi notes that the study of philosophy was consistently associated with the court of the shah throughout the Safavid period – not least in Akbar’s India already in the late sixteenth century – while the fame of the ‘school of Esfahan’ led to the perception of Iran as a natural place for philosophical study.

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Ferenc Csirkés’s chapter highlights the use of Turkic alongside Arabic and Persian as a language of religious discourse and argues that the Turkic literary world ran parallel to and was connected with the Persianate universe; Safavid religiosity and messianism were characteristic of a vast swathe of territory from the Ottoman Balkans to the Indian subcontinent and Central Asia throughout the seventeenth century. This said, his analysis of a vernacular Turkic antiSunni polemic written by Gharibi and dedicated to Shah Tahmasp reveals a popular Sufi messianism and an interesting interaction with the poetry of Shah Esma‘il (composed in Turkic under the pen name Khata’i/Hatayi). The decline of literary Turkic in seventeenth-century Iran is linked to the decline of the Qezelbash, who provided the milieu for such works, in the face of Persian urban culture and traditions promoted by the bureaucratic elite, in which Hatem Beg played an important role, as noted by Colin Mitchell. If Turkic literacy declined in Safavid Iran, this was far from the case in ‘Safavid’ Turkey, where respect persisted for the masters of Persian poetry (and the Chaghatay verse of the Timurid ‘Ali-Shir Nava’i). Benedek Péri examines the technical difficulties of emulating Persian prosody in Ottoman Turkish but shows that poets became increasingly able to overcome these problems and provide qasidas and ghazals as translations and ‘responses’ to the well-known Persian classics, regarding Persian and Ottoman poetry as closely related branches of the same tradition. Among the poetry most frequently emulated were the ghazals of Sa‘di, Amir Khosrow, Salman Savaji, Hafez and Jami, and the qasidas of Khaqani and Anvari. While further research is needed to determine how aware were Ottoman poets of contemporary Safavid works, there was clearly an enduring sense of belonging to a shared literary legacy. Turning to the movement of people rather than ideas, Willem Floor quantifies the commercial dealings of the three main European merchant companies, the Portuguese, English and Dutch. Persia was seen initially as an attractive prospect for trade, but became increasingly difficult as the period wore on and, as noted above, relations were based on little more than a business footing, which gave the European agents of the English and Dutch companies a rather negative view of the country and her officials. The Dutch lasted the longest but also had the rougher relations, going to war on more than one occasion, all of which helped to create a perception of the Persians as duplicitous, fickle and unreliable. Travel is, of course, a classic way of measuring oneself against others. Maryam Ala Amjadi surveys a number of little-used Persian travelogues, several in verse and mainly connected with the Meccan pilgrimage (hajj). Far from enhancing belief in the ‘oneness’ of the pilgrims, their experiences on leaving Iranian territory and the attitudes they encountered towards Shi‘is made them more aware of their distinctiveness. One striking insight is the perception of the shah as the quintessence of the Shi‘i ethos, as partly defined by Majlesi, noted above. Later travellers, in particular, reveal an awareness of the

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distinctiveness of Iran’s geographical boundaries and governance, and a pride in Iranian cities, especially Esfahan. Travellers to India regarded the shah as the embodiment of Iran (a notion touched on by Anooshahr). Sunil Sharma elaborates further on the work of those who travelled from Iran, not so much as travel writers (such as Mohammad Mofid) but as poets, participating in and helping to form the expanding Persianate cultural sphere beyond the central Iranian lands into new geographic landscapes, most notably in India (though poets at the Ottoman court are not overlooked). Focusing on the local and transregional places experienced by the poets, Sharma notes particularly the shahrashub genre, describing individuals or social groups against the backdrop of an actual urban landscape. A notable example is by Mohammad Taher Vahid, poet and historian, who penned a romance describing Esfahan through the eyes of two Indian lovers. Once more, evidence of ‘urban pride’, and the thought that Persian poets were perhaps more alert to the Idea of Iran than Persian chroniclers. Different connections with India, and specifically the Deccan, are examined by Roy Fischel, who questions how strongly, in reality, the ‘Adel Shah, Qotb Shah and Nezam Shah sultanates were either Shi‘i or part of the Safavid realm, despite the evidence of the Safavid allegiance expressed in the khotba and chancery documents. Notwithstanding the presence of numerous Persianspeaking, Shi‘i ‘Foreigners’ in the Deccan, and the receptiveness to PersoIslamic culture at court and in the local, Sunni, environment, Safavid Iran was imagined as a sympathetic, but conveniently distant, counterweight to the perceived and increasingly real threat of Mughal encroachment. It would be nice to know more of what the Ilchi-ye Nezam Shah thought of his stay in Iran, as a native Iranian in Deccani service for a year and a half (1545–47) at the court of Shah Tahmasp. The Central Asian ‘Ozbek’ khans, on the other hand, interacted more closely with the Safavids, not only in conflicts over the mastery of Khorasan and Transoxania and the Timurid legacy, but viewing the Safavid court as a refuge and potential source of support in their internecine dynastic struggles. Their visits – whether requesting military aid or in transit on the pilgrimage to Mecca – provided their Safavid hosts with the chance to portray themselves not only as conquerors and successful warlords, but as patrons and protectors of neighbouring rulers. Florian Schwarz’s neatly argued chapter concentrates on how these interactions were portrayed in the mural paintings in the Chehel Sotun in Esfahan, particularly proposing that the enigmatic, whiterobed figure in one of them depicts Emam-Qoli Khan at the court of Shah ‘Abbas II in 1642, on his way to Mecca. The lowered and unfocused gaze of the khan was due to his blindness, which had prompted his abdication. Different again were the relations between the Safavids and Georgia, which alone of the neighbouring states could indeed be called ‘Safavid’ Georgia as a result of the long years of warfare and occupation and, never fully successful, integration charted by George Sanikidze. The interaction was close by virtue

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not only of the Iranians’ (and Qezelbash forces’) presence in Eastern Georgia, but also of numerous Georgian princes and notables in Iran, both in the army and at court, especially in Esfahan, and often in positions of authority. While we get some idea of the Safavids’ perceptions of Georgia and Georgians (not just of the ‘wine, women and song’ variety, but as territory to be subdued and governed), the author is not explicit about the Georgians’ idea of Iran, though it can be imagined well enough, reading between the lines – which do not, however, refer to cultural and literary interactions. Last but not least, we can gain some impression of how Iran was visualized in the Safavid period by her own artists. Sheila Canby analyses the depiction of flora in the rich landscapes of the Shah Tahmasp Shahnama, and the extent to which they accurately record what was growing in Iran at the time rather than plants in earlier pictorial prototypes that had long been symbolically important in Persian poetry. Many of the flowers in the Shahnama paintings can be identified, but not always as immediately relevant to the narrative they illustrate nor always native to north-west Iran where the artists can be presumed to have worked. Later in the Safavid period, artists tended to follow models created in Tahmasp’s atelier, or turned to single page paintings and drawings that may have been taken from life, or through exposure to European art and its penchant for painting individual flowering plants. This ‘Europeanizing style’ (farangisazi) is the subject of Negar Habibi’s chapter, examining the brief output of the new style of painting in the reigns of ‘Abbas II and Shah Soleyman. Here, the focus is not so much on the interaction between Iranian artists and Europeans working in Iran, as on their encounter with the objects themselves, acquired as gifts by the court and stored in the arsenal or treasury (jebakhana, khazana). ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar and Mohammad Zaman both executed portraits, floral studies and court scenes that evidently resulted from them seeing their familiar surroundings in a new way. Another prominent genre was biblical and mythological scenes and here Habibi, considering the identity of the patrons at court, interestingly proposes that depictions of stories such as ‘The Annunciation’, ‘Judith and Holofernes’ and images of the Virgin Mary catered for the tastes of the harem and especially the Queen Mother (whose correct name, typically, remains uncertain), who is known to have visited the khazana on more than one occasion. This volume arises from the two symposia dedicated to the Safavids, on 27 October 2018 and 11–12 May 2019, sponsored by the Soudavar Memorial Foundation, at London SOAS, as the latest instalments of the series on ‘The Idea of Iran’.18 Two and a half days are still insufficient to cover the wealth of possibilities suggested by the idea of Iran in the Safavid period, but the contributions here can fuel several fresh directions for research. The topic will be even harder to encompass as we approach the modern era, when Iranians’ presence in the world and the world’s presence in Iran become even more visible and vocal. Whatever the outcome, there can be no doubt that the Safavid

INTRODUCTION

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age will be seen to have had an enduring legacy, the contours of which have been freshly drawn by the authors of these studies.

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Notes: 1. Touched on, at least implicitly, by Stephen P. Blake, ‘History and chronology in early modern Iran: The Safavid Empire in comparative perspective’, in Perceptions of Iran: History, Myths and Nationalism from Medieval Persia to the Islamic Republic, ed. Ali M. Ansari (London: I.B. Tauris, 2014), pp. 47–63, esp. 49–54. 2. Andrew J. Newman, Safavid Iran (London: I.B Tauris, 2006), subtitles his book ‘Rebirth of a Persian Empire’. The same observation could apply equally well to the Ottoman rulers of Turkey, whose Turkish blood was diluted by generations of intermarriage with non-Turks. 3. See, e.g., Stephen F. Dale, The Muslim Empires of the Ottomans, Safavids, and Mughals (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); Douglas E. Streusand, Islamic Gunpowder Empires: Ottomans, Safavids, and Mughals (Boulder, CA: Westview Press, 2011). 4. See, for example, chapters by John Emerson (on Adam Olearius) and Willem Floor (on Jan Jansz. Struys), in Etudes safavides, ed. Jean Calmard (Tehran and Paris: Institut Français de Recherche en Iran, 1993), pp. 31–56, 57–68, respectively, with references cited, or Anthony Welch (on Ambrosio Bembo), in Society and Culture in the Early Modern Middle East: Studies on Iran in the Safavid Period, ed. Andrew J. Newman (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 97–122, and a large section of chapters devoted to ‘Cross-cultural perceptions and exchange’, in Iran and the World in the Safavid Age, ed. Willem Floor and Edmund Herzig (London: I.B. Tauris, 2012), pp. 293–455, to name but a few. A more concentrated treatment was given at the IberoSafavid conference, ‘Travelers and Travelogues in Safavid Iran’, Biblioteca Nacional, Lisbon, 28–29 March 2018 (unpublished). 5. ‘The poetry of Shāh Ismā‘īl’, BSOAS 10, no. 4 (1942), pp. 1006a–1053a; Tadhkirat al-Mulūk: A Manual of Ṣafavid Administration (circa 1137/1725) (Gibb Memorial Trust, 1943). 6. Renata Holod, ed., Studies on Isfahan – Proceedings of the Isfahan Colloquium, Iranian Studies 7, nos 1–2 (1974). 7. Laurence Lockhart, The Fall of the Ṣafavī Dynasty and the Afghan Occupation of Persia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1958); Roger M. Savory, Studies on the History of Ṣafawid Iran (Aldershot: Variorum Reprints, 1987). 8. Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6, The Timurid and Safavid Periods, ed. Peter Jackson and the late Laurence Lockhart (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), see editor’s preface, p. xxii. 9. Jean Aubin could be considered a second Minorsky for the range and brilliance of his work; his ‘Études Safavides’ started in 1959, with ‘Šāh Ismā‘īl et les Notables de l’Iraq persan’, JESHO 2, pp. 37–81 and was followed by ‘Revolution chiite et conservatism, les soufis de Lâhejân, 1500–1514’, Moyen Orient et Océan Indien 1 (1984), pp. 1–40 and the remarkable ‘L’avènement des Safavides reconsidéré’, Moyen Orient et Océan Indien 5 (1988), pp. 1–130. 10. Calmard, Etudes safavides. 11. Charles Melville, ed., Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society (London: I.B. Tauris, 1996); Newman, ed., Society and Culture. 12. For a brief review, see Newman, Safavid Iran, pp. 2–7 and notes pp. 145–50; already 15 years out of date, but further elaborated in his chapter in this volume.

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13. See, for example, n. 1 above; also Abbas Amanat and Farzin Vejdani, eds, Iran Facing Others: Identity Boundaries in a Historical Perspective (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012). For a different approach, which scarcely mentions the Safavids but emphasizes Shi‘ism, see Ali Mozaffari, Forming National Identity in Iran: The Idea of Homeland Derived from Ancient Persian and Islamic Imaginations of Place (London: I.B. Tauris, 2014). 14. See also, with a similar theme, Elisa Sabadini, ‘Safavid Persia through Italian eyes: From reign of freedom to land of oppression’, in Ansari, ed., Perceptions of Iran, pp. 163–81. 15. For instance, Nikki Keddie and Rudi Matthee, eds, Iran and the Surrounding World: Interactions in Culture and Cultural Politics (Seattle: Washington University Press, 2002), esp. Part II; Michel Mazzaoui, ed., Safavid Iran and her Neighbors (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2003); Floor and Herzig, Iran and the World; and, more recently, Nobuaki Kondo, ed., Mapping Safavid Iran (Tokyo: ILCAA, Fuchu, 2015), aimed at locating Iran in ‘the broader contexts of time and space’ and emphasizing its ‘connections with neighboring areas [and] the surrounding world’, see preface, pp. 2, 4. 16. Daniel Zakrzewski, ‘An idea of Iran on Mongol foundations: Territory, dynasties and Tabriz as royal city (seventh/thirteenth to ninth/fifteenth century)’, in The Timurid Century: The Idea of Iran, vol. 9, ed. Charles Melville (London: I.B. Tauris, 2020), pp. 45–76. 17. This was also the topic of Rosemary Stanfield-Johnson’s presentation at the ‘Second Safavid Century’ symposium in May 2019. 18. All but three of the presentations are published here; Rosemary Stanfield-Johnson and Daniel Sheffield (on the topic ‘Universal harmony (solh-e koll) and political theology in Safavid Iran’) were unable to complete their papers; Michael Franses’ visually spectacular and detailed presentation of the so-called ‘Sanguszko’ Safavid carpets required space and a level of illustration that could not be provided within the compass of this volume.

1 The Body Politic and Rise of the Safavids Ali Anooshahr (University of California, Davis)

T

he formation of the Safavid state by Shah Esma‘il I (1487–1524) was primarily seen in the twentieth century as a decisive moment in Iran’s existence. Some scholars see the making of the Safavid state as a moment of rebirth for Persian political identity, which had been subjugated to ‘Arab’ or ‘Turko-Mongolian’ rule since the collapse of the Sasanian dynasty. The proponents of this position have often resorted to twentieth-century ethnoracial arguments, trying to emphasize the ‘Aryan’ element either in the Safavid dynasty itself (for example, emphasizing the light skin, eye and hair colour of Shah Esma‘il or highlighting the Kurdish origin of the family’s medieval ancestor, since Kurdish is designated in modern linguistics as an ‘Iranian’ language), or indicating the presence of Safavid followers from ‘Iranian’ areas (such as Talesh on the Caspian coast) as opposed to those that hailed from Turkish or Anatolian regions. Obviously, such notions of ethnic nationalism are completely anachronistic and did not have any relevance in the period under discussion.1 A second camp does not argue for continuity but for innovation. The proponents of this view argue that the state created by Safavid conquest and homogenized through the imposition of Twelver Shi‘ism essentially set Iran apart from the rest of the Islamic world and thus laid the groundwork for what later became the modern Iranian nation state.2 While this argument may seem meritorious at first, it comes unravelled on closer inspection as it completely leapfrogs over the crucial era of European imperialism in the nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries. No genealogy of modern Iran can ignore the significance of Russian and British semi-colonialism in Iran and their interest in maintaining the territorial integrity of Qajar Persia (and the new nation state of Afghanistan) as a buffer zone between Britain and Russia. In short, both arguments in favour of seeing the rise of Shah Esma‘il as a moment of origination for the modern Iranian nation state operate within the limited, anachronistic and ahistorical framework of nationalism. The true historical significance of the Safavids does not lie simply in the role they played in the teleology of the modern nation state, but rather in what the dynasty signified in its particular context. In order to understand that, we will have to get as close as possible to the people who wrote about these events at

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the actual time, eschewing even the later sixteenth- and early seventeenthcentury Persian chronicles and the contemporary, though highly polemical Ottoman or Timurid accounts. There are three main Persian chroniclers in prose and one in verse from this period. However, of these four, there is one that is of particular value and relevance and that is the Fotuhat-e shahi or ‘Royal Victories/Conquests’ by Amini Haravi (d. 1534), as it was based on the accounts of veterans from the early wars of Shah Esma‘il, who served the author as his informants. In other words, we have in the Fotuhat a composite authorship and this factor distinguishes this narrative from other contemporaries, such as Khvandamir and Fazlollah Khonji-Esfahani. Based on this evidence, we can say decisively that there was no idea of something called ‘Iran’ in the transitional period between the Timurids and the Safavids. The word ‘Iran’ only occurs twice in Amini’s book, back to back, once paired with Turan as a geographical region (meaning specifically Khorasan and Transoxania), and then again immediately afterwards when a Rumi (Ottoman) envoy presents himself to Shah Esma‘il. That Shah Esmaʻil and his followers lacked any notion of Iran was not because they were aliens or unpatriotic or anything like that. Rather, they had a radically different view of territory than we hold today. Our modern conception of a people defines them as a nation; they own the land they live on, and this land has particular characteristics shared between it and the people for all eternity. The people also have exclusive rights of sovereignty over the land, which is exercised by a government that is supposed to represent them in one way or another. This concept is totally different from what obtained in the sixteenth century. Land was primarily property. It was owned by the king and a few noble families. Everybody else was a subject (ra‘iyat). Either the king and the nobility made claims of ownership on the people, or most people were mere tenants who worked on the lords’ land. Modern-day borders did not exist, and a king might own property over a vast area that was not always contiguous. Whereas today we sublimate territory and fetishize it, sixteenth-century courts sublimated kingship (molk, which was often synonymous with kingdom). This meant that, rather than the property of the king (his land), it was his body that was mythologized politically. The ‘body politic’ was the body of the king. In our particular case, if land was sublimated, it was through mythologizing the areas conquered by the king not politically but religiously: as heaven on earth for its inhabitants. In the case of the followers of Shah Esma‘il, it meant that the territory conquered and ruled by their king was where their libidinal drives for wealth, power and sex were fulfilled. Significantly, the establishment of Twelver Shi‘ism did not seem particularly important in and of itself. Shah Esma‘il’s support for religion had a very clear political function. In Amini’s narrative, the primary identity of Esma‘il’s army was that of ghazis or holy warriors, and their primary goal was

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the establishment of earthly paradise. This makes sense in the context of the turn of the fifteenth century. As we know, many of Esma‘il’s followers hailed from former Ottoman territory where, following the conquest of Constantinople by Mehmed II in 1453, the Ottoman Empire had greatly reduced the participation of Anatolian volunteers and confederates in their ‘holy wars’ in the Balkans and had relied more and more on the professional Janissary corps for their European campaigns.3 These numerous would-be ghazis represented a prime recruiting opportunity for the Safavids who, unlike the Timurids, Qara Qoyunlu and the Aq Qoyunlu, were not a major royal lineage in charge of numerous other lords and grandees that possessed vast flocks and had large numbers of kin-based followers. Any recruitment by the Safavids of potential Anatolian adherents had to happen through a recreation of the environment and opportunities that the would-be ghazis had been denied in the Ottoman Empire. This is where Twelver Shi‘ism came in. Fighting in the name of true religion and enforcing its domination suddenly converted Muslim lands into the dar al-harb (abode of war) where holy war (ghaza) could now be waged. Sectarianism was therefore a signal and substitute and sanctified plunder was the actual goal. In the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, when lineagebased states (Timurids and Aq Qoyunlu) were reduced to civil strife and therefore disintegration, advantage went to the movement that could recruit subgroups and individuals regardless of kinship or status and could also manufacture coherence and unity through ‘ideological’ means. So, I will first analyse Amini’s narrative with a particular focus on the period between 1501 (the conquest of Tabriz) and 1504, when all the Aq Qoyunlu territory came under the control of Shah Esma‘il and his soldiers. I have written about the early phase of Shah Esma‘il’s career elsewhere, showing how, early on, the Safavid venture was a very cautiously planned and managed set of campaigns in the Caucasus and Anatolia designed to win treasure and men. However, the conquest of Tabriz was quite momentous and made the movement a proper ‘state’. I will follow the narrative closely here because I think that in this way we will gain a better sense of how Shah Esma‘il’s conquests seem unplanned and mostly opportunistic, how geography was actually discussed and perceived, and see how religious language was used to sublimate the project. The events surrounding the conquest of Tabriz are therefore crucial. This is how Amini describes them. Following the victory at the battle outside Nakhjavan (Nakhchevan) against the Aq Qoyunlu sultan Alvand in the summer of 1501, the young shah immediately moved south towards Tabriz. The direct distance is about a hundred miles (through Jolfa and Marand), which could be covered in about 33 hours (3 miles per hour). This could be done in no more than three days. Along the way, all the important people of the city and the surrounding countryside, sayyeds, judges, peasant headmen, guild leaders and merchants, came out to offer official welcome to their new king. Esma‘il then

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met with sayyeds and those jurists who ‘were embellished … with obedience to the [twelve] imams’. The author claims that Esma‘il actually helped these men nullify all the errors towards which their belief had gravitated as a result of the bad influence of ‘miscreants’ (ahl-e khelaf). Then, with the help of other ulema who subsequently joined his camp during the march to Tabriz, they arranged the sermon in the proper (meaning Twelver Shi‘i) manner.4 This passage is important. We are used to thinking of Shah Esma‘il violently entering Tabriz and forcing Shi‘ism on the people, who were Sunnis. But Amini says that Shi‘i jurists had joined him outside the city. In turn, they were the ones to bring over to the cause those who were less strict in their sectarian self-identification (ahl-e khelaf). What was needed was to establish the symbolic aspect of the new rule (the Friday sermon in Shi‘i fashion). Mass conversion of the population was not on the agenda. Co-opting a minimum number of collaborating members of the religious and legal elite was sufficient for this purpose. All this reflects the perspective of the military and the young shah, who seem only minimally interested in substantial religious reform. Based on the Fotuhat at least, initially it was a faction of the ulema and sayyeds of Tabriz that was using the victories of Shah Esmaʻil to reconfigure the power structure in the city, not the other way around. As autumn was approaching, it was decided that the army should wait out the cold season in the city. The whole winter, writes Amini, was spent in countless sessions of revelry and pleasure that lasted well into the night. At night, the city looked like a flower garden blooming with the red colour of wine and torch flame.5 The destitute soldiers who had gambled and joined the teenage Esma‘il in the previous year were now able to reap the benefits of their wager. Esma‘il’s sojourn would also profit the city. As seen above, the soldiers had received a substantial share of the treasures won in the course of their campaigns and could now spend it in the town markets, thus completing the cycle of rapid circulation of cash. Finally, ministers and deputies were appointed to ‘manage affairs’.6 Amini does not specify what specific administrative tasks were undertaken by these men.7 As we saw above, the narrative of these events was recounted to him by the top commanders, who were busy performing the rites of revelry (rosum-e ‘eshrat).8 But even they had not completely lost themselves to carousing. Spies and informants had been sent all over the region in search of news from the recently defeated Aq Qoyunlu prince Alvand.9 When spring arrived, these individuals returned with news that Alvand had been gathering soldiers in Azerbaijan and preparing for battle. Esma‘il personally led his army in pursuit in the direction of Erzincan (present-day eastern Turkey). Thanks to their gaining possession of the armories of Tabriz, the shah and his ghazis were much better equipped this time, and they took with them gold packed in boxes on camelback.10 The two sides never came face to face. An uneventful cat-and-mouse game led to Alvand escaping the region and heading out of Azerbaijan. Esma‘il and his men

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first rested in the town of Tercan for a while, and then released their pent up energy by engaging in a hunt on a large scale, beginning with several rounds of falconry led by the king, and ending with the slaughter of herds of deer, onagers and gazelles by the soldiers.11 After a brief stop at Baku (the site of the main treasury of the Sharvanshahs), the army returned to Tabriz in order to spend the next cold season engaged in revelry and dispensing justice, as reported by Amini.12 It is worth noting that one later chronicler states that, after Alvand’s escape from Erzincan, Esma‘il had decided to conquer the Zolqadr kingdom in eastern Anatolia, but news of Alvand’s coming to Tabriz forced him to return. No other source speaks of this, but it is quite possible that Esma‘il did not initially have any desire to go further into the Iranian plateau and had planned on building a kingdom in Azerbaijan and eastern Anatolia, between the Ottomans and the Aq Qoyunlu.13 However, the situation in the remaining Aq Qoyunlu territory forced him eastwards. Be that as it may, the two years spent in Tabriz following the conquest repeated the patterns observed during the early months of the campaign. The army remained cautious. Most of the work was done by spies and informants. Battle was avoided. The only military activity and preparation involved a large hunting expedition. Besides the changing of the sermon, no overt ideological or religious reforms were undertaken. Revelry and expenditure of money (probably replenished from Baku) by the soldiers were promoted, which in turn benefited the local economy in Tabriz. Administrative ‘justice’ of some sort was dispensed, although Amini does not tell us what this entailed. Finally, the timing for these events could not be more opportune. No major adversary existed at this time. Neither the Ottomans, nor the Timurids, nor yet the remnants of the Aq Qoyunlu came to lay siege to the town. All the same, the two-year hiatus since the fall of Tabriz had bought time for the surviving Aq Qoyunlu. With the death of Alvand in Diyarbakr, over 70,000 soldiers, identified as Turkmen, infantry and horsemen, had rallied around Soltan-Morad, who had been ruling in the southern parts of the old kingdom in Fars and ʻEraq-e ʻAjam.14 Deciding that it would be wiser to attack Soltan-Morad first, the ghazi army rapidly mobilized and headed south towards the ‘valley of Hamadan’, where they could gather better information about the enemy and prepare themselves for battle.15 This strategy proved to be an error. Apparently unfamiliar with the climate and landscape of western Iran, the army was unable to find a campground with any drinking water. We are told, in a passage brimming with Qur’ranic references to the hydraulic miracles of Noah and Moses, that disaster was averted after the ghazis dug wells and were finally able to quench their thirst.16 Refreshed, they set out again and immediately encountered the enemy. Amini makes much of the superior numbers and equipment of the adversary. Horsemen from Fars, spearmen from Iraq and archers from western Iran, all

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SAFAVID PERSIA IN THE AGE OF EMPIRES

clad in armour, came with many camels carrying their weapons. The Aq Qoyunlu quickly switched to a defensive strategy and built a barrier around themselves using carts and walls made from mud and straw. However, they exhausted themselves by working all night on the construction project.17 Deciding to seize upon this sole advantage, the ghazis attacked the Aq Qoyunlu at dawn. Esma‘il prayed, put on his crown, mounted his horse and rode out into the field.18 The actual battle arrangement, however, was in the hands of the seasoned officers. The Heydari veteran ʻAbedin Beg Tovachi, as well as Lala Beg and the khalifat al-kholafa’ led the command of the various wings.19 The shah’s role was initially mainly inspirational. Amini’s language mimics the speech of Esma‘il, who had incited his men to action by drawing on the rhetoric of holy war.20 Esma‘il had specifically recited the Qur’anic verses 41:30, ‘Lo! those who say: Our Lord is God, and afterward are upright, the angels descend upon them, saying: Fear not nor grieve, but hear good tidings of the paradise which ye are promised’ and 8:65, ‘O Prophet! Exhort the believers to fight. If there be of you twenty steadfast they shall overcome two hundred, and if there be of you a hundred [steadfast] they shall overcome a thousand of those who disbelieve, because they [the disbelievers] are a folk without intelligence’.21 Later on, in the heat of the battle, Esma‘il was inspired by 2:250, ‘And when they went into the field against Goliath and his hosts they said: Our Lord! Bestow on us endurance, make our foothold sure, and give us help against the disbelieving folk (kaferin)’. The choice of these verses is crucial. The inspiration is clearly holy war waged by the friends of God against pagans. Note that, generally speaking, the references are not apocalyptic, as we might have expected. Nevertheless, there is a great deal of novelty here. In the fifteenth century, the rhetoric of holy war was not used inside the Islamic world. Persian chronicles dealing with the wars among the Timurids, Qara Qoyunlu and the Aq Qoyunlu did not usually draw on such strategies and tropes. The only place where we find plenty of references to holy war rhetoric is in the frontier regions of the Islamic world, particularly in the Ottoman Empire. It was little wonder perhaps that the leadership of the army specifically named ‘ghazi’ by Amini, whose soldiers were recruited primarily from the frontier regions of the Caucasus or former Ottoman territories, would evoke the same rhetoric that had inspired those soldiers in their earlier careers. Appeal to ‘sectarianism’ is used in the absence of clearly identifiable religious ‘others’ (Christians). In other words, Shi‘ism (in whatever form it was understood here) was not merely the cause of Esmaʻil’s uprising, but the logic of its continuation as it helped to create clearly defined binaries for soldiers who were accustomed to being motivated by a piercing dualism on the frontier of Christendom. The actual fighting was begun by the vanguard, composed of young men (javanan) on horseback armed with spears, swords, daggers and shields, and they were supported by the volley of arrows fired by the ghazis on the enemy.

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The Aq Qoyunlu vanguard met this challenge by riding out and pushing their Safavid counterparts back to their lines.22 With their fronts exposed, a large mounted division from the Safavid side attacked the Aq Qoyunlu horsemen and drove them back to their mud fortifications, then kept pushing past the walls and the carts and reached the Aq Qoyunlu centre. It was only at this point, now that the enemy seemed on the verge of defeat, that Shah Esmaʻil decided to engage in ‘royal war’ (jang-e soltani). The entire Safavid army charged en masse against the Aq Qoyunlu camp, shouting ‘Allah, Allah!’ as they attacked. In accordance with the theme of holy war, Amini cited Qur’anic passages here from the story of David and Goliath, and Prophet Mohammad’s battle of Ohod.23 They routed their less-motivated foes and killed many of them.24 In short, while Amini is amplifying the message, it seems quite clear that the Safavid ghazis were engaging in ghaza (i.e. war against unbelievers) inside the abode of Islam. It is not certain at all that Esma‘il and his men had initially intended to conquer the Aq Qoyunlu domain. However, with Soltan-Morad defeated, the western part of the Iranian Plateau now lay open. Plundered treasures were distributed to the ghazis, victory proclamations were dispatched and the army waited out the hot season in the cool meadows of the Alvand mountains to the west of Hamadan.25 By summer’s end, a messenger arrived stating that SoltanMorad had escaped to Shiraz in the south, while the scattered Aq Qoyunlu soldiers had headed east towards Ray and regrouped under the banner of a local king called Hoseyn Keya. Upon hearing this news, the veteran commander Elyas Beg Oyghudoghlu marched towards Ray with a large portion of the army, while Esma‘il went southward towards Esfahan with the remainder of his soldiers.26 Clearly, the king and his followers were to remain behind walls until their rear was secured by a Heydari veteran. Only then would they venture to deal with Soltan-Morad. After a stay of two months, Esma‘il and his men left Esfahan for Fars. With his men separated from him, Soltan-Morad did not put up any resistance and escaped to Shushtar in Khuzestan, and the ghazi army entered Shiraz unopposed.27 So now they were in possession of Tabriz, Hamadan, Esfahan and Shiraz.28 There is a hint in the narrative that the entry into Shiraz was seen as the completion of the young shah’s main goal. After all, with the flight of SoltanMorad to Khuzestan, Shah Esma‘il was now the uncontested master of the former Aq Qoyunlu territories. The actions of the Safavid army (as described by Amini) certainly suggest either caution or satisfaction, and that they wanted to stop or pause. First, the ghazi army did not chase after Soltan-Morad into Khuzestan (who might have drawn his pursuers after him further west into lower Iraq). Second, as we will see, Shah Esma‘il actually headed back north from Shiraz in order to visit two other major towns in his new domains: Kashan and Qom. The aim therefore seems to have been the consolidation of the recent conquests.

20

SAFAVID PERSIA IN THE AGE OF EMPIRES

This idea is supported by the allusions in the narrative itself. As stated above, Amini had cited Qur’anic passages that compared the battle of the ghazi army with battles fought by monotheistic prophets against polytheists (David versus Goliath or the Prophet Mohammad versus the Qoreysh). When it came to describing the carnage of the battle, Amini quoted Qur’anic verses that alluded to the total destruction of evildoers, in one case, on Judgment Day (22:1), ‘Lo! the earthquake of the Hour (of Doom) is a tremendous thing’.29 Finally, upon arriving in Shiraz, where the preponderance of wine, music and sexual pleasure recalled heaven, Amini referred to those verses of the Qur’an that describe Paradise and its pleasures, such as (55:72), ‘Fair ones [hur], closeguarded in pavilions’ or (55:56), ‘Therein are those of modest gaze, whom neither man nor jinni will have touched before them’.30 From Shiraz the shah travelled north to Kashan, and here too his justice made the city the envy of heaven. Amini again quotes the verses referring to the Garden of Eden (35:34), ‘And they say: Praise be to God who has put away grief from us’ or (34:15), ‘A fair land and an indulgent Lord’.31 We therefore have a narrative progression in the text describing the conquest of the Aq Qoyunlu kingdom by ghazis of Shah Esma‘il that involves holy war, apocalyptic turbulence and entry into heaven. The Qur’anic insertions may be mainly the work of Amini, but they also reinforce the perception and desires of Shah Esma‘il’s soldiers. In other words, if the king has promised holy war and the end of times, then he had better deliver paradisiacal benefits to his fighting men as well. The heavenly pleasures experienced in Tabriz, Shiraz and Kashan are all parts of the aspect of rule expected by the king’s followers, be they those who fought for him or those who allowed his entry into their town without resistance. Thus, it seems that the final capture of the Aq Qoyunlu kingdom and its consolidation probably signalled the end of the campaign begun by Shah Esma‘il in 1501. However, new circumstances drew him further east. After another major festivity (this time in Kashan),32 where both the soldiers and the inhabitants were rewarded, Shah Esma‘il spent the winter of 1504 in Qom and then headed out to Ray.33 As stated before, a local king called Hoseyn Keya had gathered some remnants of the Aq Qoyunlu to himself, and the Safavid commander Elyas Beg Oyghudoghlu had been sent to subjugate him. However, Hoseyn Keya attacked and scattered Elyas Beg’s men in a night raid, and eventually lured out the commander from his hideout in Varamin and murdered him.34 Esma‘il left a handful of top Qezelbash amirs back in Qom and led his army against Hoseyn Keya, who had retreated to Firuzkuh fort in the north-east. First, they stopped at Golkhandan fort along the way, which was loyal to Hoseyn Keya and did not open its gates to the Safavid army. A section of the wall was successfully mined and blown up with gunpowder. Esma‘il commanded the men to be massacred and the women to be taken as slaves in

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order to show that ‘audacity and insolence against this crew (ferqa) only results in damage and loss’.35 Amini makes reference to the Qur’anic chapter of the earthquake (99) when discussing the fall of the fort, invoking the day of judgement as the immediate destruction of opponents A 90-kilometre march east brought the army to Firuzkuh. Hoseyn Keya had escaped but left his relative ʻAli Keya in charge of the fort. The siege lasted about ten days, at which point the fort submitted. Again, the men were massacred and the women and children enslaved. However, ʻAli Keya was rewarded with a robe and crown for his bravery and for submitting at the end.36 The final and infamous battle took place at the fort of Ostay. The author reminds us that Hoseyn Keya had initially submitted to Shah Esma‘il but, after gathering up the remnants of Soltan-Morad’s and Alvand Aq Qoyunlu’s armies, he had grown haughty and disobedient. His men possessed 1,500 silver saddles and 500 gold saddles. What was worse, he took his many women on hunts with him, and whichever hound belonging to one of his wives brought back the kill first, Hoseyn Keya would honour that particular wife with the pleasure of his company that night.37 All this no doubt constitutes an attempt by the author to evoke revulsion for the enemy in order to prepare the reader for the barbaric treatment that he would soon receive at the end of the siege. The battle proved difficult, initially requiring a charge by Shah Esma‘il himself. Eventually, the shah had the river that watered the fort rerouted into a canal and, having subjected the inhabitants to thirst for three days, attacked the fort. A brother of Esma‘il, identified as Khvaja Sayyed Mahmud, was killed in the fray.38 This enraged the shah, who ordered a massacre in revenge. The battle raged for three days and nights until Hoseyn Keya was captured, placed in a cage and put on public display.39 Other Safavid chronicles state that Morad Beg Qara Qoyunlu was also among the prisoners, and that Esma‘il had him roasted and asked his soldiers to eat him.40 As usual, Esma‘il did not accept the plunder gained from the fort and had the immense wealth distributed among the soldiers.41 Amini or his sources do not say anything about cannibalism. In the early twentieth century, some scholars, namely proto-Fascist or Nazi ones from Germany or Sweden (Franz Babinger or Stig Wikander) would see these activities as signs of the survival of paganism. Shahzad Bashir has recently debunked these and similar arguments that see such actions as elements of an ‘ecstatic religious cult’ of the Safavids.42 However, I think it is incorrect to connect this (as Bashir does) to the Sufi discipline internal to the Safavid order.43 As Bashir himself states, only one source ascribes religious significance to this event, while all others explain it as a symbolic punishment.44 Timur had already set a precedent for this by putting the Ottoman sultan Bayezid I in a cage after defeating him at the battle of Ankara in 1402. The burning and roasting and eating of Morad Beg seems to be a particular brand of calculated horror that set them apart from their

22

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contemporaries and their symbolic acts of violence (like the towers of skulls erected by the Timurids). In any event, following this battle in 1504, Shah Esma‘il had captured the entire Aq Qoyunlu kingdom. He was now noticed by the Timurids and the Ottomans. And this moment is the only place in the entire narrative where the word ‘Iran’ is used. According to Amini, Soltan-Hoseyn-e Bayqara sent an envoy, Kamal al-Din Hoseyn Sadr, to meet the shah but the shah did not think that the envoy treated him in the manner of equals. Upset by this slight, it occurred to him to invade Khorasan because ‘the scope of kingdom-conquering (keshvar-setani) is not limited to the two ʻEraqs and Azerbaijan’, but it should extend to ‘Iran and Turan and other places of the inhabited quarter (of the world) that can be seized’.45 Here ‘Iran’ is used as a geographical term, apparently synonymous with Khorasan and on the same level as other geographical terms like ‘the two ʻEraqs and Azerbaijan’. It only encompasses a small part of the modern Iranian plateau. Soon after this diplomatic exchange, another envoy arrived, this time from Rum, representing the Ottoman sultan Bayezid II and met the shah in Esfahan. The envoy was released after being treated to various forms of generosity and violence (the body of Hoseyn Keya, who committed suicide in the cage in which he had been kept since the battle, was publicly set on fire while the ghazis forced the populace, including the envoys, to stand around and watch the grisly scene).46 The scene of generosity is where the word ‘Iran’ is used again for the second and last time in the narrative. In describing the financial benefit received by the population of Esfahan, Amini writes that the houses that had been ruined (viran) were revived by the army of Iran. It seems that having evoked the desire next to attack Iran and Turan, the shah was preemptively granted victory and designated as the conqueror. Alternatively, Amini may have used the word because it rhymed with viran. So we can say that, based on the most direct evidence, the followers of Shah Esma‘il and apparently even contemporary chroniclers did not view the conquered territories of the Aq Qoyunlu as Iran. In fact, they conceived of land basically as property, and if they sublimated and mythologized territory it was to render it as paradise on earth, filled with the pleasures of heaven. That means their notion of a political identity, which is today projected onto an immortal land (Iran, Germany, Italy, etc.) was projected onto something else. How was the ‘body politic’ conceived? As the body of the king. We might be familiar with this idea through the work of Ernst Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies. He argued that the mystical notion of the nation state, i.e. a political community that was inviolable, sovereign and eternal, was essentially derived from a similar function in the early modern period embodied in the king, who supposedly had one actual body and one mystical body that would not die. This, in turn, was derived from medieval Christian theology that had come up with the two bodies of Christ: corpus naturale (natural body of

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Jesus) and corpus mysticum, the social body of the church (a metaphorical body).47 Scholars have been eager to indicate a similar phenomenon in the Middle East and South Asia, but I think such studies have been content to simply cut and paste this model without working out its detail, often as an ahistorical phenomenon that totally lacks the development we witness in Kantarowicz’s model. This recent trend of scholarship does not explain how something derived from Christian theology also existed in the Islamic Middle East. Space does not allow for the similarities of such concepts to be traced over a thousand-year period. However, I would like to look at some instances of the body of the king being used in a symbolic way in Safavid-era texts. What we would call a country today would be defined as kingdom, keshvar or molk. However, these terms were used metaphorically, especially in the sixteenth century. For example, Amir Mahmud b. Khvandamir, writing in 1550, expresses his hope that the appointment of Shah Tahmasp to the governorship of Khorasan in 1515 would ‘heal the wounds that had been inflicted on the body of the kingdom (badan-e molk) by the blade and assault of rebels’.48 He describes the entry of Ebrahim Soltan into Herat thus: ‘The sultan in the land (balad) is like the soul in the corpse.’49 A few decades later, the philosopher Sheykh Baha’i writes, ‘kingship for the subjects is like the soul for the corpse and the head for the body’.50 The metaphor is sometimes reversed. Describing the execution of the Kurdish ruler Kay Khosrow Beg, Sharaf Khan Bedlisi writes in the late sixteenth century, ‘the sultan exiled his sacred spirit from the kingdom of his body’.50 Earlier, Edris Bedlisi had written in his Qanun-e shahanshahi that in the ‘kingdom of human existence (mamlekat-e vojud-e ensani) … the spirit has the rank of leadership and kingship’.52 Sixteenth-century authors did not invent this metaphor. It was certainly older, with most authors of the period either tracing it to the pre-Islamic tradition of the Pishdadiyan or the ancient Greeks.53 Regardless of the exact origin, if a kingdom was in part made up of a number of smaller tributary kingdoms (as was the Safavid state), then this body itself was made of a number of other smaller bodies with the king as its head. This, of course, reminds us of the frontispiece of Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan, etched by Abraham Bosse in France. I do not know of a Safavid version of this, but a similar idea was expressed by Hobbes and Bosse’s contemporary, the Dutch painter Willem Schellinks, who had drawn this curious composite animal for Mughal India (Shah Jahan and his sons).54 This is an orientalist exoticization of what was actually a common trope in Mughal painting, which Schellinks must have seen as similar paintings of this kind have survived from Mughal India. This is how the subjects of the Safavids probably viewed the Safavid kingdom/kingship and not the bird’s-eye view, fetishized cut-out of Iran that we now associate with an inviolable sovereignty.

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Notes: 1. Franz Babinger, ‘Shejch Bedr ed-din’; Walther Hinz, Irans Aufstieg zum Nationalstaat; Ghulam Sarwar, History of Shāh Ismā‘īl; Nezām al-Din Mohammad Sheybāni, Tashkil-e dowlat (especially, pp. 245–49); Manuchehr Pārsādust, Shāh Esmāʻīl. 2. Vladimir Minorsky, Tadhkirat al-Mulūk; Roger M. Savory, Iran under the Safavids. 3. For a recent discussion see Tilmann Trausch, ‘Ghazā and Ghazā terminology in chronicles from the sixteenth-century Safavid courtly sphere’. 4. Amini, Fotuhāt-e shāhi, p. 173. Khvāndamir in Habib al-seyar, vol. IV, pp. 467–68, excludes the meeting with the Twelver ulema outside Tabriz and gives the credit for the propagation of Shi‘ism (that is, adding ʻAli’s name to the call to prayer) to Esmaʻil himself, enforced by the swords of the ghazis. He states that this act freed the Shi‘is from pretending to support Sunnism and drove the fanatical Sunnis from the town. Qazvini, Lobb al-tavārikh, pp. 272–73 agrees with Khvāndamir on both points. Hasan Beg Rumlu, Ahsan al-tavārikh, vol. II, p. 976, also mentions sayyeds and grandees meeting with the young shah prior to his arrival. Hayāti Tabrizi, A Chronicle of the Early Safavids, pp. 272–73, is brief but does mention the festivities. 5. Amini, Fotuhāt, p. 177. 6. Ibid., p. 176. 7. According to Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, IV, p. 468, Hoseyn Beg Lala became the deputy of the shah, the post of head of administration (sāheb-e divān) was given to Amir Zakariyā and the position of chief religious officer was delegated to Qāzi Shams al-Din Gilāni. Khvāndamir excludes the description of revelry here. Budāq Monshi Qazvini, in his Javāher al-akhbār, p. 117, states that Mir Zakariyā had been Alvand’s vizier and that he had defected to the Safavid camp prior to the conquest of Tabriz, even before Alvand’s defeat. This is repeated by ʻAbdi Beg Shirāzi in his Takmelat al-akhbār, p. 39, who identifies Qāzi Shams al-Din as the young shah’s tutor when he was in exile in Gilan, pp. 39–40. 8. Amini, Fotuhāt, p. 176. 9. Ibid., p. 178. 10. Ibid., pp. 178–79. 11. Ibid., pp. 178–80. 12. Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, IV, p. 469, states that the ghazis grew rich not from Baku but from the baggage left behind by Alvand’s men. Again, he omits the description of revelry. Hasan Beg Rumlu, Ahsan, vol. II, p. 980, states that some opponents were killed during this campaign, which may be referring to the campaign against the Zolqadr mentioned by Khurshāh, see note 12 below. Hayāti, Chronicle, pp. 277–78, describes the hunt and the subsequent festivities. 13. Khurshāh, Tārikh, p. 17. 14. Amini, Fotuhāt, pp. 185–86. 15. Ibid., p. 187. Khurshāh, Tārikh, pp. 22–23, provides more information about this campaign, stating that Esmaʻil and Soltān-Morād exchanged letters but negotiations collapsed. He includes details about the internal affairs of the Aq Qoyunlu camp not seen in other sources. These are also found in Hasan Beg Rumlu, Ahsan, vol. II, pp. 981–82, but the correspondence is not discussed by him. Hayāti, Chronicle, p. 281, not only mentions the correspondence but provides a very interesting detail, not

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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.

25

referred to by anyone else, that the letter was sent with a slave named Qanbar Beg the Black, who was in charge of the Indian slaves. Amini, Fotuhāt, pp. 187–89. This is followed closely, though summarized, by Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, vol. IV, pp. 469–70. Amini, Fotuhāt, pp. 191–92. Ibid., pp. 193–94. Ibid., p. 195. Amini, Fotuhāt, pp. 195–96. Marmaduke Pickthal’s 1930 translation, The Meaning of the Glorious Koran. Amini, Fotuhāt, pp. 196–97. Ibid., p. 198. Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, vol. IV, pp. 471–72, again summarizes this section but states that Esmaʻil’s ghazis did not leave one person alive in Soltān-Morād’s camp. He also states that there were a few stragglers who were pursued and cut down. Qazvini, Lobb, pp. 274–75, puts the number of dead at 10,000. Hasan Beg Rumlu, Ahsan, vol. II, pp. 983–86, provides a detailed description of this battle. He seems to be drawing on Hayāti’s Chronicle, pp. 288–96, which provides a great deal of similar detail. Amini, Fotuhāt, p. 202. Ibid., p. 203. ‘Abdi Beg, Takmelat al-akhbār, p. 42, dates this to September 1503. Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, vol. IV, p. 473, states that Esmaʻil was worried that Shiraz would become a rallying point for Soltān-Morād, apparently unaware that there were practically no major forces remaining loyal to the Aq Qoyunlu. Hasan Beg Rumlu, Ahsan, vol. II, p. 991, provides additional detail about the internal situation in Shiraz. Amini, Fotuhāt, p. 200. Ibid., p. 205. Not even Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, vol. IV, p. 473, could ignore the festivities there. He referred to them very tersely with a brief sentence. ʻAbdi Beg in Takmelat al-akhbār, p. 42, writes that Sunni preachers in nearby Kazerun were killed. He also writes that the shah put Elyās Beg Zolqadr in charge of Shiraz and this, he claims, began the dominance of the Zolqadr in Fars. Khurshāh, Tārikh, pp. 22–24, speaks of Safavid persecution of the family of the Savāʻed at the instigation of their rivals in Shiraz. Amini, Fotuhāt, p. 207. Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, vol. IV, p. 473, finally gives a full description of the festivities in Kashan, perhaps because the townspeople had showed exemplary hospitality to the shah. Amini, Fotuhāt, pp. 206–18. Ibid., p. 219. Ibid., pp. 220–21. Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, vol. IV, pp. 475–76, follows closely. Amini, Fotuhāt, pp. 222–23. Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, vol. IV, p. 476, does not mention ʻAli Keyā. Qazvini, Lobb, p. 274, does mention him and states that only the soldiers were slaughtered but the general population was spared. The author says, p. 275, that he was present during this campaign and the similarity of his version to

26

37. 38. 39.

40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

SAFAVID PERSIA IN THE AGE OF EMPIRES Amini’s leaves little doubt as to their accuracy. Hayāti, Chronicle, p. 306, confirms this. Amini, Fotuhāt, pp. 224–25. Not Sayyed Mahmud but a Sayyed Mohammad is mentioned in Hayāti’s Chronicle, p. 114. Amini, Fotuhāt, p. 229. Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, vol. IV, pp. 477–78, excludes much detail (including the character assassination of Hoseyn Keyā) and adds a few other pieces of information. He says nothing of the shah’s brother, and states that some of the inhabitants were spared because certain pillars of the state interceded on their behalf. He briefly mentions that Hoseyn Keyā’s body was burned ‘along with others of the path of rebellion’. It is not clear if these were captives who were alive or already dead. He does not mention the Ottoman envoy but states that other local notables, including Mohammad Hoseyn Mirzā, son of Soltān-Hoseyn-e Bāyqarā, came to bring presents. No mention is made of an affront by the Timurids and the desire to conquer Khorasan. Hasan Beg Rumlu, Ahsan, vol. II, pp. 992–99, provides additional detail about the battles. Qazvini, Lobb, p. 275; the author being an eyewitness. ʻAbdi Beg in Takmelat alakhbār, p. 43, says Morād Beg was roasted in order to make an example of him. Khurshāh, Tārikh, p. 26, follows the Lobb al-tavārikh but adds that Esmāʻil had heard that Hoseyn Keyā was planning on caging him after the battle, so he did the same to Hoseyn Keyā. Hayāti, Chronicle, p. 311, briefly mentions the act of cannibalism. Amini, Fotuhāt, p. 230. Shahzad Bashir, ‘Shah Ismaʻil and the Qizilbash’, pp. 253–54. Ibid., pp. 254–56. Ibid., p. 241. Amini, Fotuhāt, pp. 241–42. Qazvini, Lobb, p. 275, says nothing about an Ottoman envoy but does mention the presence of Mohammad Hoseyn Mirzā. Amini, Fotuhāt, pp. 247–48. Ernst H. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies. Amir Mahmud, Irān, p. 140. Ibid., p. 143. Bahāʼ al-Din Mohammad ebn Hoseyn Āmeli, Ketāb al-mekhlāt, p. 157. Sharaf Khān Bedlisi, Sharafnāma, vol. I, p. 172. Edris Bedlisi, Qānun-e shāhanshāhi, p. 31. Khvāndamir, Ma’āser al-moluk, p. 27; Mohammad Bāqer Sabzavāri, Rowzat alanvār-e ʻAbbāsi, p. 540. Sanjay Subrahmanyam, ‘A room full of mirrors’; J.J. Gommans, The Unseen World.

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Bibliography: ‘Abdi Beg Shirāzi, Takmelat al-akhbār: Tārikh-e safaviya az āghāz tā 978 hejri qamari, ed. ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Navā’i (Tehran: Nashr-e ney, 1369/1990). ʻĀmeli, Bahāʼ al-Din Mohammad ebn Hoseyn, Ketāb al-mekhlāt (Beirut: Dār al-Qāmus, 1899). Amini Haravi, Sadr al-Din Ebrāhim b. Mobārak, Fotuhāt-e shāhi, ed. Mohammad Rezā Nasiri (Tehran: Anjoman-e āsār va mafākher-e farhangi, 1383/2004). Amir Mahmud b. Khvāndamir Haravi, Irān dar ruzgār-e Shāh Esmā‘il va Shāh Tahmāsp-e Safavi, ed. Gholāmrezā Tabātabā’i Majd (Tehran: Bonyād-e mowqufāt-e Afshār, 1370/1991). Aubin, Jean, ‘Études safavides. I: Shah Isma‘il et les notables de l’Iraq persan’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 2 (1959), pp. 37– 81. — ‘Révolution chiite et conservatism. Les soufis de Lâhejân, 1500–1514’, Moyen Orient & Océan Indien 1 (1984), pp. 1–40. Babinger, Franz, ‘Schejch Bedr ed-din, der Sohn des Richters von Simaw: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Sektenwesens im altosmanischen Reich’, Der Islam 11 (1921), pp. 1–106. Bashir, Shahzad, ‘Shah Ismaʻil and the Qizilbash: Cannibalism in the religious history of early Safavid Iran’, History of Religions 45 (2006), pp. 234–56. Bedlisi, Edris, Qānun-e shāhanshāhi, ed. ʻA.M. Arānī (Tehran: Mirās-e Maktub, 1387/2008). Bedlisi, Sharaf Khan, Sharafnāma: Tārikh-e mofassal-e Kordestān, ed. V.V. Veliaminov-Zernov (Tehran: Mo’assasa-ye matbuʻāt-e ʻelmi, 1341/1964). Browne, E.G., A Literary History of Persia: IV. Modern Times (1500–1924) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1929). Budāq Monshi Qazvini, Javāher al-akhbār, ed. Mohsen Bahrām-nezhād (Tehran: Mirās-e Maktub, 1378/2000). Gommans, J.J., The Unseen World: The Netherlands and India from 1500 (Amsterdam: Rijksmuseum, 2018). Hayāti Tabrizi, Qāsem Beg, A Chronicle of the Early Safavids and the Reign of Shah Ismāʻīl: (907–930/1501–1524), ed. Kioumars Ghereghlou (New Haven, CT: American Oriental Society, 2018). Hinz, Walther, Irans Aufstieg zum Nationalstaat im Fünfzehnten Jahrhundert (Leipzig: Walter de Gruyter & Co., 1936). Kantorowicz, Ernst H., The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957). Khurshāh b. Qobād Hoseyni, Tārikh-e Ilchi-ye Nezām Shāh, ed. Mohammad Rezā Nasiri and Koichi Haneda (Tehran: Anjoman-e āsār va mafākher-e farhangi, 1379/2000).

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Khvāndamir, Gheyās al-Din b. Homām al_Din, Ma’āser al-molūk beh zamimaye Khātema-ye Kholāsat al-akhbār va Qānun-e Homāyuni, ed. Mir Hāshem Mohaddes (Tehran: Mo’assasa-ye khadamāt-e farhangi-ye Rasā, 1372/1993). — Tārikh-e Habib al-seyar fi akhbār-e afrād al-bashar, vol. IV, ed. Mohammad Dabir-Seyāqi (Tehran: Khayyām, 1380/2001). Minorsky, Vladimir, ed. and trans., Tadhkirat al-Mulūk. A Manual of Ṣafavid Administration (circa 1137/1725) (London: E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, 1943). Pārsādust, Manuchehr, Shāh Esma‘il-e Avval: Pādshāhi bā asar-hā-i dirpāy dar Irān va Irāni (Tehran: Sherkat-e sahāmi-ye enteshār, 1381/2002). Qazvini, Yahyā b. ‘Abd al-Latif, Lobb al-tavārikh, ed. Mir Hāshem Mohaddes (Tehran: Anjoman-e āsār va mafākher-e farhangi, 1386/2007). Rumlu, Hasan Beg, Ahsan al-tavārikh, ed. ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Navā’i, vol. II (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e asātir, 1384/2005). Sabzavāri, Mohammad Bāqer, Rowzat al-anvār-e ʻAbbāsi, ed. Najaf Lakzāyi (Qom: Markaz-e motālaʻāt va tahqiqāt-e eslāmi, 1381/2002). Sarwar, Ghulam, History of Shāh Ismā‘īl Ṣafawī (Aligarh: Aligarh University Press, 1939). Savory, Roger M., Iran under the Safavids (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980). Sheybāni, Nezām al-Din Mohammad, Tashkil-e dowlat-e Safaviya: Ehyā-ye vahdat-e melli (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e Dāneshgāh-e Tehrān, 1345/1966). Subrahmanyam, Sanjay, ‘A room full of mirrors: The artful embrace of Mughals and Franks 1550–1700)’, Ars Orientalia 19 (2010), pp. 39–83. Tilmann Trausch, ‘Ghazā and Ghazā terminology in chronicles from the sixteenth-century Safavid courtly sphere’, Journal of Persianate Studies 10 (2017), pp. 240–68.

2 The Qazvin Period and the Idea of the Safavids Gregory Aldous (Independent scholar) Introduction

T

he dynasty has long been the basic building block of Iranian history. Virtually every book and website covering the history of Iran uses the dynasty as the main structural unit. This is not unique to Iran. Historians use the same paradigm for many other countries, such as the imperial dynasties of China, the shogunal dynasties in Japan and the succession of dynasties in northern and southern India. Historians also use this structure to frame the histories of European countries – e.g. the Ottonians, Hohenstaufen and Habsburgs in Germany; the Capetians, Valois and Bourbons in France; the Plantagenets, Tudors and Stuarts in England. In the same way, a book or website on the history of Iran will discuss the Achaemenids, the Seleucids, the Arsacids and so on, down to the twentieth century. Admittedly, structuring Iranian history in this way is not just a modern phenomenon. This approach was already present in Safavid historiography. Qazvini, for example, who wrote the Lobb al-tavarikh in 1542, divided his work into sections according to dynasty.1 The second part of the chronicle had sections on the legendary Pishdadian and Kayanian dynasties, then a short section on the moluk-e tavayef (regional kings), followed by a section on the Sasanians. The third part ran through two dozen Islamic dynasties in more or less chronological order, from the Rashidun caliphs and the Omayyads down to the Aq Qoyunlu and the Ozbeks. Ghaffari similarly divided his history, the Tarikh-e jahan-ara, according to dynasty, though with some minor differences.2 He included the Sasanians among the moluk-e tavayef that followed the Kayanians, and he did not devote a separate section to the Rashidun caliphs. But he still treated Islamic Persian history as a succession of dynasties from the Omayyads down to the Aq Qoyunlu. Both of these authors, Qazvini and Ghaffari, also set the Safavids off in their own part of the history as the culmination of the chronicle, thus treating the contemporary period as beginning with the rise of Esma‘il. It is completely natural that Safavid chroniclers would approach the history of Iran as a succession of dynasties

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culminating in the Safavids. Their patrons were political figures, so they focused on political events and organized their histories around changes in the political regime. While Safavid-era historians framed their histories in this way, however, that does not mean that we must. We do not share the necessity that they had of pleasing a patron who belongs to the dynasty we are writing about. There is nothing inherently problematic about structuring a narrative around dynastic changes, and indeed it can often be quite suitable. Dynasties are political phenomena so it would make sense to structure a historical narrative around dynasties when writing political history. But history is not fundamentally about politics, nor is politics more important than other aspects of the past. If we stress the chronological boundaries between dynasties as the major turning points in Iranian history, we may give the impression that all changes happened at those boundaries, not just political changes. Another pitfall of using dynasties as our exclusive basis for periodization is that it might also give the impression of uniformity. Each dynasty has certain distinctive characteristics that are always repeated in surveys of Iranian history. We are accustomed to thinking of the Safavids, for example, as a unique period in Iranian history, distinct from what came before and setting the stage for what would come after. They get credit for making several long-lasting changes to Iran. They established Shi‘ism as the predominant religion. They re-established a Persian dynasty after centuries of non-Persian rule. They are credited with establishing the modern boundaries of Iran. They ruled Iran during its first extensive contact with the West. While some of these things are true, they are not true for the whole period nor did they all come into effect when the dynasty began. In this chapter I am seeking to call attention to this habit and to raise the possibility of other criteria for organizing Iranian history. Might we gain new insights into the history of Persian art, or Persian poetry, or Islamic theology, to raise just three examples, if we created a new periodization scheme based on other empirical criteria besides the family in political power? An example of what I mean, from a different historical field, is provided by David Nicholas’s book The Transformation of Europe, 1300–1600, which challenged the convention in European historiography of marking a strong break around the year 1500 between the late medieval and early modern periods.3 While acknowledging that some important shifts did occur in the early sixteenth century, especially in religion, it argued that there were many continuities in Europe spanning the period from 1300 to 1600. I am not suggesting that we abandon the conventional framework for periodization, but rather that we do not take it for granted. We should use it when it fits our analysis, but we should also be cognizant of when it does not fit and in those cases put forward an alternative.

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The Distinctiveness of the Safavids I agree with the conventional wisdom that there is something distinctive about the Safavid period, but it is a little challenging to identify exactly what that is. Some of the traits often attributed to the Safavids are probably unwarranted. While several authors have said that the Safavids established Iran’s modern borders, that is an exaggeration. Safavid control extended eastward over Herat and Qandahar and northward through the eastern Caucasus for most of the dynasty’s history, whereas the Safavids did not annex Gilan and Mazandaran until the latter half of the sixteenth century. The northern and eastern frontiers only shrank to their current positions in the nineteenth century due to Russian and British imperial expansion. The western boundary facing the Ottoman Empire did stabilize during the Safavid period, at more or less its present location, with the Treaty of Zohab in 1639. Previously, the boundary had fluctuated dramatically according to the relative fortunes of the Ottomans and the Safavids, with Iraq, eastern Anatolia and southern Azerbaijan changing hands several times.4 It continued with relatively little change even after the Ottoman Empire was replaced by the Turkish Republic and the Kingdom of Iraq. Other traits commonly attributed to the Safavids also present difficulties. Defining the Safavids as a ‘Persian’ dynasty is problematic because it presumes national identities that are more relevant to the modern world than to the era of the Safavids. Contacts with the West increased gradually over many centuries, beginning well before the Safavid period and accelerating well after. With regard to the conversion of Iran to Shi‘ism, that definitely happened during the Safavid period, but it was a gradual process that had begun long before 1501. Previous dynasties, such as the Buyids and the Ilkhanate, had also supported Shi‘ism in Iran and the groundwork for its acceptance in the Safavid period was already laid in the widespread devotion to the family of the Prophet throughout the Persianate world. Moreover, we know very little about the process of conversion in any period, including under the Safavids, and we probably never will. There is just too little source material to go on. We do know that Esma‘il was not exactly a conventional Twelver Shi‘i and it stands to reason, based on the evidence that we have, that Sunni Islam remained well established for several decades after 1501. But we just do not know enough to venture a timeline for the process of conversion. However, if we consider the conventional picture of the Safavid era, I would venture that what comes to mind is a certain urbane refinement after centuries of rule by nomadic pastoralists. We picture the elegant architecture, the literary and intellectual discussions. The Safavids are considered to mark the revival of Persian culture, setting the stage for the emergence of modern Iran. I would argue that what is implied by that depiction is that the Safavids restored an urban-oriented Iran. Modern Iran is urbanized, and classical Persian

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civilization is conceptualized as urban. In that light, the period in the Middle Ages when Iran was dominated by nomadic tribes might seem backward. And so the Safavids, with their cities and their urban culture, might feel like a return to civility. While I do not share the moral judgment of urban being superior to nomadic, I do think there is something qualitatively different about the Safavids as compared with the preceding dynasties, and that difference is in the place that the city held in Safavid elite culture.

1501 as a Watershed Moment When scholars talk about the Safavid period, they typically define it as the years of the dynasty as a whole, from 1501 to 1722 (or, otherwise, from 1501 to 1736, depending on how one defines the end of the dynasty), thereby implicitly treating the year 1501 as a major moment in Iranian history. Hans Roemer wrote in The Cambridge History of Iran, ‘Whether we think of this date [the enthronement of Esma‘il in Tabriz] as marking the beginning of modern Persian history or not, it certainly heralds a new era’.5 Roger Savory made a similar point at the beginning of his article on Shah Esma‘il in the Encyclopaedia Iranica.6 But while the Safavid period as a whole entailed momentous change for Iran, that change did not begin in 1501. In fact, very little about Iran changed in 1501 or in the immediately following years. The traits we normally attribute to the Safavids emerged only much later. Treating the whole of the Safavid period as a block can lead to misunderstanding about when these changes came about. That 1501 was not a major watershed moment is, of course, true on the simplest political level. Esma‘il’s enthronement in Tabriz did not bring the Aq Qoyunlu to an immediate end. When Esma‘il and his followers embarked on their campaign of conquest in 1500, the Aq Qoyunlu domains were divided among four claimants representing various branches of the Bayandor clan – Alvand b. Yusof, Mohammadi b. Yusof, Soltan-Morad b. Ya‘qub and Qasem b. Jahangir. Mohammadi was killed in the summer of 1500 fighting Soltan-Morad in the second battle of Khvaja Hasan Mazi. Alvand and Soltan-Morad agreed to divide the empire between themselves, with Alvand getting the north including Tabriz and Soltan-Morad getting the south. Meanwhile Qasem b. Jahangir had carved out an independent zone of control in the western areas of the Aq Qoyunlu Empire around Erzincan and Amid.7 Esma‘il and his ‘red-head’ (Qezelbash) followers defeated Alvand at Shorur in 1501 and went on to occupy Tabriz. It is his enthronement there that summer that marks the standard inauguration date for the new dynasty. Esma‘il lost control of Tabriz briefly the next year, when Alvand reoccupied the city in Esma‘il's absence, but this occupation was short-lived. The Qezelbash very soon drove Alvand out of Tabriz again. Alvand withdrew to Diyarbakr, which he took over by defeating and killing his cousin Qasem. Meanwhile, Esma‘il

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went south and defeated Soltan-Morad, who fled to Baghdad, leaving southern Iran to the Safavids. So, within three years Esma‘il had smashed the armies of the two main Aq Qoyunlu contenders and had captured the larger part of their territory, but nevertheless Safavid control over the old Aq Qoyunlu lands was not complete. Alvand ruled in Diyarbakr until his death in 910/1504–5 and, after a brief power struggle, another scion of the Bayandor clan, Alvand’s cousin once removed Zeynal b. Ahmad b. Ughurlu Mohammad, took power under the tutelage of some remaining Aq Qoyunlu elites.8 So the western areas of the old Aq Qoyunlu Empire, Diyarbakr and Iraq, lay outside Safavid control. If we regard the nascent Safavid regime as a forerunner of the modern Iranian state then we may be tempted to discount these remaining territories as extraneous since they lay within the modern boundaries of Turkey and Iraq, but that would be anachronistic. As mentioned above, the modern boundaries of Iran, Turkey and Iraq are the product of later historical events and have no bearing on the sixteenth century. As long as Diyarbakr and Iraq lay under some continuation of the Aq Qoyunlu regime, the Safavids had still not triumphed. Only after five more years did Esma‘il and the Qezelbash finally defeat the rump Aq Qoyunlu regimes. In Diyarbakr, the Mowsillu overthrew Zeynal b. Ahmad and then later gave their allegiance to the Safavids when the Safavids invaded in 913/1507. The following year the Safavids conquered Iraq and drove out Soltan-Morad, who fled to Anatolia and was never again able to assert his claim to Aq Qoyunlu rule.9 It was therefore only in 1508 that the last regions of Aq Qoyunlu power finally fell to Esma‘il. Moreover, there was no Safavid presence in Khorasan until 1510 with Esma‘il’s first campaign there. Furthermore, Esma‘il’s new dynasty was, in a way, a continuation of the Aq Qoyunlu. Esma‘il himself was a grandson of Uzun Hasan, the most famous of the Aq Qoyunlu rulers, and the Aq Qoyunlu leaders he defeated, Alvand and Soltan-Morad, were his cousins.10 Many of the Qezelbash who joined the Safavid movement had previously been subordinates of the Bayandor clan, such as the Afshar, the Qajar and the Mowsillu. Amir Beg Mowsillu, usurper of Zeynal in Diyarbakr, served the Aq Qoyunlu and then joined the Safavids in 1507.11 Were it not for the fact that Esma‘il was the nominal leader of a different religious group, his reign would probably have been seen as merely a further stage of the Aq Qoyunlu. Esma‘il’s reign was a continuation of the Aq Qoyunlu in another way. His regime was structurally very similar to that of the Aq Qoyunlu and of other Turkic polities that had ruled in one part or another of Iran for centuries. These polities were based on the military power of the Turkic nomadic pastoralists who had come to dominate Iran from the time of the Mongols. And the new Safavid regime was likewise based on the military power of Turkic nomadic pastoralists.

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Even within the Safavi movement, this military power had begun decades before Esma‘il captured Tabriz in 1501. The other grandfather of Esma‘il (aside from Uzun Hasan) was Sheykh Joneyd, the leader of the Safavi Sufi order, who had militarized the Safaviya in the middle of the fifteenth century. He gathered a following of Turkic pastoralist tribes living in Anatolia who became his devoted disciples.12 These tribes, known as the Qezelbash for the red headgear they wore, formed the core of the newly reinvented Safavi movement. They had stayed loyal to the Safavi Sufi line at the end of the fifteenth century as the leaders of the order came under Aq Qoyunlu persecution and went into hiding. The Qezelbash were Esma‘il’s army when he emerged from hiding and launched his campaign to conquer the territory of the Aq Qoyunlu. And afterwards Esma‘il granted the conquered lands to the Qezelbash tribes in the same way that the rulers of the previous TurkoMongolian polities had done. Of course, Esma‘il did have the habit of appointing his sons as provincial governors, but these were only nominal appointments. His sons were young children and, in practice, these were land grants to Qezelbash tribes with Qezelbash amirs serving as the real commanders of the provinces. So Esma‘il’s new regime was, in fact, very much like the tribal confederations that had ruled Iran for centuries. The only difference was that now the family in power was a line of Sufi pirs (elders). This difference had consequences for how succession in the Safavid dynasty would be handled. But there was no practical difference between how Aq Qoyunlu leaders (or Qara Qoyunlu or Timurid leaders for that matter) governed their tribal confederations and how Shah Esma‘il I governed the Safavid state. Nor was there a practical difference in how these polities were structured. It is, after all, no accident that Esma‘il proclaimed his new reign in Tabriz. Tabriz had been the nominal capital of the Aq Qoyunlu, established as such in the 1470s by Esma‘il’s grandfather Uzun Hasan. But Esma‘il spent much of his reign away from Tabriz, which brings me to another point about what is often called the Safavid dynasty’s ‘Tabriz period’. Shah Esma‘il I lived the lifestyle of a nomadic pastoralist. Pastoralists must move from one pasture to another during the year to provide for their herds. Commonly in Iran they will move from lower elevations in the winter to higher elevations in the summer and back again. In the period after the Mongol conquests, we see many examples of rulers of Iran moving regularly from one place to another rather than being settled in a capital city. And when they did visit a city, they often camped in a garden outside rather than staying in a palace in the city centre.13 Esma‘il continued this tradition by staying in a tent and participating in the seasonal migrations. Every spring he set out with his court and with herds of sheep to spend the summer in a high-altitude pasture. The sources report a variety of locations, usually around Iranian Azerbaijan. Mount Sahand, a high

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volcano outside Tabriz, was a favourite of his, but he also summered further away, in Soltaniya or Takht-e Soleyman. Winters were often spent in Tabriz, but he also spent winters elsewhere. He was sometimes absent from Tabriz because he was on a military campaign, but he maintained the nomadic lifestyle even when not on campaign. Even during the last decade of Esma‘il’s reign, following the defeat at Chalderan in 1514 that, according to historians, left him dejected and uninterested in campaigning, he still spent much of his time moving about the country, spending two winters in Nakhjavan (Nakhchevan) and one in Esfahan. So his habit of moving about the country was not always due to military necessity. It was simply the normal way of life for him. He was fully adapted to the Turkic nomadic lifestyle. In this regard, as in others, Esma‘il’s habits present a striking contrast to those of the Safavid shahs in the late seventeenth century, who spent their whole lives in the palace at Esfahan. While Esma‘il partook of the lifestyle of the rural, nomadic Turks, the late Safavid shahs were adapted to the genteel lifestyle of the urban Tajiks. Esma‘il died in 1524. In the preceding Turko-Mongolian regimes, such as the Timurids and the Aq Qoyunlu, wars of succession were common, in which the tribes divided into factions supporting different sons or other male relatives of the recently deceased leader. Significantly, the Safavid succession in 1524 did not follow that pattern. Esma‘il had four sons, who by Turko-Mongolian reckoning would each have been equally qualified to succeed Esma‘il. But the oldest son, Tahmasp, took the throne without incident or challenge. This is undoubtedly due to the Sufi character of the Safavi-Qezelbash movement, in that one normally became the leader of a Sufi order by being designated to fill that office by the preceding sheykh. And that is in fact what happened in 1524: Esma‘il designated Tahmasp as his successor, both as ruler of the Safavid territories and as pir of the Safavi Sufi order. Court culture during the early reign of Tahmasp continued much as it had under Esma‘il I. Just as Esma‘il had usually taken part in the seasonal migrations, so did Tahmasp. This pattern is obscured during the first dozen years of Tahmasp’s reign by a near constant series of crises presented by invading Ozbeks, invading Ottomans and the occasional internal rebellion. When that period of unrest settled down in the 1530s, Tahmasp spent most of his summers in summer pastures at various locations, usually around Azerbaijan, at the same places where his father had camped. This point is important because it illustrates a major shortcoming in how we have conventionally understood Safavid history.

The Qazvin Period Historians sometimes divide the Safavid period into three parts according to the three nominal capitals: the Tabriz period encompassing the first half of the sixteenth century, the Qazvin period the second half, and the Esfahan period the

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whole of the seventeenth century down to the siege of 1722. The third period is the best known and the one that is the most stereotypical of what we think of as ‘Safavid’. It began when ‘Abbas I, the most famous of the Safavid monarchs, built a new palace complex on what was then the outskirts of Esfahan. For many, Shah ‘Abbas the Great and the buildings he commissioned around the monumental meydan in Esfahan epitomize Iran’s Safavid period. While ‘Abbas’s shifting of the capital from Qazvin to Esfahan in 1006/1598 is well known and well documented, the previous change of capital from Tabriz to Qazvin is much less so. Several historians have written on the subject, but they have given widely varying dates for when the move took place. Among the dates one will find in the secondary literature are 1544, 1548, 1550 and 1555. Two historians independently attempted to nail down the exact date of the transfer, Ehsan Echraqi and Michel Mazzaoui, but neither succeeded. Mazzaoui gave a conference paper, the purpose of which he explicitly stated was to specify the exact date that the capital was moved to Qazvin and later to Esfahan. But, interestingly, in the section covering Qazvin he never gave a date for when it became the capital. He spent some time discussing the fact that it is complicated and then never said when the move happened.14 Echraqi was a little more precise, but rather than give an exact date he hedged and gave two exact dates, writing that preparations for moving the capital began in 951/1544 but the move was not officially accomplished until 965/1557.15 One cannot fault them for not specifying a date because, in fact, the Safavid chroniclers do not supply one. The modern Persian word for capital is paytakht, but that word hardly occurs in the early Safavid chronicles. The term in the chronicles that modern historians translate as ‘capital’ is dar al-saltana, but this is an inexact translation. A dar al-saltana was not a capital in the modern sense of the word. Different Safavid writers used the term in different ways. ‘Abdi Beg Shirazi, for example, used dar al-saltana quite regularly in the Takmelat al-akhbar. When recounting events between 1501 and the early 1540s (i.e. during most of what historians call the ‘Tabriz period’), he used the phrase dar al-saltana 16 times: 13 times for Tabriz, twice for Herat and once for Shamakhi (all in the context of when the Safavid shah or his son was present in the city). From then until the end of the chronicle he used the phrase seven more times, four times for Qazvin and three times for Tabriz. He used the phrase dar alsaltana-ye Qazvin for the first time under the year 949–50/1543, and he used the phrase dar al-saltana-ye Tabriz for the last time under the year 963– 64/1556–57.16 So, as far as ‘Abdi Beg was concerned, both cities were dar alsaltana during the middle of the century. Consulting other historians does not bring more clarity. The term hardly occurred in Qazvini’s Javaher al-akhbar or Ghaffari’s Tarikh-e jahan-ara, but the former did use the phrase for Herat at one point in the Safavid section.17 Khurshah b. Qobad used the phrase several times in his Tarikh-e Ilchi-ye

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Nezam Shah, but only in reference to Timurid-era Herat. Put simply, the usage of the term dar al-saltana gives us no help in discerning the location of the early Safavid capital. As I have argued elsewhere,18 dar al-saltana was an honorific title for a city that symbolically represented the shah’s political authority. It might happen to refer to the city that hosted the organs of government but it did not necessarily do so. Shah Esma‘il I and the young Shah Tahmasp carried on the old TurkoMongolian custom of shifting between summer and winter pastures with the herds. They were not based in a city all year round, as the last Safavid shahs were. Neither did they move about from one palace to another as Shah ‘Abbas I or as some European monarchs did.19 They were still distinctly carrying on the lifestyle of the nomadic pastoralist. We cannot really speak of a capital in Safavid Iran without qualifying what we mean by the term. As Masashi Haneda and Rudi Matthee have noted, ‘as had always been the case among rulers of nomadic background and as would be true until the 19th century in Persia, the capital really was where the ruler happened to be’.20 In the modern state, impersonal and rational (in the Weberian sense), a city has the status of capital independent of whether the head of state is physically located in it at any given time. But in a premodern society, such as Safavid Iran, where political power was personal and the state had no corporate identity apart from the elites who composed it, a city was really only a capital insofar as the head of state was present there. So, in late Safavid Iran, Esfahan was the permanent capital because the shah lived there permanently. The shahs of the early sixteenth century were peripatetic, so in their time there was no permanent capital. Consequently, the change from the Tabriz period to the Qazvin period is not simply a matter of the shah moving the capital from one city to another. Rather, the shah was transitioning from a nomadic lifestyle to a sedentary one. The transition was gradual – the sources report Tahmasp spending more and more time in Qazvin in the 1540s and 1550s and going off to summer pastures less and less frequently. Finally, from the winter of 1557–58 until his death in 1576, Tahmasp stayed in Qazvin permanently.21 That winter is also when his new palace was completed. The chroniclers report that ‘he moved from the old dowlatkhana to the new dowlatkhana’ at that time. The Takmelat al-akhbar reports that an auspicious day was chosen for the official moving-in ceremony, to which high ranking officials and the city’s notables were invited.22 Here, finally, we see the sedentary habit so familiar in the late Safavid shahs, who stayed in Esfahan all year round. If we define the Safavid period as the time during which the Safavid dynasty was reigning in some capacity in Iran, then the conventional dating of 1501 to 1722 is perfectly valid. But if we define the Safavid period as a time during which shahs reigned from a settled capital city in the traditional Persian style rather than ruling from horseback in the Turko-Mongolian style of their predecessors, then 1501 is not the transition point. We must instead look to the

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moment in which the Safavid shahs stopped their regular participation in the seasonal migrations and remained permanently in a city.

A New Era in History-writing With the settling of the shah in Qazvin, a new urban-based Safavid culture began to emerge. The Qazvin period saw the first emergence of a particularly Safavid historiographical tradition. History-writing under the Safavids obviously took place before that. But there is a difference between historywriting in the first half of the sixteenth century and history-writing in the second half. There is a unity to history-writing in the latter part of the century that did not exist in the earlier period. Three historical works survive from the first half of the sixteenth century, i.e. the Tabriz period. Two were written during the reign of Esma‘il I, the Fotuhat-e shahi by Sadr al-Din Amini Haravi and the Tarikh-e Habib al-seyar by Gheyas al-Din Khvandamir. The third, Mir Yahya b. ‘Abd al-Latif Hoseyni Qazvini’s Lobb al-tavarikh, was written during the first half of the reign of Tahmasp, before the court settled in Qazvin. All three of these are quite distinct from each other and from the historiographic tradition that emerged later in Qazvin. Shah Esma‘il commissioned Amini to write the Fotuhat-e shahi in 152123 and he completed the history in 937/1531, during the early years of Tahmasp’s reign. Amini organized it in two parts. The first part was an introduction (moqaddama) reviewing pre-Islamic history, the imams and the sheykhs of the Safavi order. The second part told the history of Shah Esma‘il’s life and conquests in detail.24 Since it is so early, the Fotuhat-e shahi is not so much a history of the Safavid dynasty as a history of Shah Esma‘il, and not even all of that, since Amini’s narrative ends abruptly in 1513. Khvandamir’s Habib al-seyar is a universal history divided into three volumes, or mojallad. The first volume covers the ancient world up to and including the time of Mohammad and the first four caliphs. The second volume surveys the history of the world from the rise of Islam to the time of Chinggis Khan. Volume three covers the Mongols through to the rise of the Safavids.25 This organizational scheme recalls the words of the Ilkhanid historian Rashid al-Din when he wrote, ‘What event or occurrence has been more notable than the beginning of the government of Chingiz Khān, that it should be considered a new era?’.26 So Khvandamir structured his world history around two big historical watersheds: the career of Mohammad and the career of Chinggis Khan. The third chronicle was written in the early part of Tahmasp’s reign. Qazvini wrote the Lobb al-tavarikh in 1542 under the patronage of Bahram Mirza, the younger brother of Shah Tahmasp. He was later accused of being the leader of the Qazvin Sunnis and was sent to prison, where he died in 1555. The Lobb al-tavarikh is divided into four unequal parts (qesm). Part 1 covers the life

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of the Prophet Mohammad and his family. Parts 2 and 3 cover secular history before and after Mohammad, respectively. Part 3, which covers the history of the world from the time of Mohammad to the rise of Shah Esma‘il, is by far the longest part of the chronicle, encompassing two-thirds of the whole text. Part 4, dedicated to the Safavids, by contrast, is very short, summarizing the history of the dynasty in a few brief pages. All three of these authors are, in one way or another, outsiders to the Safavid enterprise. Both Amini and Khvandamir had had long careers serving Timurid patrons and they were already middle-aged when Esma‘il conquered Khorasan. They were not personally invested in the new dynasty and, in fact, Khvandamir left Safavid Khorasan in order to seek his fortune in India. Meanwhile, the third historian, Qazvini, was a Sunni. The pro-Safavid ideology that is so characteristic of later court writing is not on display here. These three chronicles – the Fotuhat-e shahi, the Habib al-seyar and the Lobb al-tavarikh – are the three surviving representatives of Safavid historical writing during the first half of the sixteenth century. They are quite different from each other in terms of what they emphasize and in how they structure Iranian history. And that is the point. At this stage there was no historiographical discourse peculiar to the Safavid era. Khvandamir wrote a history of the world essentially in the Timurid style – it could very easily have been a Timurid history – with the events of Shah Esma‘il’s reign tacked on at the end. The Fotuhat-e shahi is a panegyric biography. And then there is the Lobb al-tavarikh, an interesting text, which is supposed to be a history of the world to the present, but whose author seems to be half in denial of the 40 years of Safavid rule up to that point. Now contrast this with historical writing in the Qazvin period. As stated above, Qazvin became Tahmasp’s permanent capital in 965/1558. The year 1558 is not in itself significant for historical writing, but it gives us a convenient boundary date. Four more histories were written in Qazvin after 1558, either during the reign of Tahmasp or just after his death. The first of these was written by Qazi Ahmad Ghaffari Qazvini, the author of the Tarikh-e jahan-ara. Ghaffari spent his career in Qazvin, which by that time had become Tahmasp’s capital city, and worked for the shah’s brother Sam Mirza. Later, after Tahmasp had Sam arrested, Ghaffari moved to India, where he wrote his summary of world history. The book recounts the lives of Mohammad and the imams, reviews the dynasties of world history and then devotes considerable space to a year-by-year chronicle of the history of the Safavid period down to 1565. Another historian closely associated with court culture in Qazvin was ‘Abdi Beg Shirazi, who wrote the Takmelat al-akhbar. ‘Abdi Beg worked in the daftarkhana, or chancellery, in Tahmasp’s administration. The Takmelat alakhbar was another universal history, of which only the last part covering the

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Safavid period has been published. It reports the reigns of both Esma‘il and Tahmasp to the year 1570. Then there are the two historians writing just after Tahmasp died. Budaq Monshi Qazvini wrote the Javaher al-akhbar at the behest of Shah Esma‘il II in 1577. This was again a history of the world with a substantial section devoted to the Safavid dynasty. The fourth history was the famous Ahsan al-tavarikh by Hasan Beg Rumlu, well-known to English-speaking scholars because it is one of only two Safavid chronicles translated into English. It is also supposed to have been a universal history but only the last two volumes survive, covering the end of the Aq Qoyunlu and the entire length of the Safavid dynasty down to the year 1577. Both Budaq Monshi Qazvini and Hasan Beg Rumlu relied in part on their own personal experiences of serving in the royal court. All four of these historians had several characteristics that distinguished them from the historians of the early sixteenth century. For one thing, they all had a similar approach to their subject. Their works were all universal histories that culminated in the Safavid dynasty, to which they gave a great deal of attention. Also, they all spent their careers in Qazvin, which by then had become the permanent home of the shah and his court, and their careers were all closely linked with the dynasty. It has already been noted by Sholeh Quinn and Charles Melville that ‘the real flourishing of Safavid historiography began during the reign of Shah Tahmasp’.27 I would go a step further and say the real flourishing began during the Qazvin period, after Tahmasp had made Qazvin his permanent residence. The historians of Qazvin were all engaged in a common project – to tell the history of the Safavid dynasty. In all cases that was an essential aspect of their text. So we can see in the Qazvin historians a new tendency towards conceptualizing themselves as ‘Safavid’, as living in a Safavid period of Iranian history distinct from previous periods and embracing that as their identity. We do not see this reflected in the historians of the early sixteenth century. This is, so far as our sources indicate, a new sensibility, which happens to coincide with this new urban-oriented phase of Safavid rulership. And this ‘Safavid sensibility’ continued in Iran in the early seventeenth century with the flourishing of dynastic histories and in the late seventeenth century with the fashion for quasi-historical romances, through to the end of the Safavid period.

Conclusion Like any period boundary, 1558 is rather arbitrary. We have always implicitly understood that the dates on which dynasties began and ended were not the exact moments in which seismic transformations occurred in Persian politics, society or culture. Period boundaries are rather more suggestive than absolute, and that is no less true of 1558 than of 1501. I am really comparing the approximate beginning of the century with the approximate middle to suggest

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that a major shift happened in the latter that was in some ways more consequential than events during the former. While the beginning of the century saw the coming to power of the Safavids as a new political regime, they maintained some considerable continuity with the Aq Qoyunlu whom they replaced. The early Safavid era under Esma‘il and the young Tahmasp carried on the patterns of rule of the Turko-Mongolian dynasties that had preceded them. Turkic nomadic pastoralism was the basis of their rule. Turkic tribes formed the basis of their military strength and the provinces were distributed to the tribes as toyuls (land assignments). The court continued to respect and practise the lifestyle of the steppe by participating in the seasonal migrations. Even some of the elite families of the Aq Qoyunlu era carried over and were incorporated into the Qezelbash. There was little new about Safavid rule at the beginning of the century, aside from the new government’s hostility toward Sunnism. (Notwithstanding that hostility, the advent of conventional Twelver Shi‘ism was still in the future.) In some ways, the change from Aq Qoyunlu to Safavid was little different from the change from one Turko-Mongolian dynasty to another. The middle of the century, by contrast, is a turning point in court culture. It was at that point, and not before, that the Safavids made a cultural break with the preceding dynasties. This came about through the confluence of two trends. First, Tahmasp gradually gave up the seasonal migrations over a period of time, culminating in 1558 when he settled permanently in his urban palace at Qazvin.28 Second, after Tahmasp’s transition to full-time city life, several members of the now urban-based court gave expression to a particularly Safavid identity that had not been seen before in Safavid history-writing. They now had some distance from the founding of the dynasty. This was both a temporal distance, in that several generations had passed, and also a cultural distance, in that they were now firmly rooted in Iran’s urban culture. They were therefore in a position to conceptualize ‘Safavidness’ as something distinct from what had existed in Iran before. The conventional dating of the Safavid dynasty as beginning in 1501 must have some value. After all, that is when the Qazvin historians themselves chose to set the beginning point of the era in which they lived. But, in that regard, 1501 was significant in the light of what became of the Safavids later in the century. It was the memory of 1501, reimagined through the lens of the Qazvin period, that cast Esma‘il’s ascent in a new light and made it seem more significant in retrospect. I have spent this chapter arguing against the conventional practice of periodizing Iranian history according to dynasty. But I am not suggesting that we discard that practice entirely. There will no doubt always be some uses for periodizing according to dynasty. I alluded previously to the religious consequences of Esma‘il’s reign. The year 1501 will always be important from that standpoint.

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Rather than dismiss any periodization scheme, we should be open to the possibility of creating new ones when it is methodologically apt. I have attempted here to suggest one possible alternative periodization. When considering Iranian history through the lens of the intersection of political power and urban culture, the dynastic boundary of 1501 has virtually no relevance, while the middle of the century is of critical importance. And while Shah Esma‘il I might have founded the dynasty, the founder of this new era of political culture was Shah Tahmasp.

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Notes: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

Yahyā b. ‘Abd al-Latif Hoseyni Qazvini, Lobb al-tavārikh. Qāzi Ahmad Ghaffāri Qazvini, Tārikh-e jahān-ārā. David Nicholas, The Transformation of Europe, 1300–1600. Ernest Tucker, ‘From rhetoric of war to realities of peace’, pp. 81, 85–86. H.R. Roemer, ‘The Safavid period’, p. 189. Roger M. Savory, ‘Esmā‘īl I Ṣafawī’, p. 628. John E. Woods, The Aqquyunlu: Clan, Confederation, Empire, p. 161. Ibid., p. 165. Ibid., pp. 165–66. Roemer, ‘The Safavid period’, pp. 212, 215. Woods, The Aqquyunlu, p. 12. Michel M. Mazzaoui, The Origins of the Ṣafawids: Šī‘ism, Ṣūfism, and the Ġulāt, pp. 72, 74. For an example of an Ilkhanid ruler following this practice, see Charles Melville, ‘The itineraries of Sultan Öljeitü, 1304–16’. Michel M. Mazzaoui, ‘From Tabriz to Qazvin to Isfahan’, pp. 517–18. Ehsan Echraqi, ‘Le dār al-salṭana de Qazvin, deuxième capitale des Safavides’, p. 105. ‘Abdi Beg Shirāzi, Takmelat al-akhbār, pp. 93, 110. Budāq Monshi Qazvini, Javāher al-akhbār, p. 181. Gregory Aldous, ‘The shah’s urban body’. Charles Melville, ‘From Qars to Qandahar’. Masashi Haneda and Rudi Matthee, ‘Isfahan vii. Safavid period’. Aldous, ‘The shah’s urban body’. Ghaffāri Qazvini, Tārikh-e jahān-ārā, p. 304; ‘Abdi Beg Shirazi, Takmelat alakhbār, p. 113. Ali Anooshahr, ‘The rise of the Safavids according to their old veterans’, p. 250. Sholeh A. Quinn, Historical Writing during the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas, p. 15. C.A. Storey, Persian Literature: A Bio-Bibliographical Survey, p. 104. Quoted in David Morgan, Medieval Persia 1040–1797, p. 51. Sholeh Quinn and Charles Melville, ‘Safavid historiography’, p. 212. One may note that Tahmasp also departed from his father’s practice in other ways, as Kathryn Babayan has argued, for example in his relationship with ‘Ali and in his manner of adherence to Islamic law. See Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs, Chapter 9 passim.

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Bibliography: ‘Abdi Beg Shirāzi, Takmelat al-akhbār: Tārikh-e safaviya az āghāz tā 978 hejri qamari, ed. ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Navā’i (Tehran: Nashr-e ney, 1369/1990). Aldous, Gregory, ‘The shah’s urban body: The absence and presence of capital cities in early Safavid Iran’, paper delivered at the Twelfth Biennial Association for Iranian Studies Conference, Irvine, California, USA, 15 August 2018. Amini Haravi, Amir Sadr al-Din Ebrahim, Fotuhāt-e shāhi, ed. Mohammad Rezā Nasiri (Tehran: Anjoman-e āsār va mafākher-e farhangi, 1383/2004). Anooshahr, Ali, ‘The rise of the Safavids according to their old veterans: Amini Haravi’s Futuhat-e Shahi’, Iranian Studies 48, no. 2 (2015), pp. 249–67. Babayan, Kathryn, Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs: Cultural Landscapes of Early Modern Iran (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002). Budāq Monshi Qazvini, Javāher al-akhbār: Bakhsh-e tārikh-e Irān az qarā quyunlu tā sāl-e 984 h.q., ed. Mohsen Behrām Nezhād (Tehran: Mirās-e Maktub, 1378/2000). Echraqi, Ehsan, ‘Le dār al-salṭana de Qazvin, deuxième capitale des Safavides’, in Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society, ed. Charles Melville (London: I.B. Tauris, 1996), pp. 105–15. Ghaffāri Qazvini, Qāzi Ahmad, Tārikh-e jahān-ārā, ed. Hasan Narāqi (Tehran: Ketābforushi-ye Hāfez, n.d.). Haneda, Masashi and Rudi Matthee, ‘Isfahan vii. Safavid Period’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. XIII (2006), pp. 650–57, online at http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/isfahan-vii-safavid-period [accessed 8 June 2020]. Khvāndamir, Gheyās al-Din, Tārikh-e habib al-seyar fi akhbār-e afrād albashar, ed. Mohammad Dabir-Seyāqi, 4 vols ([Tehran]: Khayyām, 1380/2001). Mazzaoui, Michel M., The Origins of the Ṣafawids: Šī‘ism, Ṣūfism, and the Ġulāt (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1972). — ‘From Tabriz to Qazvin to Isfahan: Three phases of Safavid history’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, Supplement III, no. 1 (1977), pp. 514–22. Melville, Charles, ‘The itineraries of Sultan Öljeitü, 1304–16’, Iran 28 (1990), pp. 55–70. — ‘From Qars to Qandahar: The itineraries of Shah ‘Abbas I (995–1038/1587– 1629)’, in Etudes Safavides, ed. Jean Calmard (Paris: Institut Français de Recherche en Iran, 1993), pp. 195–224. Morgan, David, Medieval Persia 1040–1797 (London: Longman, 1988). Nicholas, David, The Transformation of Europe, 1300–1600 (London: Arnold, 1999).

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Qazvini, Yahyā b. ‘Abd al-Latif Hoseyni, Lobb al-tavārikh, ed. Jalāl al-Din Tehrāni ([Tehran]: Mo’assesa-ye khāvar, 1314/1936). Quinn, Sholeh A., Historical Writing during the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas: Ideology, Imitation and Legitimacy in Safavid Chronicles (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2000). Quinn, Sholeh A. and Charles Melville, ‘Safavid historiography’, in A History of Persian Literature. Volume X. Persian Historiography, ed. Charles Melville (London: I.B. Tauris, 2012), pp. 209–57. Roemer, H.R., ‘The Safavid period’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6, The Timurid and Safavid Periods, ed. Peter Jackson and Laurence Lockhart (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 189–350. Rumlu, Hasan Beg, Ahsan al-tavārikh, ed. ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Navā’i, 3 vols (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e asātir, 1384/2005). Savory, Roger M., ‘Esmā‘īl I Ṣafawī’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. VIII (1998), pp. 628–36, online at http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/esmail-i-safawi [accessed 8 June 2020]. Storey, C.A., Persian Literature: A Bio-Bibliographical Survey, vol. 1, part 1 (London: Royal Asiatic Society, 1970 [1927]). Tucker, Ernest, ‘From rhetoric of war to realities of peace: The evolution of Ottoman-Iranian diplomacy through the Safavid era’, in Iran and the World in the Safavid Age, ed. Willem Floor and Edmund Herzig (London: I.B. Tauris, 2012), pp. 81–89. Woods, John E., The Aqquyunlu: Clan, Confederation, Empire, revised and expanded edition (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1999).

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3 Man of the Pen, Pillar of the State: Hatem Beg Ordubadi and the Safavid Empire Colin Mitchell (Dalhousie University) Introduction: Locating Scholar-Bureaucrats in Iranian History

C

onceptions of how to define Iran and Iranian culture became undeniably complicated during the Safavid period, 1501–1722. On the one hand, we see the territorial consolidation of a land-based empire which more or less comprised the historical conception of ‘greater Iran’, namely the Iranian Plateau, ‘Eraq-e ‘Ajam, Azerbaijan, Khorasan, parts of the Caucasus and Afghanistan. Alongside this, the Safavid dynastic court, like so many of its predecessors, encouraged the production and dissemination of Persian prose and poetic literature, while the dynasty itself did indeed embrace a selfdesignation as native Persian rulers. Thus, in popular historiography the Safavids are hailed as a ‘golden age’ (‘asr-e tala’i), not unlike comparable, proto-nationalist designations for the earlier Achaemenid and Sasanian periods. On the other hand, this was a dynasty which openly proclaimed Twelver Shi‘ism as the state doctrine, and to implement their programme of ‘Shi‘itization’ of the Persian population, scores of Arab Shi‘i scholars were brought to Iran to help native Persian sayyeds in a larger initiative of staffing, training and expanding an emerging hierocracy. There was a resulting proliferation in Arabic textual production, principally in the fields of philosophy, ‘erfan (mystical philosophy), applied sciences, jurisprudence and, of course, the ‘transmitted sciences’ (‘olum-e naqliya) of Arabic grammar and syntax (nahw wa sarf), Qur’anic exegesis (tafsir) and Prophet traditions (hadith). Further challenging the proto-national notion of a ‘Persian state’ was, of course, the prominence and role of a variety of non-Persians at the highest levels of governance, from the dominance of the Qezelbash Turkish tribes in the sixteenth century to the sway and influence of Caucasian gholams and, later, nobility from Armenia, Georgia and Circassia from the mid-sixteenth century onwards. In the midst of this religious, linguistic and socio-political heterogeneity, we do find discernible threads of discussion and celebration of ‘historical Iran’,

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both ancient and medieval, in the traditions of the Iranian bureaucratic classes (divaniyan). Citing textual traditions associated with panegyric poetry (qasa’ed), literature dispensing moral advice (akhlaq), mirrors for princes (andarznama-ha), historical chronicles (tavarikh), manuals of statecraft (seyasatnama-ha), formulaic manuals on diplomatics and epistleography (monsha’at), among others, Persian bureaucrats have long invoked the interconnection and interlocking of Iranian identity with the promotion of responsible governance, rational taxation and righteous jurisprudence. For many modern scholars, the ability of Iran to survive as an ethno-historical entity is based in no small degree on the ability of bureaucratic and administrative luminaries to position themselves and adroitly negotiate and mediate between the local constituencies and l’état du jour, be it Arab, Turkish or Mongolian.1 Beginning in the twelfth–thirteenth centuries, some semblance of a Persian ‘canon’ – a melange of poetry, belletristic essays, biographies, prosopographies, historical chronicles – had begun to emerge; very recently, there has been support among scholars for the notion of an evolving and imagined ‘Persian Cosmopolis’, wherein medieval and early modern urban elites from Anatolia to South Asia defined themselves by an ability to fashion themselves as incarnations of an ancient cast of Persian heroes and kings which had been enshrined in this ‘canon’.2 Families of Persian administrators, many of whom had served in urban and regional contexts for several generations, routinely accessed these pre-Islamic and Islamic dramatis personae of legendary and historical kings, sultans, viziers and poets as exemplars to inspire their current patrons. Maxims, aphorisms, adages, courtly homilies, historical anecdotes and orations associated with this cast of kingly and literary icons were invoked regularly in the spirit of instruction and emulation. The Safavids themselves emerged from an unusual Azerbaijani landscape where various strands of antinomian Sufism, non-juridical Shi‘ism and other local traditions were interacting and overlapping in various vernacular and textual venues.3 As they began the transition from a Shi‘i-traced Sufi order to a formal Shi‘i Perso-Islamic state under Shah Esma‘il (r. 1501–24), families of Persian bureaucrats were emerging from the dynastic rubble of the Aq Qoyunlu in western Iran and the Timurids in Khorasan. As John Woods and others have argued, the Safavids represented, in these early years, a new dispensation of many of the same definitions of sovereignty, as well as administrative structures and impulses, which had shaped the fifteenth century.4 Thanks to the prosopographic information we have about poets, painters, epistolographers and calligraphers from texts like Qazi Ahmad’s Golestan-e honar (ca. 1606) and Sam Mirza’s Tohfa-ye Sami (ca. 1550), we can indeed point to a greater cultural periodization – ca. 1470–1555 – wherein the literary and artistic styles and structures of the Aq Qoyunlu–Timurid epoch survive into the second half of the sixteenth century on account of familial and informal networks of artists, poets, scribes and scholar-bureaucrats.5

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It is with these thoughts in mind that we turn to the reign of Shah ‘Abbas (1587–1629) and the career and impact of the influential and powerful vizier, Hatem Beg Ordubadi, who was honoured with the sobriquet ‘Pillar of the State’ (E‘temad al-dowla). As the Safavid state ‘peaked’ under the rule of Shah ‘Abbas, we are doubly curious about the role and impact of the Persian bureaucratic tradition during such a key transition. In using Hatem Beg Ordubadi as a lens of inquiry, we hope to examine the extent to which this bureaucratic corporate consciousness and sense of identity were alive and well in the early seventeenth century. In doing so, a number of questions emerge: what role did Ordubadi play in terms of shifting bureaucratic standards and norms? Was Ordubadi committed to the preservation of this bureaucratic tradition, or were there political and courtly exigencies to consider? As the Safavid state expanded under ‘Abbas to comprise unprecedented territorial dominions, to what extent do we see changes regarding the ideas and articulations of Persian identity, a process historically mediated by the courtly and bureaucratic literati, otherwise known as the ‘scholar-bureaucrats’? The rubric of ‘scholar-bureaucrat’ was first fashioned in the mid-1990s as a category in English by the Ottoman historian Cemal Kafadar in his seminal study, Between Two Worlds, but the general idea of administrator-cum-scholar has existed in Arabo- and Perso-Islamic societies since the eighth century, embodied in people like Ebn al-Moqaffa‘ (d. 759) and Qodama ebn Ja‘far (d. 948).6 Scholar-bureaucrats were solidly identified with state administration, and indeed it was in imperial spaces, like revenue bureaucracy, chancelleries or legal courts, that they brought their linguistic and official training to bear. They often held authoritative positions of state, such as vizier (chief comptroller), mostowfi (accountant), monshi (chancellery writer) or mofti (legal expert), and their oversight and maintenance of imperial administrative divisions were recognized by subjects, peers and lords alike. However important their service to daily administrative regimes may have been, the societal reputation and subsequent legacy of such scholar-bureaucrats were more often shaped by their various literary, historiographical and religio-intellectual contributions. These are individuals who operated in multiple epistemological spaces, producing seminal texts on a wide array of subjects, while commenting and supracommenting on others. Housed in administration, but so much more influential and wide-ranging in terms of cultural and scholarly production, such individuals were often styled rhetorically as the ‘Asaf Jahs’ of their times, recalling the wise counsellor and administrator to the great king and prophet Solomon, Asaf b. Barkhiya, considered to be the progenitor of all viziers in a number of medieval-era prosopographies, often styled as akhbar al-vozara’ or dastur al-vozara’.7 In their prescriptive model society, such men of the pen (ahl al-qalam) were essential to the maintenance of a sedentarized, agrarian landbased polity; without revenue based on systematic taxation, kingdoms and sultanates were inherently self-limiting and likely to collapse sooner rather than

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later. Indeed, the popularity of the ancient Sasanian idea of the Circle of Justice in later medieval and early modern political advice manuals was a testimony to the efficacy of administrators and state functionaries in maintaining tax structures and shepherding the landed peasantry. This healthy tradition of scholar-bureaucracy in the Mongol and postMongol Islamic world defies reduction; they operated in a multi-epistemic world, where salary allocations intersect with treatises on prosodies, chancellery promulgatios and intitulatios sit alongside hagiography and shrine manuals, and courtly historical chronicles overlap with quotidian tax remittances. In a typical medieval Perso-Islamic or Turko-Islamic court, such individuals filled and checked columns in financial daftars, counted and double-counted tax records, toured and assessed various eqta‘s (land grants), and so on. However, by the light of their candles, they worked nightly on their respective labours of love, whether it be a superlative copy of Nezami’s Khamsa, a supra commentary on Tusi’s commentary on Ebn Sina or a regional history of Herat. Notable personages of the classical medieval period include Abu’l-Fazl Beyhaqi and al-‘Otbi of the Ghaznavid state, any one of the Joveyni family members, who had dominated the Mongol administration, Mohammad b. Hendushah al-Nakhjavani and, of course, the great administrator, Rashid alDin Fazlollah Hamadani. Moving into the Timurid, Safavid and Mughal periods, one could cautiously assert that typical Perso-Islamic scholarbureaucrats in these contexts were invested in the eclectic and innovative nature of intellectual debate and religious inquiry. In the Timurid imperial space, we only need to consider the careers of such scholar-bureaucrats as Sharaf al-Din ‘Ali Yazdi, Mo‘in al-Din Zamchi Esfezari, Hoseyn Va‘ez Kashefi and, above all, Mir ‘Ali-Shir Nava’i to develop an appreciation for not only the depth of their scholarly production but also its breadth and diversity.8 While there were certainly important bureaucratic patrons serving the Safavid dynasty in the sixteenth century – Najm-e Sani (d. 1512), Mirza Shah Esfahani (d. 1523), Qazi-ye Jahan Qazvini (d. 1553), and Mirza Salman (d. 1583), to name the most famous – there has been a relative dearth of scholarly studies of bureaucrats, either as individuals or as corporate groups.9 The Safavid Empire, with its complicated overlapping and intermixing of different ethnic, religious and courtly constituencies, is presented largely in modern secondary scholarship in what could be characterized as empiricist language. Thus, when encountered with the domineering presence in court chronicles of kingly, charismatic rulers like Esma‘il, Tahmasp and ‘Abbas, presentations of the Safavid ‘state’ are often framed exclusively through the decisions and actions of the shahs, constituting in essence a modern scholarly narrative which privileges the Safavid ruler as not only the architect, but also the agent and overseer of all political, courtly, economic and administrative policies and centralizing reforms. To be fair, any studies of Safavid political and courtly structures, and the networks of individuals and constituencies which operated

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within them, are arguably limited when compared with other imperial dynastic spaces (Mamluk, Ottoman, Mughal), where historians can work with robust and diverse administrative, documentary and diplomatic evidence.10 There is an exception in matters relating to Safavid jurisprudence, philosophy and theology, where the personalities of Sheykh Baha’i, Mir Damad, Molla Sadra and others tend to loom somewhat larger. Here, we find a recent and robust surge in studies dedicated to philosophy and intellectual thought during the Safavid period.11 Overall, these larger historiographical issues have had no small impact on how we understand Safavid Iranian history during a period of considerable change, i.e. during the reign of Shah ‘Abbas (r. 1587–1629), wherein centralization and state doctrine were indeed being prioritized. Can this latent empiricism, and the profiling of ‘Abbas as the master engineer of seventeenth-century Safavid political fluorescence, be challenged by the career of the aforementioned Hatem Beg Ordubadi and the family around him? Can we locate the voice and agency of individuals and groups during a period in which new priorities and policies were being introduced alongside wellestablished and traditional conceptions of orthodoxy and Perso-Islamic governance?

A Prodigal Son Hosts A Country Party Excursion to Azerbaijan In the early autumn of 1607 (ca. Jomada II, 1016), a small entourage of Safavid notables, courtiers, servants and soldiers set out from the city of Tabriz to visit the town of Ordubad, situated 100 km to the north in the Nakhjavan (Nakhchevan) region. This sojourn was the beginning of a meandering tour of Azerbaijan and ‘Eraq-e ‘Ajam which would last months, with stops for visitation and celebration in Ahar, Ardabil, Qazvin, Qom and Kashan before finally coming to an end in the imperial capital of Esfahan. This peripatetic assembly of courtly elites revolved around the great and venerable vizier Hatem Beg Ordubadi, who had manoeuvred himself, some 15 years earlier, into the highest echelons of the Safavid Empire as the ‘Pillar of the State’ (E‘temad aldowla). The town of Ordubad in Nakhjavan was the vizier’s home city, but he had spent most of his adult life serving in various official capacities across the Iranian Plateau; the ostensible purpose of this visit was to oversee ongoing renovations and building improvements in and around his family estates. This vizierial tour was faithfully recorded by Eskandar Beg Monshi in his wellknown chronicle, the Tarikh-e ‘alam-ara-ye ‘Abbasi in a curious sub-chapter entitled ‘My trip to Ordubad with the vizier Hatem Beg, and our return to Esfahan’.12 This countryside romp, and the notable absence of the shah, invites attention in as much as Hatem Beg is presented in these autumnal weeks as patron and host par excellence. Eskandar Beg begins this mini-travelogue by listing its high-ranking participants, who included, notably, Sayyed Nasr, the princely son of the Mosha‘sha‘ ruler of Hoveyza, Mobarak Shah. Some ten years earlier, in 1595,

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Hatem Beg had led a military campaign to subdue this rebellious Arabicspeaking region near the Persian Gulf and, as a guarantee of the ensuing peace and suzerainty, the vizier had seized the young prince, as was typical in early modern diplomacy and geopolitics.13 Eskandar Beg states that this princely captive, Sayyed Nasr, now an accomplished scholar, ‘had been brought up by the vizier as his own son’ since an early age. The second personage of note was Mostafa Pasha, an important Ottoman amir-cum-vizier who had been captured two years earlier at the Battle of Sufiyan; in addition to being a ‘good conversationalist’, this captive Turkish pasha had a ‘secretarial cast of mind’ and was deemed good company by Hatem Beg. The third and fourth members of this touring clique were two relatives, probably cousins, who ranked among the literary stylists (monshis) and poets of the day, Mohammad Hoseyn Tafreshi and Mir ‘Abd al-Ghani Tafreshi; Mohammad Hoseyn Tafreshi would go on to author an extremely interesting and variegated collection of state correspondence and personal letters.14 The final named members of this motley crew were an accomplished singer (Mowlana Motrebi Qazvini) and lute-player (Ostad Heydar-Qoli ‘Udi), the former being ‘extremely witty’, ‘an excellent companion’ as well as the ‘envy of his fellow artists’.15 Eskandar Beg, along with other party members, considered themselves lucky to be part of such a hand-picked assemblage – entertainers, raconteurs, clerisy – which created a ‘general enjoyment by composing poetry, narrating history, and telling stories and anecdotes’.16 During the ensuing trip, towns and cities were enjoyed by all, and sometimes for surprising reasons: the party toured the delightful gardens on the south bank of the Aras River, socialized and feasted every day of their 20day sojourn in Ordubad with all its denizens, visited and paid respect at Sufi shrines in Ahar, enjoyed evenings of witticisms and wordplay in Ardabil, and participated in an impromptu pomegranate contest with the local population of Qom. Summing up his experience as the party rolled into Esfahan some months later, Eskandar Beg wrote: The whole way from Ordubad to Esfahan, it had been the practice of the vizier to summon his companions after they had recovered from the fatigue of the day’s journey. Everyone would talk and listen to the singing and playing of the artists in their party. The trip had been an unalloyed pleasure from beginning to end. The members of the party had enjoyed the company of the vizier, and [they] reckoned that short trip to be the epitome of a lifetime.17 Curiously, Eskandar Beg was unsure of his decision to include this minitravelogue in an imperial court chronicle which was mandated to celebrate the accomplishments of Shah ‘Abbas: ‘although the details of this trip have no place in my history, strictly speaking, I devoutly hope that by giving them I will not incur censure from my learned readers’.18 Ostensibly, he hoped to profile the generosity of Hatem Beg, but it would appear that the vizier commanded

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considerable respect and support in both court and countryside, and perhaps Eskandar Beg was using this autumnal excursion to discreetly shed light on this ‘pillar of the state’ before returning to the central theme of his chronicle, i.e. Shah ‘Abbas. Interestingly, some months earlier, in the spring of 1607 (1015 AH), Shah ‘Abbas had visited Ordubad himself with Hatem Beg as a local guide, and it is very likely that it was on this occasion that Hatem Beg had secured permission to later organize and lead his own vizierial excursion.19 The question presents itself: who was Hatem Beg – patron, bon-vivant, belletrist – and how did he manage to rise within the Safavid state to such a position that he could host such an enterprise?

Scion of Nasir al-Din Tusi: The Early Career of Hatem Beg Obviously, Eskandar Beg was a friend and confidant of the grand vizier, and the historian gives a relatively detailed description of Hatem Beg’s family and its prominence in the Nakhjavan region; not unlike his narrative of Hatem Beg’s autumn party, the historian appears slightly uncomfortable with this thematic deviation: ‘although biographical details about them are not strictly relevant to my history … my deep friendship for and devotion to this family compel me to give them’.20 The picture that emerges from these respective descriptions portrays not only a family of bureaucrats who demonstrated an impressive history of serving the Safavids as administrators, but also a kinfolk who boasted a formidable Shi‘i scholarly pedigree. These notable elites of Ordubad were known locally as Nasiriyas on account of their direct descent from the thirteenth-century polymath scholar and Shi‘i celèbre, Nasir al-Din Tusi. As both Sufi masters and Shi‘i emperors, the family of the Safavids (first in Ardabil, and later in Tabriz) were well connected with this region. Fazli Beg Khuzani mentions a formal connection between the Nasiriyas and Sheykh Safi al-Din in the first volume of his Afzal al-tavarikh.21 He refers to one Qazi ‘Emad al-Din Tusi, who had settled in Ordubad at some point during the fourteenth century, and the fact that his descendants would go on to serve as kalantars and qazis for the next 200 years.22 ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Tusi, nephew of Hatem Beg and compiler of the Monsha’at al-Tusi, confirms that Qazi ‘Emad al-Din Tusi had worked on behalf of the Safavids by delivering (and possibly writing) a letter to the Mongol ruler, Soltan Ahmad Jalayer during the 1380s.23 The first formal connection between the imperial-era Safavids and the Nasiriyas was a prominent notable named Malek Bahram. As a young man, Malek Bahram had fled Ordubad and his family estates to find refuge in Egypt during the maelstrom of the collapse of the Aq Qoyunlu in the late 1490s. He was later invited back to Nakhjavan and Ordubad by Shah Esma‘il at some point after 1501; when exactly this happened is not clear, but we do know that Hoseyn Beg Lala, Shah Esma‘il’s vakil, or plenipotentiary, had informed the shah that Malek Bahram was in fact a kinsman of the first Safavid chancery official, Khvaja ‘Atiq ‘Ali.24 It was ‘Atiq ‘Ali who had first designed and

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affixed the shah’s toghra (an imperial heraldic device) to his first imperial decrees, not long after Esma‘il’s ‘emergence’ and conquest of Tabriz in 1501. Malek Bahram re-settled in Nakhjavan and, later, Shah Tahmasp formally named him as the kalantar (mayor) of Ordubad in the 1530s; a bureaucrat named Mirza Kafi, who was another member of Malek Bahram’s extended family, served as the Safavid monshi al-mamalek during the 1530s.25 Qazi Ahmad, author of the Kholasat al-tavarikh, endorsed Eskandar Beg Monshi’s high estimation of the Nasiriyas and applauded their excellent service to the Safavid dynasty and their ability to secure high offices of the royal court.26 This marked the beginning, in fact, of a new role for this local family of notables from Azerbaijan: serving as administrative guides for a burgeoning and ambitious dynasty which was in the midst of establishing a Twelver Shi‘i polity. Hatem Beg was one of five male children who all served in various administrative and vizierial positions for a wide spectrum of Safavid nobility and notables during the sixteenth century. All trained as secretaries and comptrollers; the five were (from oldest to youngest): Mirak Beg, Adham Beg, Hatem Beg, Abu Torab Beg and Abu Taleb Beg. It should be noted that Fazli Beg Khuzani does not mention Mirak Beg.27 It was the middle son, Hatem Beg, who would become arguably the most famous of Bahram’s progeny and the only one directly to serve Shah ‘Abbas. The others, nonetheless, did reach positions of consequence at the provincial and central levels. The oldest, Mirak Beg, served initially as a monshi, and later as vizier, to Tahmasp’s vakil (plenipotentiary) Ma‘sum Beg Safavi; however, when the vakil was killed in 1568, Mirak was nominated to serve in the imperial court of Qazvin as the majles-nevis (‘court reporter’). Adham Beg, the next oldest, served as chief financial accountant (mostowfi) and vizier to one of the Safavid princes, Mostafa Mirza, who fell victim to Esma‘il’s bloodletting in 1576. After a short and unpleasant stint as the kalantar of Tabriz, Adham retired from administrative service but returned to serve as vizier to the governor of Tabriz in 1584. Not long after, he shifted from periphery to centre when he was promoted as vizier to the mohrdar, official keeper of the dynastic seal.28 When ‘Abbas ascended the throne in 1587, Adham retired to Ardabil to serve in the Safavid familial shrine; however, when his younger brother Hatem Beg was named as grand vizier, he was given a generous annual pension of 100 tomans to live quietly in Shiraz until his death in 1608.29 The careers of the two younger brothers were ended tragically by violence. Abu Torab Beg, brother number four, had served as a secretary in Mashhad and personal vizier to Mortaza-Qoli Khan Torkoman,30 but was killed during the turbulent reign of Esma‘il II (1576–77). The fifth and final brother, Abu Taleb Beg, served as an accountant and secretary in Herat, but was spectacularly executed (‘fired from a cannon’, records Eskandar Beg) during disastrous peace negotiations amidst an Ozbek siege of the city in 1587.31

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Not surprisingly, Hatem Beg earns substantially more detail in Safavid chronicles than any of his brothers. The two most helpful sources with regard to detail and first-hand observation are Eskandar Beg Monshi and Fazli Beg Khuzani-Esfahani, while Monajjem Yazdi provides some unique, albeit intermittent, information; other sources, such as the Khold-e barin and ‘Abbasnama, are of no help. Hatem Beg cut his administrative teeth early on, replacing his father, Malek Bahram, as the kalantar of Ordubad but local rivalries forced him to leave his hometown in the early 1570s and join the court of the Safavid governor of Khoy, Dalu Budaq Rumlu. This assignment lasted roughly a year, and between 1574 and 1576 he split his time between Ordubad and Ardabil. When Shah Khodabanda assumed the Safavid throne in 1577, he was appointed as the vizier to governor Vali Khan Afshar, and later his son Bektash Khan, between 1577 and 1590.32 The political narrative became complicated during the late 1580s in the region of Fars and Yazd as prominent Qezelbash notables, like Bektash Khan, Ya‘qub Khan Zolqadr and Yusof Khan Afshar, were increasingly embroiled in internecine conflict with one another and with the newly enthroned shah in Qazvin. Undoubtedly, these local rulers of Kerman and Yazd were formalizing and expanding their sovereignty at the expense of the Safavid dynasty, which had declined in the 1570s and 1580s. During 1589–90, Shah ‘Abbas purged a wide swath of seditious elements in what could be labelled as a ‘sovereignty showcase tour’ as he marched and confronted Shiraz, Yazd and Kerman. Eskandar Beg Monshi, friend and colleague, presents (or rehabilitates?) Hatem Beg in this period as a mediating force, who used his vizierial skills to try to convince his master Bektash Khan to respect Shah ‘Abbas’s decree. Undone by vanity and ambition, Bektash Khan forwent the sage advice of Ordubadi and instead sought counsel with his father-in-law, the large-scale property owner, sinister kingmaker and general rabble-rouser, the Ne‘matollahi sheykh Mir-e Miran. As Rudi Matthee demonstrated, these rebellions were as much about money, resources and cupidity as they were about loyalty and hubris.33 Moreover, Fazli Beg Khuzani details how sizeable properties, treasuries and court baggage were seized from various Afshar tribesmen after the death of Bektash Khan by the newly installed governor Ya‘qub Khan.34 The Ne‘matollahis and the people of Yazd were also punished for their disloyalty with extra-ordinary taxes and property seizures. It is amidst these developments that we read that the shah arranged for Hatem Beg to be enlisted in direct royal service after Safavid forces occupied the city of Yazd.35 Of course, having served as vizier to both Vali Khan and his son Bektash Khan, Hatem Beg would have had a detailed knowledge of regional landholdings, tax assessments, remittances and so on; Monajjem Yazdi recounts how Bektash Khan had reached out to Hatem Beg, while serving Vali Khan, to negotiate an intercession regarding a group of Mir-e Miran’s people in Yazd, who had had their goods and belongings recently plundered.36 With Shah ‘Abbas’s rule now

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restored, various prominent positions were reshuffled in the divan-e a‘la and new governors were nominated, including the announcement from afar in Qazvin that Hatem Beg was immediately to begin his tenure as the new imperial mostowfi al-mamalek, or master comptroller. Fazli Beg Khuzani gives us evidence to suggest that Hatem Beg had remained in Yazd in the months following Bektash’s rebellion to oversee the political and financial reparation of the region; moreover, he had served as an influential mediator in the weeks and months leading up to his 1590 nomination as mostowfi al-mamalek. For instance, the kalantar of Kerman, Khvaja ‘Abd al-Rashid, and various other regional notables arrived in Yazd with gifts and monies to express their loyalty to the young Shah ‘Abbas; these were presented to Hatem Beg, who in turn remitted them to the central court in Qazvin.37 Likewise, various lords and ‘white-bearded ones’ (rish-safidan) from Bam and elsewhere, who had previously been in fealty and service to Bektash Khan, arrived in Yazd to be reconfirmed by both Yuli Beg and Hatem Beg. Hatem Beg Ordubadi even embarked on financial assessments and reviews of the properties (amlak) of individuals like Shahryari, Aqa Zeyn al-Din and Mir Taj al-Din Mahmud, who had all been servants of Bektash Khan, while also inspecting Ne‘matollahi properties and accepting cash money and gifts from Khalilollah, the repentant successor to Mir-e Miran.38 It was only after these financial reckonings and audits in the winter of 1590 that the vizier, en route to Qazvin and making a stopover in Kashan, was officially and publicly proclaimed to be the mostowfi al-mamalek with the requisite pomp and ostentatious ceremony. Scholarship often depicts such centralizing initiatives as the one taking place in Yazd – in this case a military one – in fairly simple terms; a ruler suppresses a rebellion, executes the principle transgressors and everything falls into order. Thanks to Fazli Beg Khuzani, we get a greater sense of the economic trauma and dislocation which follows such militarized centralization policies, and how Hatem Beg earned his first major nomination arguably on account of his ability to reconcile the disaffection and dislocation, and bring various constituencies in and around Yazd back within the Safavid fold. Hatem Beg clearly impressed Shah ‘Abbas when he arrived in the royal court in the spring of 1591. Hatem Beg, 20–25 years senior to the young ruler, was given the avuncular sobriquet ‘Baba’, not only in courtly documents but also by Shah ‘Abbas himself.39 Within six months of his earlier nomination to the dar al-estefa’, Ordubadi was promoted to the position of grand vizier and honoured with the rank of ‘Pillar of the State’, E‘temad al-dowla.40 This would be the beginning of a 20-year relationship, a period in which the Safavid state would undergo some of its most significant changes. During the critical decades between 1590 and 1610, Hatem Beg served in a variety of roles: financial comptroller, senior diplomatic envoy, military general, chancellery reformer and auditor general. Moreover, as a Nasiriya notable, he also participated actively in the shaping and profiling of Shi‘ism with regard to state

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policies of propagation and proselytism. In this way, the reformer king ‘Abbas and his relationship with this grand scholar-bureaucrat Ordubadi was akin to those partnerships celebrated in other premodern dynastic spaces: Henry VIII and Thomas Cromwell, Catherine the Great and Panin, Akbar the Great and Abu’l-Fazl.

Administrative and Chancellery Reform under Ordubadi David Blow, in his biography of Shah ‘Abbas, is one of the few historians to provide some agency to Hatem Beg regarding administrative change and reform: ‘during [his] time he built up a very effective government bureaucracy which enabled the Safavid state to continue to thrive under much less able rulers than Shah ‘Abbas’.41 The Carmelite friar Paul Simon observed in a communiqué to Rome in 1608 how Hatem Beg would dispatch 200 petitions in the morning and then attend to hearings and summons for six or seven hours in the afternoon and the evening, while Anthony Sherley likewise reported his diligence and experience in administrative affairs.42 Examining Persian sources, can we determine how and when Hatem Beg began to have an impact on the administrative structure that Shah ‘Abbas inherited in 1587? According to the Afzal al-tavarikh, one of Hatem Beg’s first assignments as grand vizier in the autumn of 1591 was to head an ambassadorial mission to Gilan. For centuries, the region of Gilan had celebrated its unique culture and language, as well as defending its autonomy against external pressures; however, during the 1550s, Shah Tahmasp had invaded and subjugated the royal dynastic house of the Kar-Keyas, and for the remainder of the century they had accepted the Safavids as suzerain lords. In 1591, Shah ‘Abbas tasked Ordubadi, along with Sheykh Baha’i, Sheykh Hasan and Mirza Ebrahim Hamadani, to visit the local ruler Khan Ahmad Khan and formally request that he reconfirm the suzerainty of the Safavid house by agreeing to marry his daughter to ‘Abbas’s son, Safi Mirza;43 indeed, Khan Ahmad had been married to the sister of Shah ‘Abbas for some time and Hatem Beg’s mission was of paramount importance to the Safavid diplomatic programme. Interestingly, Monajjem Yazdi, who had himself been dispatched earlier by the shah to the court of Gilan to help with negotiations, describes this proposed union as a sigha, or temporary marriage, which is a legal custom in the Shi‘i tradition.44 Safi Mirza himself had just been named as the vali ‘ahd (heir-apparent) and governor of Hamadan, and his vizier was, in fact, Mirza ‘Abd al-Hoseyn, the nephew of Hatem Beg and future compiler of the epistolary majmu‘a, the Monsha’at al-Tusi.45 Obviously, the marriage of the heir-apparent to the daughter of Khan Ahmad Gilani (who boasted no male heirs) was highly advantageous to the Safavids; Khan Ahmad knew this very well and initially declined the match on the grounds that his daughter, Yakan Begum, was legally a minor. As Devin Stewart has noted in his article on the lost biography of Sheykh Baha’i, a team of legal scholars, including Sheykh Baha’i himself,

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produced a fatwa which legally permitted this particular marriage.46 Hatem Beg and a fellow envoy and chief administrator (darugha-ye daftar-khana-ye homayun), Bestam Aqa-ye Torkman, were charged with presenting this fatwa; interestingly, there is no mention of the fatwa itself in the Afzal al-tavarikh, but simply that it was Hatem Beg’s intelligence and canny ability to argue which convinced Khan Ahmad to ‘tie the knot between that jewel of the kingly crown with that prescient, imperial pearl’.47 This diplomatic concord appears to have been short lived. Eskandar Beg Monshi, who makes no mention of Hatem Beg’s ambassadorial mission whatsoever in the Tarikh-e ‘alam-ara-ye ‘Abbasi, simply narrates that Khan Ahmad had acted duplicitously with the Ottomans, and an enraged Shah ‘Abbas ordered a major invasion and subjugation of Gilan soon after in 1592. Roughly one year later, the Afzal al-tavarikh makes a note that 25 blank parvanchas on white paper – already adorned with the royal toghra – were given to Hatem Beg. On each parvancha, an imperial order was to be written by Hatem Beg and dispatched on behalf of Shah ‘Abbas. Literally given carte blanche to initiate policy, Hatem Beg’s authority is described as unparalleled by Fazli Beg Khuzani in the history of those men of the pen who serve emperors (in e‘tebar hich yek az arbab-e qalam-ra dar sarkar-e hich padshah na-bud).48 Monajjem Yazdi also makes mention of an administrative mission to Gilan, possibly the same one, where the E‘temad al-dowla travelled and worked with a mostowfi named Aqa Shah ‘Ali after Ahmad Khan failed to pay 5,000 tumans; they brought with them ‘a record book’ (ketab-e daftar) to investigate (bazdid) the regularly collected taxes (mal va jehat va vojuhat) of the region of Bia-pas in Gilan.49 Intriguingly, just two years later (in 1595) Ordubadi spent six months touring – again – the recently conquered kingdom of Gilan and produced a restructured system of tax collection and land tenure in this prosperous new province of the Safavid Empire. This reorganization was presented in a formal document, the ‘Regulatory Ledger of Imperial Taxes’ (Noskha-ye tashkhis-e jam‘ va kharaj-e mamalek-e mahrusa), but unfortunately this text has been lost.50 Nonetheless, the treatise that Hatem Beg ultimately produced so impressed the shah that he ordered it to be used as a template for the remaining provinces of the empire.51 Regarding chancellery culture, we encounter significant shifts during the tenure of Ordubadi’s grand vizierate. Until the 1580s, the importance of the monshi al-mamalek (chief epistolographer) in Safavid Iran can be seen as a continuation of the power that secretarial classes, or ‘men of the pen’, had wielded and the esteem in which they were held in the post-Mongol Islamic world. During the earlier reigns of Shah Esma‘il and Shah Tahmasp, secretaries and chancellery officials like Qazi-ye Jahan had largely come from wellestablished families of urban elites and bureaucrats who had been navigating a confessional landscape that was by no means uniformly orthodox Shi‘i.52 This traditional chancery culture was a composite of legacies and exigencies; older

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paradigms of Perso-Islamic literary and bureaucratic culture, first formed in the Seljuk and Mongol periods, were fused with the new theological and judicial orientations of the Safavid Twelver Shi‘i state. As we move into the reign of Shah ‘Abbas, the Nasiriyas of Ordubad were well positioned to promote ‘Abbas’s public role as both a traditional Perso-Islamic absolutist emperor and na’eb (deputy) and direct descendant (sayyed) of the Prophet’s family. Boasting a genealogical pedigree of the highest order, Hatem Beg Ordubadi and the selsela-ye Nasiriya were heralding a new era in which the best ‘men of the pen’ (arbab-e qalam) were those who could combine bureaucratic sensibility with an unassailable genealogical status. When he was promoted to be the shah’s grand vizier, among his many initiatives was to name his own nephew, Naser Khan Beg, as monshi al-mamalek.53 Hatem Beg’s son Mirza Abu Taleb Khan served as grand vizier (vazir-e divan-e a‘la) for a short time in 1631–32, while his nephew ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Tusi (son of Adham Beg) was named by the shah, at some point between 1629 and 1632, as the new monshi al-mamalek after the death of the aforementioned Naser Khan;54 other Nasiriyas (bearing the nesba ‘al-Tusi’) would be advanced to the increasingly powerful position of majlesnevis later in the seventeenth century.55 Hatem Beg nonetheless took steps to undermine the prestige and power of the monshi al-mamalek to allow for a reconfiguration of a Safavid administration, which readily accepted and promoted its new hierocratic orientation. Part of Hatem Beg’s programme was, as stated above, to install Nasiriya kinsmen into various chancellery positions, but it should be noted that the Safavid vizier assumed many of the monshi al-mamalek’s duties in the 1590s and 1610s; nine official Safavid letters are attributed to him directly in the Monsha’at al-Tusi, while another nine contain sufficiently similar language and modes of expression to suggest Ordubadi’s authorship.56 Such changes were significant for the traditional office of the monshi al-mamalek, and arguably indicative of what would come in the future. Originally a key position in the bureaucratic machinery of the Ilkhanate Empire three centuries earlier, the monshi al-mamalek had once been paid the staggering annual wage of 20,000 gold dinars,57 but by the early eighteenth century the salary for this position had plummeted so far that it equalled onetenth of the salary of the qurchibashi (chief military commander) and oneeighth of the salary of amir-e shekar (lord of the hunt); the chief financial comptroller (mostowfi al-mamalek) and the market regulator (mohtaseb almamalek) earned twice as much, while the epistolographer’s pay and status was equal to the master of the stable (amir akhor-e jelow).58 Senior monshis became so undervalued that later administrative manuals like the Tazkerat al-moluk and Mirza Rafa‘i’s Dastur al-moluk describe how the monshi al-mamalek was no longer entrusted with the inscription of the royal toghra and was reduced to ceremonially tracing (in red ink) formulaic intitulatios for missives and decrees of lesser notables.59

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At the same time, many of the duties – including the drafting of important state letters – had been appropriated by another bureaucratic officer, the majlesnevis (also known as vaqe‘a-nevis), who was a constant companion to the Safavid shah and whose approval and signature was expected and required for every important document. As Vladimir Minorsky commented: ‘among the civil officials (arbab-e qalam), there is no person, except the grand vizier, who stands higher in service and nearer to the throne [than the majles-nevis]’.60 This devolution of the monshi al-mamalek appears to have begun during Hatem Beg’s two-decade tenure as chief vizier, between 1591 and 1610, reaching its lowest point as the Safavid Empire moved into the eighteenth century. Textual evidence exists to support the argument that Hatem Beg was reorienting the Safavid chancellery away from earlier conceptions of epistolography, or ensha’, as a courtly vehicle for prose discussion and debate about sundry topics, such as the nature of the cosmos, God’s relationship with humankind, the religio-ethical responsibilities of the sultanate, the cycle of the Circle of Justice and so on. Royal Safavid letters produced during Hatem Beg’s tenure tend to be shorter in length and demonstrably simpler with regard to deliberative rhetoric and the use of literary devices and poetry. The nine letters which we can positively identify as being written by Hatem Beg appear in his nephew’s epistolography, the Monsha’at al-Tusi and are replicated by Fazli Beg Khuzani in his Afzal al-tavarikh. The rubrics of many of these letters – ‘from the ensha’ of the E‘temad al-dowla, the departed Hatem Beg Ordubadi’ (az ensha-ye E‘temad al-dowla marhum Hatem Beg) – suggest the possibility that Hatem Beg had compiled his own epistolographic manual but there is no existing corroboration of this. Interestingly, in this body of epistles by Hatem Beg there are textual admonitions against excessive prose (e.g. ‘more hyperbole and prolixity is a violation of good custom!’), while certain short, formulaic components of these letters were clearly copied from the well-known Timurid epistolographic manual (Makhzan al-ensha’, ca. 1501 by Hoseyn Va‘ez Kashefi), which provides thousands of concise inscriptios, benedictions, prayers and titulatures.61 These factors all combine to suggest that traditional perceptions of imperial epistolography – where letters could function as vehicles of debate regarding political philosophy, ethics and advice, as well as contemplative theology and theosophy – were being routinized with symbols, formulas and rhetorical expressions which conveyed, rather than explicitly arguing, concepts like sovereignty (dowla), power (qodra) and obeisance (ta‘a). One particular feature of Hatem Beg’s correspondence to the Ozbeks and Ottomans is a penchant to narrate diplomacy and military confrontations, both past and present; reviewing his letters, there is also notable emphasis on describing military/imperial encounters and distinguishing Safavid sovereignty with specific geographical and historical references.62 I earlier described correspondence in Safavid Iran during the 1590s as a form of reportage, not

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unlike the ruznama (‘news report’) tradition that became more familiar with the rise of the vaqe‘a-nevis in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries.63 While we might encounter a shift towards a more concise epistolary style during Ordubadi’s tenure, certain components of letters – seals, formulas, prayers, benedictions, signatures – actually grew in size and complexity in the early seventeenth century. In Timurid and Qara/Aq Qoyunlu times, the heraldic ‘signature’ of a ruler (toghra), had been centred at the top of a chancellery missive.64 During the following Safavid period it was replaced with a different performative utterance, which was inked in gold and appeared as the opening words in the first line of a document: ‘a royal decree found the honour of being issued’ (farman-e homayun sharaf-e nafaz yaft).65 Different formulaic phrases were later introduced and popularized during the period of Hatem Beg’s vizierate; thus, hokm-e jahan-mota‘ shod (‘the world-obeying order has happened’) is a common feature in later Safavid documents, as is farman-e homayun shod (‘a royal order has happened’). Interestingly, as Bert Fragner has demonstrated, the official Safavid seal was moved by chancery functionaries from the bottom of documents to the top; no longer round, the seal’s pear-like shape was designed to better accommodate the name of the Safavid ruler, along with the names of the 14 Immaculate ones to whom the dynasty boasted a familial connection.66 Such proximity between the name of the Safavid shah and the Prophet’s family was part and parcel of a larger genealogical programme by jurists and religious scholars, like the Nasiriyas, which was designed to connect these early modern kings with Mohammad and his preeternal and infallible progeny. Safavid seals became increasingly complex and varied in terms of their design and tex, and, as such, one could argue that their diversification and use in multiple chancery spaces reflected the degree to which agents of state could operate independently of the ruler but still enjoy the full symbolic weight of his sovereignty. In an absolutist monarchical context, a chancery without access to some form of visual and recognizable imperial sanction cannot do business. In this way, the ‘Great Seal’ (mohr-e homayun) was complemented by ‘small’ seals (mohr-e asar), which in turn could be affixed to signet rings (mohr-e angoshtar-e aftab asar); less important documents could be validated with a specific Safavid seal, which imprinted with ink the physical text of the imperial imperative itself: hokm-e jahan-mota‘ shod (‘the world-obeying order has happened’).67 Two of our more valuable seventeenth-century sources which explicitly discuss the proliferation of seals, document typologies and their varying formulas were both written by Nasiriya kinsmen of Hatem Beg Ordubadi: ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Tusi, monshi al-mamalek in the 1630s, and Abu’lQasem b. Mohammad Reza Nasiri, who was the nephew of ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Tusi and served as majles-nevis in the late seventeenth century.68 Their respective epistolary compilations – the Monsha’at al-Tusi (1633)69 and the

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Resala-ye davaran (ca. 1669–76)70 – both contain explicit sections on the different seals used in the chancery. Hatem Beg himself designed a series of new seals to herald the new imperial profile in the early seventeenth century. After a successful campaign against the Ottomans, Shah ‘Abbas chose to show his piety and gratitude by performing a pilgrimage across Iran to the massive Shi‘i shrine complex in the city of Mashhad, which boasts the mausoleum of the Eighth Imam, ‘Ali Reza.71 In the afterglow of this pilgrimage, ‘Abbas decreed that sizeable numbers of royal properties and businesses (primarily in Esfahan) were to be categorized as religious endowments (vaqf).72 Court astrologer and historian, Monajjem Yazdi describes also various vaqf deeds of previous Safavid family members, such as Shah Tahmasp and Shah Esma‘il, as well as other princely royals including Soltan-Mohammad Mirza and Soltan-Hasan Mirza, which were re-enacted in cities like Qazvin, Kashan, Mahmudabad and Esfahan.73 A prodigious amount of money was generated according to the terms of these trust deeds – drawn up by the well-known jurist, Sheykh Baha’i – with the resulting monies divided into 14 shares of various sizes. The largest share ‘belonged’ to the Prophet Mohammad while the other 13 shares were divided among the direct descendants (imams) of the Prophet, starting with his daughter Fatema and ending with the Hidden Twelfth Imam. Curious to note is that this invigorated imperial piety came on the heels of the aforementioned visit by ‘Abbas to Ordubad in 1607 and his introduction to the work and local reputation of the Nasiriya family. It was Hatem Beg and a chief religious overseer (sadr) named Mirza Reza who designed the 14 specific seals to be used for these new legal endowments. Hatem Beg ordered his chancery staff to research appropriate histories and Shi‘i hagiographies so as to recreate the signet seals purportedly used by the 14 Immaculates themselves. According to Hatem Beg, in the seventh and eighth centuries the daily transactions (dad o setad) of each imam (sarkar) were routinely blessed with their own personal seal; by recreating these seals, Hatem Beg claimed to be enacting the notion of deputyship (neyaba) on behalf of an imam’s holy spirit (nafs-e nafis-e homayun).74 Indeed, the question of the pre-eternality of the imams – a subject of central doctrinal importance to medieval Shi‘i thought – was directly connected with the issue of the imams’ official seals. The eleventh-century scholar al-Sheykh al-Mofid had quoted Imami tradition that the angel Gabriel had handed to the Prophet Mohammad a tablet (lowh) containing the names of the 12 imams; according to another tradition, the angel delivered a pouch containing 12 seals that had been created before time and were meant for each of the imams.75

Ordubadi the Intercessor: A Vizierial Entourage Returns to Azerbaijan While Hatem Beg Ordubadi clearly played an influential – arguably controlling – role in the Safavid administration during the 1590s and early 1600s, it was his abilities as a state representative, negotiator and political intermediary which

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Shah ‘Abbas saw as particularly invaluable. Moving into the 1590s and 1600s, Hatem Beg was repeatedly called upon to play a conciliatory role as Shah ‘Abbas embarked on a number of successful military campaigns in various neighbouring regions. By 1605, the Safavids had reversed significant territorial losses incurred in previous decades and were conquering and incorporating parts of the Caucasus, eastern Anatolia, Iraq, Khorasan and Khvarazm (Khorezm). Post-bellum, after the conquest of a new province or neighbouring region, it was often Hatem Beg who served as a diplomatic contact and mediator in many of these conflict zones, and for much his career he oversaw negotiations and brokered reconciliations with many non-Persephone communities which were to become vassals of the shah: Turks, Kurds, Arabs, Gilakis, Turkmen and Ozbeks, as well as Bakhtiyaris and Qashqa’is. Newly named as chief accountant amidst the instability in Yazd and Kerman in 1590, Monajjem Yazdi informs us that he had been dispatched to various parts of Kerman province, such as the citadel of Min and Sirjan (some 100 km southwest of Kerman), to assist in subduing and repatriating local elements.76 In 1595, some five years after his promotion to the central administration, Hatem Beg personally negotiated the reintegration of semi-autonomous Hoveyza in ‘Arabestan, ruled by Sayyed Mobarak ‘Arab, whose son he informally adopted and who was mentioned previously in the autumnal party of 1607.77 Likewise, in 1595, he took the lead in the reorganization of Gilan province and its Gilaki-speaking population after its formal annexation by the Safavid state. Two years later, he was directly involved in negotiations with the rebellious Afshar tribesmen of Kuh-Giluya in central Iran.78 In 1598 and 1600, respectively, he was the chief bureaucrat attached to the shah’s military forces during two campaigns in Khorasan and Khvarazm, and then brokered the surrender and vassal status of the Shibanid Ozbek claimant, Nur Mohammad Khan.79 In 1605, he led the diplomatic negotiations with the Sunni Kurds of Azerbaijan, exchanging correspondence with Suleyman Beg Kordi Mahmudi to broker a cessation of hostilities.80 Unfortunately, this peace failed to last and Hatem Beg’s last service before dying in 1610 was to oversee the successful conquest of a formidable citadel, Dimdim, wrested from Kurdish rebels in the region of Orumiya. Arguably, his most successful intercession came towards the end of his career in 1608, during a specific outbreak of Jalali (or Celali) insurrection under one Mohammad Pasha Qalandar-oghlu in northern Syria and eastern Anatolia. The reported numbers vary, but a minimum of several thousand Jalali Turkish tribesmen had fled towards Safavid territory in Armenia after being defeated by Ottoman state troops in the autumn of 1607. ‘It was royally decreed’, writes Monajjem Yazdi, ‘that E‘temad al-dowla Mirza Hatem Beg go to Tabriz for the winter season so as to rank and appoint that group’.81 And while Eskandar Beg Monshi describes in fulsome terms the preparation and execution of this important diplomatic mission in Tabriz, it is Fazli Beg Khuzani who provides

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the most detailed account of how Hatem Beg negotiated and designed the mass defection of thousands – some sources place the number as high as 20,000 – of Jalali troops and incorporated them within the Safavid fold. During the winter of 1607–8, news had arrived of the influx of Jalali troops from Aleppo to Safavid domains; in early spring of 1608 (1015 hejri), Hatem Beg, who had settled recently in the village of Sang Tarashan in Lorestan, was hastily summoned to Esfahan.82 To celebrate Hatem Beg’s arrival, a grandiose celebration was organized on the Si-o-seh Bridge, which had just been built by Allah Verdi Khan. There was a week-long session of gathering and feasting, in which the great and the good of Esfahan were joined by ordinary citizens (masakin), Sufis (foqara) and ascetics (rendan). Every wall and roof (har soffa va ivani) overlooking the Si-o-seh Bridge was commandeered by various khans, sultans and confidants; there were so many gatherings and assemblies of friendship that it was the envy (rashk) of Paradise itself.83 After the party, it was decreed that Hatem Beg was to be the one to visit Azerbaijan (‘azem-e Azerbayjan), and on account of his intelligence and good counsel he was to be given precedence with regard to the situation of the Jalalis (dar bab-e Jalaliyan be-taqdim avarda).84 Like one year earlier during the autumnal tour of Azerbaijan, Eskandar Beg joined Hatem Beg and his entourage, albeit this time the group was much larger, more formalized and expected to make relative haste. According to Monajjem Yazdi, they left for Tabriz on 20 Jomadi II, 1017/1 October 1608.85 As Hatem Beg navigated his way northwards, the city of Tabriz was preparing for what was probably perceived to be the imperial diplomatic event of the decade. By the year 1608, the Safavid state was approaching its apogee: various internal rebellions had been snuffed, the new imperial capital of Esfahan was now in full fluorescence in terms of cultural production and economic activity, while the provinces of Sharvan, Chokhur-e Sa‘d and Qarabagh had been liberated from the Ottomans and formally reincorporated. Most important, however, was the fact that Tabriz had been liberated from the Ottomans five years earlier. Newly refurbished and restored, Tabriz was to serve as the central stage for a display of dominion as the Safavids formally received 10–20,000 Jalali tribesmen who had rejected Ottoman rule. Shah ‘Abbas opted for prudence in sending a representative rather than personally overseeing this event, citing the potential for spontaneous violence. Nonetheless, ‘Abbas manoeuvred to make this a spectacle of sovereignty in the highest order; in addition to nominating and fêting the ‘Pillar of the State’ before his departure, the shah also ordered that 12,000 tomans, 12,000 sheep and 20,000 kharvars (2 million Tabrizi maunds, or 14 million pounds) of grain be dispatched to Tabriz, along with requisition orders for food, clothing and gifts to be distributed by local governors and kalantars in different cities across Azerbaijan.86

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It was decreed that 50,000 Tabrizis should be in attendance for the arrivals of Jalalis and Safavid notables alike, and they were arranged to stand along the main thoroughfare from Hejdah Bridge to the gates of the citadel; these citizens of Tabriz were to be armed and organized militarily in rows (moqarrer shod keh mardom-e Tabriz yoraq pushida saff-ara gardand). Several cannons (chand tup) and 1,200 rifles were brought from the citadel to assemble in the square and provide a military salute (shanlik); the ensuing volley caused an earthquake in time and space (zelzela dar zamin va zaman). Eskandar Beg and Fazli Beg Khuzani agree that Hatem Beg’s arrival in Tabriz, roughly a week later, was an event of singular import, and we are reminded of the lavish ceremonies which had been prepared in Esfahan on his behalf roughly two weeks earlier.87 The same crowd that had been assembled on the day of the arrival of the Jalalis (ruz-e dokhul-e Jalaliyan) – but even greater in number – was arranged along the main road of Tabriz, the terminus being the former palace complex of Jahanshah (d. 1467) which had been transferred to that ‘vizier of Iran’.88 In the days that followed, Hatem Beg initiated and oversaw the formal incorporation of thousands of Jalali tribesmen into the Safavid state. Eskandar Beg Monshi discusses how ‘official secretaries’ were summoned to put together lists and rolls of individual and tribal names; the number of incoming Jalalis totalled 13,605 serviceable men, of which 10,000 were musketeers and cavalry with the remainder being grooms and servants.89 Not surprisingly, Fazli Beg Khuzani provides slightly different details about this process, which are worth examining. In narrating Hatem Beg’s reception of the Jalalis, he notes one Mohsen Beg, the son of Khvaja Gangi Beg Tusi, who had been serving the shah as an official royal household slave (dar selk-e gholaman-e khassa-ye sharif montazam bud). Bearing the nesba ‘Tusi’, he was probably a distant kinsman of Hatem Beg, and Fazli Beg Khuzani describes how Shah ‘Abbas gave him formal leave from the royal court to join the grand vizier as his new ishik aqasi bashi; Mohsen Beg was highly regarded for his compositional skills (tarkib), census-taking abilities (jami‘a) and in matters associated with service and knowledge of etiquette (asbab-e khedmat va tarzdani).90 Fazli Beg Khuzani adds how Mohammad Taher Beg, Hatem Beg’s nephew and former subordinate to the well-known stylist and monshi, Mirza-ye ‘Alemyan (Khvaja Mohammad Shafi‘), was also officially transferred to Hatem Beg’s team in Tabriz. In addition to these two prominent Nasiriyas, Hatem Beg was provided with other ‘venerable servants’ (molazeman-e qadimi) to help arrange the incorporation of the Jalalis; according to Fazli Beg Khuzani, ‘whatever the necessity of elegance, it was provided’ (ancheh lazema-ye zeynat bud dada budand).91 While there were consecutive days of feasting and hosting by the different Safavid notables, it was the sixth day of Hatem Beg’s visit to Tabriz which witnessed the most expansive and sumptuous banquet: ‘a vast area of the garden, where two thousand people could sit down to the feast, was set aside,

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and tents were erected and carpets laid’.92 Fazli Beg Khuzani also notes that his brother, Mohammad Beg, had been tasked with assisting Eskandar Beg Monshi to fulfil the vizier’s command that this monumental event be recorded and appropriately described. After an extensive meal, which is indeed presented in detail by Eskandar Beg in his Tarikh-e ‘alam-ara-ye ‘Abbasi,93 prayer was performed, caps were removed and wine flasks were opened; the majles went into the middle of the night.94 The following day, Hatem Beg ordered the governor of Azerbaijan, Khvaja Mohammad Reza, to enumerate and record the Jalalis, further elaborating that if there was a ‘group of rare people’ (jam‘i az mardom-e ghariba) who were inclined to accept Safavid fealty, they would be separately enlisted and join Hatem Beg for his return to Esfahan.95 The remainder of the Jalalis were to be allotted winter quarters in Azerbaijan, with the expectation of their chiefs, who were to present themselves at the shah’s court in summertime. The scribes working for the vizier of Azerbaijan, along with Hatem Beg’s personal vizier, Khvaja Shehab al-Din ‘Ali, spent several days recording the pertinent details. According to Fazli Beg, 325 Jalalis declared their official fealty to the E‘temad al-dowla and the Safavid state, while the remaining 14,500 were to be installed in winter quarters in Azerbaijan and Tavalesh.96 Interestingly, Monajjem Yazdi records how a special petition from Hatem Beg had arrived in Esfahan during these negotiations, stating that ‘I am arriving with 270 Jalalis, and to prepare a house for this group’; the shah subsequently arranged a ‘house and provisions’ (khana va azuqa) for them. 97 Curiously, the Jalalis also demanded leopard skins (post-palang) and Monajjem Yazdi writes how: ‘not a half-hour had passed when a servant of Mohammad Khan arrived from Ganja and brought 50 garments lined with leopard skin’.98 On the tenth and final day, Hatem Beg led a special delegation of Jalali leaders, including Mohammad Pasha Qalandar-oghlu, out of Tabriz. Over the course of two weeks, this special retinue made its way, via Kashan, to the imperial capital of Esfahan. During this trip, the Jalalis expressed their surprise at the scope of power enjoyed by Hatem Beg; no vizier in the Ottoman Empire enjoyed such sovereignty in their estimation.99 This mission almost ended in disaster in Natanz, when a dispute among the Jalalis turned violent but Hatem Beg and his retainers ‘rode fearlessly between the combatants and kept them apart, lashing some with their tongues and belabouring others with cudgels’.100 On 3 Sha‘ban 1017/12 November 1608, Hatem Beg arrived in the city of Esfahan amidst great pomp and celebration. The Jalalis formally kissed the stirrup of Shah ‘Abbas at Naqsh-e Jahan and acknowledged their new status as servants of the shah. While Eskandar Beg notes that Hatem Beg was thanked by the shah for his conduct, Fazli Beg adds that the shah also acknowledged the help of his kinsmen (aqvam), Mohsen Beg and Mohammad Taher Beg, and ordered that they accept his hospitality and feel free to make any requests or demands.101

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The story of this 1608 ‘summit’ in Tabriz, and the centrality of Hatem Beg Ordubadi in its organization and execution, is worthy of highlight and analysis. Along with notables, amirs and a team of bureaucrats who were specifically tasked by the shah to serve the grand vizier, Hatem Beg orchestrated a sizeable field operation in the environs of Tabriz to process, organize and document thousands of Ottomanized Turks who were now serving the Safavid Iranian shah; considerable documentation and elaborate roll-lists were prepared to enumerate these newly installed Turkish clans and their tribal leaders. These proceedings were then followed by elaborate traditional ceremonies symbolizing the forging of ties of loyalty and fealty.

Conclusion: Celebrating the Impact of Hatem Beg Ordubadi During the spring of 1610, while overseeing a siege operation against the Kurdish-held Dimdim Castle in Orumiya, the ‘Pillar of the State’ died suddenly of a stroke while sleeping. His body was appropriately washed and wrapped in a burial shroud, and immediately sent to Tabriz. Eskandar Beg provides the briefest of obituaries in his chronicle (‘I have already said something about the vizier’s admirable qualities [elsewhere]’), while Fazli Beg notes the scale of the shock and dismay which swept through the empire. ‘On the morning that this news became known, the khans’ perception of the world became dark as they went into mourning and curtains were raised in the court of the shah’, laments the bureaucrat-historian.102 Monajjem Yazdi, of all the Safavid historians, was the most unrestrained in his eulogy. To begin his commemoration of Hatem Beg, Monajjem Yazdi presents a poem which was written by Mowlana Zohur Tabrizi upon hearing the news. Yazdi describes how there had never been a vizier who was so capable of gathering necessary and helpful resources; his ‘prescient nature’ (tab‘i-viqad-ash) was peerless (bi-nazir) with regard to the ‘arts of poetry, specifically ghazal, roba‘i, qasida, as well as history’. He also gives special attention to Hatem Beg’s ability in writing prose and ensha’ in Persian, Arabic and Turkish, and how the monshis had treated his epistolography as a regulatory manual (dastur al-‘amal).103 Lionizing Hatem Beg’s virtue and sense of equity, Yazdi also provides a short overview of his career, describing his service to Bektash Khan Afshar, his elevation to chief accountant and subsequent promotion to grand vizier.104 Shah ‘Abbas, having just visited Tabriz and hearing the news of his vizier’s passing, visited the home of Hatem Beg to pay his respects; a day later, he dispatched robes of honour to his clan, including Mirza Abu Taleb, Mirza ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Monshi and others in the Nasiriya family (aqvam-e Nasiriya).105 On the third day of his visit, the vizierate was formally handed over to Hatem Beg’s son, Mirza Abu Taleb, in Sahebabad square in Tabriz, while Hatem Beg’s personal bejeweled inkpot was handed over to another of his kinsmen, the young Mohammad Taher Beg, who would eventually become a prominent vizier in his own right.106 Mirza Abu Taleb assumed custody of Hatem Beg’s

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corpse and brought it south to the shrine of the two Imamzadas, ‘Eyn ‘Ali and Zeyn ‘Ali, located on Mount Sorkhab near Tabriz. Hatem Beg’s body was prepared for transportation to the shrine of the Eighth Imam in Mashhad, where it would eventually be buried in a mausoleum that Hatem Beg himself had commissioned and financed.107 It was indeed appropriate that this Nasiriya scholar-bureaucrat, who had played such a key role in the orientation and promotion of the Safavids as a Twelver Shi‘i polity, should be interred in the one public space which had become a reification of this emerging dynastic identity.108 In conclusion, the career and impact of Hatem Beg Ordubadi during such a crucial period of the Safavid Empire – 1590 to 1610 – was clearly important and worthy of note. Shah ‘Abbas’s policy of centralization and his ability to extend Safavid dominion beyond the Iranian Plateau was contingent in some degree on Hatem Beg’s success in mediation with newly subsumed individuals and groups, while simultaneously assessing their socio-economic worth through extensive audits and assessments. The bureaucracy under Hatem Beg Ordubadi was tasked with ushering in a new era of centralization, whereby extensive properties, cities and provinces were reclassified as private royal property (khassa), and taxes and revenues reached unsurpassed levels in the 1590s and early 1600s. Concurrent with Hatem Beg’s activities in this regard, the Safavid state was also expanding its gholam programme in the Caucasus. Throughout the early 1600s, tens of thousands of Georgians, Circassians and Armenians were incorporated into the Safavid imperial project as new military leaders, governors, administrators and courtiers. As Sussan Babaie observed: ‘uprooted from their indigenous socio-political networks, the slaves were transplanted into a reconfigured imperial court’, where they were invested through conversion with ‘a new Muslim identity predicated upon Shi‘i loyalty to the Safavid Shah’.109 This ‘gholamification’ of the court and extended gubernatorial network would almost certainly have had an impact on the central Safavid chancery. Monshis and scribes were directed to simplify imperial documentary and epistolary language, probably partly in response to these new non-Persephone elements working in and on behalf of the Safavid state. By the end of Shah ‘Abbas’s reign, eight of the 14 major provincial governorships were held by Caucasian elites.110 Chancery configurations and documentary output may very well have been shifted to reflect these new ethnic and geopolitical realities. Babaie refers to a ‘metamorphosis’ of Caucasian slaves into elite members of the Safavid household, which coincided with an ‘official Shi‘i language of authority’ that created new hierarchies of loyalty. The emergence of this ‘official Shi‘i language of authority’ at this juncture, I would argue, was buttressed in part by the administrative reforms of the Nasiriya Ordubadi administrative network, all under the oversight of the E‘temad al-dowla. The rise of the gholams was, to some extent, also a story of the decline of the

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traditional military power base, namely the Qezelbash. One of Shah ‘Abbas’s key reforms had been the creation of a large, standing army which was made up mainly of these imported gholams from Circassia, Armenia and Georgia. The heterodox, once violently antinomian, Qezelbash tribesmen had created no shortage of problems for the Safavid shahs throughout the sixteenth century; however, Shah ‘Abbas, keen on the twinned policies of centralization and orthodoxy, actively worked to limit and subjugate the Qezelbash as he expanded the roles of and support for the gholams. Hatem Beg’s programme was clearly in lockstep with ‘Abbas in this regard. One of his first initiatives in 1591 as the new grand vizier had been to oversee a rigorous audit of Qezelbash payrolls and allowances. Also, the decentralized nature of Qezelbash culture had historically manifested itself in rampant absenteeism, among many other challenges, and part of this military audit was aimed at levying fines on those Qezelbash who failed to report for duty. In future, Eskandar Beg Monshi notes, ‘anyone failing to answer a mobilization call would be subject to a variety of penalties’.111 With regard to the bigger question of corporate bureaucratic identity and ‘the Idea of Iran’, the landscape appears to be complicated. Older, wellestablished and arguably ecumenical familial networks, whose origins date back to the fifteenth century, continued to operate into the late sixteenth century. However, from the 1570s onwards, the Nasiri Ordubadis emerged as the dominant bureaucratic constituency of Safavid Iran. Their pedigree as descendants of Khvaja Nasir al-Din Tusi elevated their status considerably in the new hierocratic imperial environment which Shah Tahmasp and Shah ‘Abbas had developed from the mid-sixteenth century onwards. Moving into the seventeenth century, the philosophical and intellectual discussions and debates regarding the legal, moral and ethico-political implications of a Shi‘i polity were dominated by personalities, such as Mir Damad, Sheykh Baha’i and others. While Hatem Beg Ordubadi may have played an ancillary role in such conversations, we find better evidence of his contribution and influence in the chancellery and administration. Older paradigms of Perso-Islamic literary and bureaucratic culture, first formed in the Seljuk and Mongol periods, were now being fused with the theological and judicial demands imposed by the Safavid ruling family as custodians of this new Twelver Shi‘i state. It is the contention here that the Nasiriya Ordubadis, like the ‘Amelis of Lebanon or the Mar‘ashis of Mazandaran and elsewhere, were one of the many groups of notables who actively assisted in ‘Abbas’s programme of ongoing Shi‘itization. While some groups played active roles as preachers, religious judges and endowment overseers, Hatem Beg and his kinsmen worked within their own specific administrative milieus to support and buttress ‘Abbas’s goal of centralizing and consolidating his Shi‘i polity. Perhaps it is not surprising to see such centralizing administrative trends in a staunch Shi‘i state with its predilection for ‘caesaro-papism’, notably the idea of an absolute autocrat-sovereign who

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adorns himself in the language of Imami infallibility as well as the trappings of perfect Sufi percipience. At the end of the day, however, Hatem Beg clearly satisfied the classical idea of a Persianate ‘scholar-bureaucrat’ whose pen and inkpot were used to write lines of panegyric verse and columns of financial figures interchangeably. Moreover, he was also remembered as a host and patron of the highest order, promoting and popularizing assemblies of poets, the occasional religious scholar, stylists, courtiers and musicians as Esfahan and other Safavid urbancourtly spaces were being celebrated throughout the Persianate world. It was this array of qualities and skills, combined with his documented impact on the Safavid state and its transformation under ‘Abbas, that should give us cause to reinterpret the role of ‘scholar-bureaucrats’ in Safavid Iran with Hatem Beg Ordubadi in mind.

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Notes: 1.

2. 3. 4.

5. 6.

7. 8.

9.

10.

11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

Berthold Spuler, ‘Iran: The persistent heritage’, pp. 67–82; Anne K.S. Lambton, ‘Quis custodiet custodes (1)’, pp. 125–38; C.E. Bosworth, ‘The heritage of rulership in early Islamic Iran’, pp. 51–62. See also Ahmad Ashraf’s lengthy but excellent treatment, ‘Iranian identity iii. Medieval Islamic period’, pp. 501–4. Richard Eaton, India in the Persianate Age; Emma Flatt, The Courts of the Deccan Sultanates. For a recent exploration of this, see Ferenc Csirkés, ‘A messiah untamed’, pp. 339–95. John Woods, The Aqquyunlu, pp. 139–72; Christopher Markiewicz, The Crisis of Kingship in Late Medieval Islam, pp. 5–6; Daniel Potts, Nomadism in Iran, pp. 220–23; Fariba Zarinebaf, ‘Azerbaijan between two empires’, pp. 303–4. Colin Mitchell, ‘The Safavids’. Cemal Kefadar, Between Two Worlds; Cornell Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire; Abdurrahman Atçil, Scholars and Sultans in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire; Colin Mitchell, The Practice of Politics in Safavid Iran. Said Arjomand, ‘Perso-Islamic political ethic’, pp. 102–5. For relatively recent work on Timurid intellectual history, see Shahzad Bashir, Fazlallah Astarabadi and the Hurufis; Evrim Ilker Binbaş, Intellectual Networks in Timurid Iran; Matthew Melvin-Koushki, The Lettrist Treatises of Ibn Turka; Orkhan Mir-Kasimov, Words of Power; Marc Toutant, Un Empire de mots. Exceptions include Mitchell, The Practice of Politics, passim; Abolala Soudavar, ‘The patronage of the vizier Mirza Salman’, pp. 213–34; Colin Mitchell, ‘Jaberi’, pp. 313–14; Michel Mazzaoui, ‘Najm-e Tani’ (online edition). See also Roger Savory, ‘The principal offices of the Ṣafawid state during the reign of Isma‘īl’, pp. 91–105 and ‘The principal offices of the Ṣafawid state during the reign of Ṭahmāsp’, pp. 65–85. Jo Van Steenbergen, Order out of Chaos; Donald Little, ‘The use of documents for the study of Mamluk history’, pp. 1–14; Rifa‘at Abi Abou-el-Haj, Formation of the Modern State; Metin Kunt, ‘Devolution from the center to the periphery’, pp. 30–48; Farhat Hasan, State and Locality in Mughal India. Fazlur Rahman’s The Philosophy of Mulla Sadra Shirazi dominated the field for many years but recently there has been a surge of Mulla Sadra studies, including Sajjad Rizvi, Mulla Sadra and Metaphysics and idem, Mulla Sadra Shirazi; Sayeh Meisami, Mulla Sadra; and Mohammad Rustom, The Triumph of Mercy. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, vol. II, pp. 948–52. Rudi Matthee, ‘Zar-o zur’, p. 55. Mohammad Hoseyn b. Fazlollāh Hoseyni Tafreshi, Monsha’āt-e Tafreshi. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 949. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., p. 948. Ibid., pp. 917–18. Ibid., p. 914.

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21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 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.

55. 56. 57. 58.

SAFAVID PERSIA IN THE AGE OF EMPIRES Fazli Beg Khuzāni-Esfahāni, Afzal al-tavārikh (A Chronicle of the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas), vol. I, p. 431. Ibid. ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Tusi, Monsha’āt al-Tusi, ff. 8v–9r. Colin Mitchell, ‘Reconsidering state and constituency’, p. 213. Ibid. Qāzi Ahmad al-Qommi, Kholāsat al-tavārikh, vol. II, p. 931. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 431. Mitchell, ‘Reconsidering state and constituency,’ p. 213. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 917. Qāzi Ahmad, Kholāsat al-tavārikh, vol. II, p. 676. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 917. Ibid., p. 915. Rudi Matthee, ‘Loyalty, betrayal, and retribution’, pp. 190–91. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 86. Qāzi Ahmad, Kholāsat al-tavārikh, vol. II, p. 1078. Jalāl al-Din Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 75. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 88. Ibid. Ibid., p. 95. Qāzi Ahmad, Kholāsat al-tavārikh, vol. II, p. 1082. David Blow, Shah ‘Abbas, p. 42. Quoted in Blow, Shah ‘Abbas, p. 42. Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 107. Ibid. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 95. Devin Stewart, ‘The lost biography of Baha’ al-Din al-‘Amili’, p. 191; Qāzi Ahmad, Kholāsat al-tavārikh, vol. II, p. 1086–88. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 95. Ibid., p. 167. Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 118. Klaus-Michael Röhrborn, Provinzen und Zentralgewalt Persiens, p. 57. Mitchell, The Practice of Politics, p. 180, Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 633. The seminal work on such topics is still Jean Aubin’s ‘Études Safavides. I’, pp. 37–81. Charles Melville, ‘New light on the reign of Shah ‘Abbās’, p. 86. Mohammad Hoseyn Tafreshi, a scholar active during the reign of Shah ‘Abbas and the early reign of Shah Safi, wrote a letter in which he extended condolences to ‘Abd al-Hoseyn al-Nasir after the death of ‘Mir Nasir’, and this appears to have taken place at some point between 1629 and 1632; Tafreshi, Monsha’āt-e Tafreshi, p. 28. A.H. Morton, ‘An introductory note on a Ṣafawid munshī’s manual’, p. 357. Mitchell, ‘Reconsidering state and constituency’, p. 215. Mohammad b. Hendushāh Nakhjavāni, Dastur al-kāteb fi ta‘yin al-marāteb, vol. II, p. 121. Vladimir Minorsky, ed. and trans., Tadhkirat al-Mulūk, pp. 158, 154.

MAN OF THE PEN, PILLAR OF THE STATE 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96.

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Ibid., p. 61. Christoph Marcinkowski, ed. and trans., Mirza Rafi‘a’s Dastur alMuluk, p. 213. Minorsky, Tadhkirat al-Mulūk, p. 53. Mitchell, The Practice of Politics, p. 181. Ibid., pp. 185–87. Ibid., p. 182. Lajos Fekete, ‘II. Einleitung’, Einführung in die persische Paläographie, pp. 28– 32. Heribert Busse, ‘Diplomatic: III. Persia’, p. 311. See also his ‘Persische Diplomatik im Überblick: Ergebnisse und Probleme’, pp. 202–45. Bert Fragner, ‘Tradition, Legitimität und Abgrenzung’, pp. 84–113. See also his excellent entry on decrees entitled ‘Farmān’ in Encyclopedia Iranica. See H.L. Rabino di Borgomale, Coins, Medals, and Seals of the Shahs of Iran. Klaus-Michael Röhrborn, ‘Staatskanzlei und Absolutismus im safawidischen Persien’, p. 322. ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Tusi, Monsha’āt al-Tusi, ff. 300r–301v. Morton, ‘An introductory note’, p. 357. For more, see Charles Melville, ‘Shah ‘Abbas and the pilgrimage to Mashhad’, pp. 191–230. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, pp. 760–61. Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 340. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 670. Aziz al-Azmeh, Muslim Kingship, p. 193. Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 103. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, pp. 675–77; Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, pp. 128–29. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, pp. 699–701; Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 129. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, pp. 759, 795. Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 273. Ibid., p. 348. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 482. Ibid., p. 483. Ibid. Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 348. Ibid., p. 967; Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 348. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 970; Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 485. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 486. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 970. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 487. Ibid. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 971. Ibid., pp. 971–72. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 489. Ibid., p. 490. Ibid.

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97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108.

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Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 351. Ibid. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 491. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 973. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 492. Ibid., vol. I, p. 534. Monajjem Yazdi, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi, p. 382. Ibid. Fazli Beg Khuzāni, Afzal al-tavārikh, vol. I, p. 537. Ibid. Ibid. See Colin Mitchell, ‘Two tales of one city’, p. 218, and May Farhat, ‘Shi‘i piety and dynastic legitimacy’, p. 212. 109. Sussan Babaie et al., Slaves of the Shah, p. 7. 110. Ilhan Niaz, Old World Empires, p. 121. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 628. 111. Ibid.

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Bibliography: Abou-el-Haj, Rifa‘at Abi, Formation of the Modern State: The Ottoman Empire, Sixteenth to Eighteen Centuries (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2006). Arjomand, Said, ‘Perso-Islamic political ethic in relation to the sources of Islamic law’, in Mirror for the Muslim Prince: Islam and the Theory of Statecraft, ed. Mehrzad Boroujerdi (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2013), pp. 82–106. Ashraf, Ahmad, ‘Iranian identity iii. Medieval Islamic period’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. XIII, fasc. 5 (2006), pp. 507–22. Atçil, Abdurrahman, Scholars and Sultans in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). Aubin, Jean, ‘Études Safavides. I. Shah Isma‘il et les notables de l’Iraq persan’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 2 (1959), pp. 37– 81). al-Azmeh, Aziz, Muslim Kingship: Power and the Sacred in Muslim, Christian and Pagan Polities (London: I.B. Tauris, 2001). Babaie, Sussan, Kathryn Babayan, Ina Baghdiantz-McCabe and Massumeh Farhad, Slaves of the Shah: New Elites of Safavid Iran (London: I.B. Tauris, 2004). Bashir, Shahzad, Fazlallah Astarabadi and the Hurufis (London: Oneworld, 2005). Binbaş, Evrim Ilker, Intellectual Networks in Timurid Iran: Sharaf al-Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī and the Islamicate Republic of Letters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). Blow, David, Shah ‘Abbas. The Ruthless King who became an Iranian Legend (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009). Bosworth, C.E., ‘The heritage of rulership in Early Islamic Iran and the search for dynastic connections with the past’, Iran 11 (1973), pp. 51–62. Busse, Heribert, ‘Persische Diplomatik im Überblick: Ergebnisse und Probleme’, Der Islam 37 (1961), pp. 202–45. — ‘Diplomatic: III. Persia’, Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd edition, vol. II, pp. 301–7. Csirkés, Ferenc, ‘A messiah untamed: Notes on the philology of Shah Isma‘il’s Divan’, Iranian Studies 52 (2019), pp. 339–95. Eaton, Richard M., India in the Persianate Age: 1000–1765 (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2019). Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, trans. Roger M. Savory, 2 vols (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1978). Farhat, May, ‘Shi‘i piety and dynastic legitimacy: Mashhad under the early Safavid Shahs’, Iranian Studies 47 (2014), pp. 82–113.

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Fekete, Lajos, ed., Einführung in die persische Paläographie: 101 persische Dokumente (Budapest: Akadémiaikiado, 1971). Flatt, Emma, The Courts of the Deccan Sultanates: Living Well in the Persian Cosmopolis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019). Fleischer, Cornell, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire: The Historian Mustafa Ali (1541–1600) (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986). Fragner, Bert, ‘Tradition, Legitimität und Abgrenzung: formale Symbolaussagen persischsprachiger Herrscherurkunden’, in Akten des Melzer-Symposiums 1991. Veranstaltet aus Anlaß der Hundertjahrfeier indo-iranistischer Forschung in Graz (13.–14. November 1991), ed. Walter Slaje und Christian Zinko (Graz: Leykam, 1993), pp. 84–113. — ‘Farmān’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, online edition (2016), at http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/farman [accessed 7 June 2016]. Hasan, Farhat, State and Locality in Mughal India: Power Relations in Western India, c. 1572–1730 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). Kefadar, Cemal, Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996). Khuzāni-Esfahāni, Fazli Beg, Afzal al-tavārikh, ed. Kioumars Ghereghlou as A Chronicle of the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas by Fazli Beg Khuzani Isfahani, 2 vols (Gibb Memorial Trust, 2015). Kunt, Metin, ‘Devolution from the center to the periphery: An overview of Ottoman provincial administration’, in The Dynastic Center and the Provinces: Agents and Interactions, ed. J. Duindam and S. Dabringhaus (Leiden: Brill, 2014), pp. 30–48. Lambton, Anne K.S., ‘Quis custodiet custodes: Some reflections on the Persian theory of government (1)’, Studia Islamica 5 (1956), pp. 125–38. Little, Donald, ‘The use of documents for the study of Mamluk history’, Mamluk Studies Review 1 (1997), pp. 1–14. Marcinkowski, Christoph, ed. and trans., Mirzā Rafi‘ā’s Dastur al-Muluk: A Manual of later Safavid Administration (Kuala Lumpur: ISTAC, 2002). Markiewicz, Christopher, The Crisis of Kingship in Late Medieval Islam: Persian Emigres and the Making of Ottoman Sovereignty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019). Matthee, Rudi, ‘Loyalty, betrayal, and retribution: Biktash Khan, Ya‘qub Khan, and Shah ‘Abbas I’s Strategy in Establishing Control over Kirman, Yazd, and Fars’, in Ferdowsi, the Mongols, and the History of Iran: Art, Literature, and Culture from Early Islam to Qajar Persia. Studies in Honour of Charles Melville, ed. Robert Hillenbrand, A.C.S. Peacock and Firuza Abdullaeva (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013), pp. 184–200. — ‘Zar-o zur: Gold and force: Safavid Iran as a tributary empire’, in Comparing Modern Empires: Imperial Rule and Decolonization in the

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Changing World Order, ed. Uyama Tomohiko (Sapporo: Slavic-Eurasian Research Center, 2018), pp. 35–64. Mazzaoui, Michel, ‘Najm-e Tāni’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, online edition (2002), at http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/najm-e-ani [accessed 4 June 2020]. Meisami, Sayeh, Mulla Sadra (London: Oneworld, 2013). Melville, Charles, ‘Shah ‘Abbas and the pilgrimage to Mashhad’, in Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society, ed. Charles Melville (London: I.B. Tauris, 1996), pp. 191–230. — ‘New light on the reign of Shah ‘Abbās: Volume III of the Afżal altavārīkh’, in Society and Culture in the Early Modern Middle East: Studies on Iran in the Safavid Period, ed. Andrew J. Newman (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 63–96. Melvin-Koushki, Matthew, The Lettrist Treatises of Ibn Turka: Reading and Writing the Cosmos of the Timurid Renaissance (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). Minorsky, Vladimir, ed. and trans., Tadhkirat al-Mulūk. A Manual of Ṣafavid Administration, circa 1137/1725 (London: Luzac & Co., 1943). Mir-Kasimov, Orkhan, Words of Power: Hurufi Teachings Between Shi‘ism and Sufism in Medieval Iran (London: The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2015). Mitchell, Colin, ‘Jaberi’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. XIV (2007), pp. 313–14. — The Practice of Politics in Safavid Iran: Power, Religion and Rhetoric (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009). — ‘Reconsidering state and constituency in seventeenth-century Safavid Iran: The wax and wane of the Monshi’, in Secretaries and Statecraft in the Early Modern World, ed. Paul Dover (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2016), pp. 206–34. — ‘Two tales of one city: Herat under the early modern empires of the Timurids and Safavids’, in Layered Landscapes: Early Modern Religious Space Across Faiths and Cultures, ed. Eric Nelson and Jonathan Wright (London: Routledge, 2017), pp. 207–22. — ‘The Safavids’, Oxford Research Encyclopedia, Religion, online edition (2019), at https://oxfordre.com/religion/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199340 378.001.0001/acrefore-9780199340378-e-645?rskey=173mSs&result=1 [accessed 4 June 2020]. Morton, A.H., ‘An introductory note on a Ṣafawid munshī’s manual in the library of the School of Oriental and African Studies’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 33 (1970), pp. 352–58. Nakhjavāni, Mohammad b. Hendushāh, Dastur al-kāteb fi ta‘yin al-marāteb, ed. A.A. Ali-zade, 3 vols (Moscow: Nauka, 1964–76). Niaz, Ilhan, Old World Empires: Cultures of Power and Governance in Eurasia (New York: Routledge, 2014).

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Potts, Daniel, Nomadism in Iran: From Antiquity to the Modern Era (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). al-Qommi, Qāzi Ahmad, Kholāsat al-tavārikh, ed. Ehsān Eshrāqi, 2 vols (Tehran: Dāneshgāh-e Tehrān, 1359/1980). Rabino di Borgomale, H.L., Coins, Medals, and Seals of the Shahs of Iran, 1500–1941 (Hertford, UK: S. Austin and Sons, 1945). Rahman, Fazlur, The Philosophy of Mulla Sadra Shirazi (Albany: SUNY Press, 1976). Rizvi, Sajjad, Mulla Sadra Shirazi: His Life and Works and the Sources for Safavid Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007). — Mulla Sadra and Metaphysics: Modulation of Being (London: Routledge, 2009). Röhrborn, Klaus-Michael, Provinzen und Zentralgewalt Persiens im 16. Und 17. Jahrhundert (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter & Co., 1966). — ‘Staatskanzlei und Absolutismus im safawidischen Persien’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen morgenlandischer Gesellschaft 127 (1977), pp. 313–43. Rustom, Muhammad, The Triumph of Mercy: Philosophy and Scripture in Mulla Sadra (Albany: SUNY Press, 2012). Savory, Roger M., ‘The principal offices of the Ṣafawid state during the reign of Isma‘īl I (907–30/1501-24)’, BSOAS 23 (1960), pp. 91–105. — ‘The principal offices of the Ṣafawid state during the reign of Ṭahmāsp I (930–84/1524–76)’, BSOAS 24 (1961), pp. 65–85. Soudavar, Abolala, ‘The patronage of the vizier Mirza Salman’, Muqarnas 30 (2013), pp. 213–34. Spuler, Bertold, ‘Iran: The persistent heritage’, in Unity and Variety in Muslim Civilization, ed. G.E. von Grunebaum (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1955), pp. 67–82. Stewart, Devin, ‘The lost biography of Baha’ al-Din al-‘Amili and the reign of Shah Isma‘il II in Safavid historiography’, Iranian Studies 31 (1998), pp. 177–205. Tafreshi, Mohammad Hoseyn b. Fazlollāh Hoseyni, Monsha’āt-e Tafreshi: Majmu‘a-ye az nāma-hā-ye ekhvāni va divāni-ye dowrān-e Safaviya, ed. Mohsen Bahrām-nejād (Tehran: Majles-e shurā-ye eslāmi, 1390/2011). Toutant, Marc, Un Empire de mots: Pouvoir, culture et soufisme à l’époque des derniers Timourides au miroir de la Khamsa de Mir Ali Shir Nawa’i (Paris: Peeters Ltd, 2016). Tusi, ‘Abd al-Hoseyn, Monsha’āt al-Tusi, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, ms. Supplément persan 1888. Van Steenbergen, Jo, Order out of Chaos: Patronage, Conflict and Mamluk Socio-Political Culture, 1341–1382 (Leiden: Brill, 2006). Woods, John, The Aqquyunlu: Clan, Confederation, Empire (Revised and Expanded Edition) (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1999).

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Yazdi, Jalāl al-Din Monajjem, Tārikh-e ‘Abbāsi yā ruznāma-ye Mullā Jalāl, ed. Seyfollāh Vahidneyā (Tehran: Vahid, 1987). Zarinebaf, Fariba, ‘Azerbaijan between two empires: A contested borderland in the early modern period (sixteenth‒eighteenth centuries)’, Iranian Studies 52 (2019), pp. 299–337.

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4 The Idea of Iran in the Safavid Period: Dynastic Pre-eminence and Urban Pride Rudi Matthee (University of Delaware) The epitome of the world is Iran, the epitome of Iran is Isfahan, and the epitome of Isfahan is the Qeysariya [Bazaar], which is where I live. Unknown person, late seventeenth century1

Introduction

I

dentity is a notoriously elusive concept. We all tell ourselves stories, to justify our existence, to rationalize our behaviour and to embellish our past in order to look better in the present and project an even more glorious image of ourselves for the future. Nations do the same, except that they perform on a much larger stage than any of us. Yet, in neither case does the coherent ‘self’ appear to exist just to be discovered. As the eighteenth-century Scottish philosopher David Hume said in a much-quoted passage in The Treatise on Human Nature: For my part, when I enter most intimately into what I call myself, I always stumble on some particular perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. I never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe any thing but the perception.2 In the absence of a coherent, stable self, ‘construction’ has been the operative term for quite some time now in relation to identity, of individuals as well as nations. Ever since Benedict Anderson’s celebrated study, Imagined Communities, was published in 1983, we have been talking about imagined communities. Yet scholars have subsequently reminded us that communities are not simply imagined, let alone constructed out of thin air. Most notably, they have sought to correct what they suggest has been an overemphasis on the modern ‘inventedness’ of nations from ‘above’. Anthony Smith and other socalled ‘ethnosymbolists’ more specifically have provided a corrective to the notion, most often propagated in leftist circles, that everything pertaining to collective identities is just imagined, by cautioning that there is a primordial ethnic element in most forms of nationalism.3 The French sociologist Nathalie

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Heinrich, for instance, rejects ‘essentialism’ when it comes to identity, yet argues that accepting national identity as constructed should not tempt us to consider it a mere illusion.4 With Smith, most scholars of nationalism now accept that the construction of nations is largely a top-down process in which symbols and their manipulation play an important role. Yet they have also come to recognize collective identity formation as an interactive process, meaning that if we want to understand why national cultures are often so deeply and widely felt and can persist across generations, we have to factor in the weight of the past as perceived and felt by the masses. And a shared culture, or at least the perception of a shared culture, is generally acknowledged as a necessary ingredient of a common identity. Smith has used the term ‘sacred ideology’ for this type of national feeling.5

The Safavids and Identity: The Legacy of Iran-zamin All of the above is true for Iran, as it is for any other nation. The question is how the Iranians got there, how they acquired their ‘sacred ideology’? In what follows I will develop some ideas about the nature of this process during the reign of the Safavid dynasty, the period from the beginning of the sixteenth century, when they formed a state, to the early eighteenth century, when their capital, Esfahan, fell to a band of Afghan insurgents, causing ‘Iran’, the state overseen by the Safavids, to fragment and parts of the Iranian plateau to descend into chaos. The mythology into which history over time inevitably dissolves, to emerge as nationalism in modern times, tends to have the notion of an unbroken cultural lineage at its core. Scholarly objections to this kind of primordialism are no match for popular imagery. The concept of Eternal Iran, Iran-e javidan, is a good example of such a conceit. Modern Iranians look at their country as a natural, autochthonous entity, a realm extending from ‘their’ ‘sea to shining sea’, from the Caspian Sea to the Persian Gulf, endowed with a glorious history that stretches from the Achaemenids to the Islamic Republic – or, as the secular-minded might see it, to the end of the reign of the Pahlavi dynasty (1925–79). Any ‘interruptions’ in this trajectory occurred in the form of irruptions, invasions by foreign forces keen to rob Iran of its wealth and bent on destroying its primordial identity – from Alexander and the Arabs to the Mongols and, more recently, Western imperialists, beginning with the Portuguese in the sixteenth century and ending with the British and the Americans in modern times. Yet the country has overcome each and every one of the many indignities it has suffered as a result, rising Phoenix-like, defeating and absorbing the invaders. This image of redemption through defeat goes to the heart of modern Iranian identity – as it does to that of many countries weighed down by a past of foreign conquest and domination.

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The Safavids are generally accorded a special role in this ‘national’ narrative, as the dynasty that unified Iran and revived its glory – as embodied in the magnificent urban layout of Esfahan created by Shah ‘Abbas I – as the rulers who lent the country its particularism by adopting Twelver-Shi‘ism as their faith and as the last sovereigns to stand up for Iran by proudly resisting the onslaught of foreigners, the Ottomans as much as European proto-imperialists, such as the Portuguese, the English and the Dutch. This is a soothing story, one ready-made for nationalist pride, all the more so since Iran, with Egypt and China, counts not just as a country but as one of the world’s great civilizations. In its current attempt to ‘retrieve’ its ‘glorious’ imperial past, viewing the modern country as a natural descendant and inheritor of ancient Iran does indeed bear more than a passing resemblance to the stance adopted by other ‘civilizations’, especially China, except that in the Iranian case the attempt is led more by the ‘people’ than by the current government, which remains ambivalent about fully integrating the pre-Islamic past into the national narrative. As in China, and irrespective of the current government’s stance on the issue, there was both a space and a time where modern Iran is now located, an Iran-before Iran, so to speak. All the rest is invention, reinvention and anachronistic projection into the past: a modern vision of ‘history’ that serves the present. As in China, there never was a culturally or linguistically homogenous state within the territory that we associate with Iran.6 That whole construct, the vocabulary, the imaginary, is the product of a process that began in the late nineteenth century and that, in its current preoccupation with pre-Islamic Iran, directly results from a widespread aversion to the Islamic Republic combined with near-universal access to the global Internet and social media. There are differences between Iran and China, however, one being the fact that, unlike the term ‘China’, which is of European origin, having been introduced in the sixteenth century, the name ‘Iran’ originated in Iran, among Iranians. There is indeed quite a bit of evidence for Iran, or at least the idea of Iran, as part of a continuing saga. As Gherardo Gnoli has shown, the middlePersian term Iranshahr was introduced by the Sasanians, mostly for propagandistic purposes.7 It remains unclear, however, to what extent this term denoted an exclusionary identity. Modern scholarship has grappled with this issue in different ways. In her Nativist Prophets of Early Islamic Iran, Patricia Crone, for instance, talks about ‘nativist prophets’, who had submitted to the new regime established by the Arabs yet were not recognized by the new ruling elite, and thus recurrently rebelled, reasserting their native identity.8 Throughout her book, Crone uses the term nativism, carefully avoiding any reference to Iranian identity, let alone Iranian (proto) nationalism. But it is difficult not to be reminded of a certain self-conscious particularism in the way she describes the self-awareness that comes through in the sources.9

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In an earlier iteration of the Idea of Iran series, Hugh Kennedy and C.E. Bosworth are more explicit in the way they treat the transmission of Iraniyat through the early Islamic centuries and beyond, leading to what Bosworth calls a ‘symbiosis of two cultural traditions’.10 They point to deep-rooted administrative and fiscal theories and practices combined with age-old motifs, such as the cycle of justice, that survived the seventh-century invasion because these served as a template for the administratively challenged Arabs. Kennedy also identifies a strong hereditary element in the notion of power among the dehqans, the Zoroastrian landed elite of Iraq, who survived the arrival of the Arabs and the imposition of their rule. Most importantly, he draws attention to the development of the New Persian language, relatively easy to master, fluid, capacious, which emerged as a vehicle for the expression of culture.11 As is well known, the terms ‘Iranshahr’ and ‘Iran-zamin’ disappeared from the sources for at least half a millennium following the Arab invasion, to be revived by the Mongols who famously united the two halves of classical Iran, the lands located to the west of the central deserts and the region of greater Khorasan as it existed under the Sasanians.12 The Mongols may be said to have created a space for Iran as a separate realm – separate from the Arab caliphate, that is – just as they created a space for the development of Shi‘ism by luminaries such as Nasir al-Din Tusi and ‘Allama al-Helli. They did not explicitly connect this territory to the splendours of the Iranian past, much less those of the pre-Islamic past.13 Yet, once established in Iran-zamin, the Mongols did engage in extensive patronage of Iran’s patrimony, with the Shahnama as its cynosure. The development of the New Persian language as the dominant cultural tongue in this vast territory assisted in this process.14 Charles Melville calls the creation of Iran, in the sense of projecting a space, one of the features of Mongol historiography.15 In some ways, all these factors coalesced in the Safavid period, which, in the popular imagination, hoarded and harnessed the cultural capital that had accumulated over the centuries, preserving it as something strong enough to withstand the chaos of the eighteenth century subsequent to the fall of the Safavids and the onslaught of an alien culture that followed the confrontation with the Russians in the early nineteenth century.

Safavid Self-identification: Faith and Dynasty Major obstacles stand in the way of unearthing the self-view that resulted from these factors. In light of a relative paucity of surviving sources other than propagandistic ones, including scarce ego-documents and rare geographical works from the period, we can do no more than assemble a proximate picture of the Safavid self-identification. And whatever we unearth is inherently retrodictive, perceived from a modern vantage point by us moderns, whether Iranian or non-Iranian, who are preoccupied with identity as identification with a collective in ways that the Safavids manifestly were not. It tells us little about

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the way the Safavids – or more precisely, the Persophone urban elite in the Safavid period – perceived themselves and articulated their self-view. To be sure, the Safavids harked back to earlier times, partly referring to historical antecedents, partly invoking a mythical past. Safavid shahs consciously saw themselves as heirs to the Turko-Mongol tradition and, in particular, fashioned themselves in the tradition of the fourteenth-century warlord Timur Lang. Shah Tahmasp (r. 1524–76) in his autobiography insists that he was in the habit of reading the Tarikh-e Teymur.16 Especially in later times, when the dynasty had given up being a warrior clan, this romantic past was revived and presented with special vigour.17 As for a mythical past preceding the Turkic legacy, the first political ruler of the dynasty, Shah Esma‘il I (r. 1501–24), in his poetry tellingly likens himself to pre-Islamic kings and heroes, such as Zahhak, Fereydun and Jamshid, and gives his children traditional Persian names, such as Sam Mirza and Rostam Mirza.18 Similarly, the khotba, sermon, pronounced on the occasion of the accession of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn in 1694 by no less a figure than the sheykh aleslam of Esfahan, the well-known Mohammad Baqer Majlesi, contains references to pre-Islamic figures, such as Jamshid and Kay Qobad.19 Similar references appear in the Tohfat al-‘alam, a paean to the same shah written a decade or so after his enthronement. In this, the Safavids followed a long series of Iran-based dynasties that may have had only a foggy idea about the distant past but were sufficiently cognizant of it to wish to associate themselves with it. Yet that does not mean that the Safavids were engaged in a systematic and comprehensive mining of the past with the intention of ‘retrieving’ an authentic identity. If Safavid rulers and the Persophone urban elites who supported them had an identity that they articulated self-consciously, it was religiously based. They saw themselves as the inheritors of the legacy of the Shi‘i imams and sought to connect themselves to this legacy by forging a (fictitious) genealogy linking the last Sasanian monarch, Yazdegerd III, to the Shi‘i Third Imam, Hoseyn, by way of a presumed marriage with the king’s daughter, Shahrbanu. Safavid history, as it comes down to us through the court chronicles, is therefore salvific, intimately connected to the cosmological order and its eschatology. If we are to believe the Roman nobleman-traveller Pietro Della Valle, who resided in Iran for several years during at the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I, people in Safavid Iran referred to an individual’s identity by asking about his ta’efa, his clan or, in early modern European parlance, his nation.20 Inasmuch as the clan had become the dynasty, it should come as no surprise that Safavid collective identity, seen through the lens of the court chronicles, is above all dynastic. The two – faith and family – are connected: the faith buttressed the dynasty by providing it with legitimacy and the dynasty protected and bolstered the faith, especially against the Sunni foes surrounding the Safavid realm.

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Of course, a religiously grounded identity did not preclude a ‘secular’ sense of self – of the Safavid rulers as the masters of an empire with worldly concerns, in opposition to other, rival empires, near and far. Inasmuch as defining our identity always involves knowing who we are not and, often, who we are against, outsiders inevitably played a role.21 In keeping with premodern custom, Safavid identity was, in some ways, capacious. The Safavids were probably Kurds and Shah Esma‘il was of Greek Pontic stock and spoke a form of Azerbaijani Turkish. Dick Davis, in his discussion of the earliest strata of the Shahnama, argues convincingly that a unitary, ethnically ‘pure identity was not part of Iran’s early, multi-ethnic and imperial consciousness and emerged only in Sasanian times’.22 Yet they did distinguish themselves from those around them, using criteria that seem to be mainly based on the perceived level of civilization. The outsiders, the Barbarians, were drawn from a wide circle that actually included as many relative insiders, Muslim peoples, such as the Arabs, the Turks and the Kurds, as real outsiders. All of them come across in the Persian-language sources as primitive, fickle and untrustworthy. Beyond those were the truly unwashed hordes, the Turkmen, the Lezghis, the Qepchaqs and the Ozbeks. The Russians, the ‘Ozbeks of Europe’ as the Iranians apparently called them, were included in that category, too.23 Western Europeans also figured in the Safavid worldview, although rarely in the Persian-language sources and almost never explicitly. Indeed, the Safavids seem to have attributed clear features to various European nations, yet did not see the need to position themselves in relation to the West, which only in modern times became the touchstone for a collective sense of self, both spectre and ideal, at once invasive and seductive, the object of suspicion as well as admiration, and in all cases irresistible. None of this push and pull existed in the Safavid period. Until long after the fall of the Safavids, one looks in vain for any refences to Farang (Europe) as a competitor, a threat or a mirror in the Persian-language sources coming out of Iran.24 Indeed, other than in the Europeanizing painterly genre known as farangi-sazi, and an odd remark about the presumedly superior workmanship of Europeans, Europe figures nowhere in the Safavid sources other than in an occasional fleeting reference to a Portuguese diplomat keen to pay homage to the shah.25 Most of what we know or think we know about the Safavid attitude vis-à-vis Europeans comes from secondary sources, usually European ones. Legitimacy and loyalty in the chronicles centre on the shah and his entourage, more than on the divine order within which he operates, and far more than on the land. And, since legitimacy depended, first and foremost, on loyalty, loyalty was the supreme, and really the sole, criterion for belonging.26 This seems natural in conditions where administering a refractory, extremely diverse territory with inherently fluid and fungible boundaries meant staying on top of a complex, perpetually competitive struggle with the other stakeholders in the enterprise, mainly the chieftains of tribal clans and confederations.

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Even Iran’s clerical class followed this line of thinking and argumentation. Their writings couch the Safavid enterprise in religious terms, as the embodiment and fulfilment of the divine order, but they invariably see the shah and the dynasty that he heads and embodies as the necessary, indispensable pillar of the divine order and as the protector of that order.27

Iran-Zamin: Iran as Territory What about the land, Iran, as territory? Of course, territory was important, if only as a source of taxable wealth – landed property to be parcelled out though prebends, toyuls. Safavid historiography continued and amplified on this feature. Indeed, Iran as territory is embedded in Safavid history-writing, even if it is not always explicated. This invites us to consider the term ‘Iran’. The first thing that strikes one is that ‘Iran’ does not function as an organizing principle or an overarching rubric in any narrative text. One does already encounter the term ‘Iran’ in the early Safavid sources. It takes over from classical terms, such as ‘Eraq-e ‘Ajam for western Iran, but it does not occur frequently in the court chronicles. Indeed, it is striking how seldom these texts invoke Iran as an overarching concept. The fourth and final volume of Khvandamir’s Tarikh-e Habib al-seyar, an important chronicle that serves as connective tissue between the pre-Safavid and the Safavid historiographical traditions, is a case in point. In its 700 pages, the term Iran occurs seven times, once every 100 pages, twice in conjunction with Turan, Iran va Turan, padshah-e Iran va Turan, once independently, Iran, once as mamalek-e Iran and once as mamlakat-e Khorasan va sayer-e mamalek-e Iran.28 A similar picture emerges from other sixteenth-century chronicles, such as the Ahsan al-tavarikh and the Kholasat al-tavarikh. In the former, the name ‘Iran’ appears all of three times, and it occurs randomly, respectively as velayat-e Iran, belad-e Iran and saltanat-e Iran.29 In the latter, Iran appears far more frequently, 24 times in the course of 924 pages, to be precise, mostly in the form of mamalek-e mahrusa, mamalek-e Iran or molk-e Iran.30 As reflected in the contemporary chronicles, the notion of Iran as an integrated realm, having overcome its internal foes as well as its external enemies, becomes firmly established with Shah ‘Abbas I (r. 1587–1629). Yet the term itself still does not necessarily occur with any great frequency in the contemporary written sources. The two most important narrative accounts from his reign, the Tarikh-e ‘alam-ara-ye ‘Abbasi and the Afzal al-tavarikh, are rather divergent in this regard. In keeping with the early chronicles, the term ‘Iran’ occurs only sporadically in the former. When it does, it typically appears in conjunction with the Ottoman Empire and its aggressive stance vis-à-vis the Safavid state. In particular, the various attacks on Iran by Sultan Süleyman (r. 1520–66) under Shah Tahmasp, beginning with the so-called War of the Two Iraqs of 1534–35 and the damage done to the country as a result, are articulated

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in clear geographical terms.31 In one instance, describing the Ottoman assault on Tabriz, Eskandar Beg Monshi connects the geography to the dynasty by referring to the steadfastness of the city’s inhabitants, who were ‘devoted to the Safavid house and performed valiant deeds on behalf of the Safavid dynasty’.32 The idea of the realm, a land both vigorous and resilient, comes out forcefully in the letter that Shah Tahmasp wrote to Sultan Süleyman in 1554, on the occasion of yet another confrontation with the Ottomans. The message is polemically Shi‘i, expressing a feverish confessionalism in its rebuke of the Ottoman ruler as wicked and evil, a traitor to Islam, a high priest of idolatry. And its author presents himself as the representative of the true faith, casting aspersions on the Ottoman soldiers as mostly hailing from Christian territory. Yet territory is not neglected. Tahmasp refers to ‘paradisiacal Iran’, Iran-e behesht-neshan. At one point he expresses his idea of Iran thus: ‘The perpetually accruing stability of this nation (dowlat) is solid and sturdy (paydar) as the Alborz Mountains, and its lofty foundations shall remain in place until eternity’.33 The Afzal al-tavarikh is in some ways similar to the Tarikh-e ‘alam-ara-ye ‘Abbasi. Fazli Beg Khuzani-Esfahani finished his multi-volume work under Shah Safi (r. 1629–42), having worked on it for at least two decades. He starts his narrative with the reign of Shah Esma‘il, the topic of the work’s first (and thus far unpublished) volume. The second instalment, tome one of volume two, which deals with Shah Tahmasp, contains no more than 15 references to ‘Iran’.34 Most are unremarkable. Some, hinting at a sense of cohesion, refer to ‘all of Iran, ‘koll-e Iran’, ‘He [the Mughal sultan Homayun] came to Iran from the Garmsirat and Sistan’, az garmsirat va Sistan beh Iran amad, and ‘Iran and the Iranians’, Iran va Iraniyan.35 Volume three, which covers the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I, portrays this cohesion much more forcefully. Here, the term Iran occurs some 250 times, or approximately every four pages.36 Many of the references in this volume, too, conform to an established pattern, juxtaposing Iran and adjacent states, the Ottoman Empire, Mughal India and ‘Turan’, the Ozbek state, or with padshah-e Iran and velayat-e Iran. Yet terms like mohemmat-e Iran, Iran’s concerns or affairs of state, molk-e tamami-ye Iran, the entire realm of Iran, az atraf va javaneb-e Iran, from [all] regions and corners of Iran – in reference to gifts being brought to the shah after his Iraqi conquests in the early 1620s – and especially the notion of an Iranian army, sepah-e Iran, and Iranian soldiers, ‘asaker-e Iran, led by an Iranian commander, sepahsalar-e Iran, raise the concept to a new level of integrity, cohesion and protectedness.37 Together with the frequent use of the term mamalek-e mahrusa, the protected realm, Iran thus gains unprecedented prominence in Fazli Beg’s work. In sum, no other chronicle, early or late, matches the section on Shah ‘Abbas I of the Afzal al-tavarikh in terms of the pride of place that it gives to Iran and in the relative precision and clarity that the concept receives.

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Fazli Beg’s account of the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I remains the exception, however. The dramatic increase in the number of references to ‘Iran’ is not sustained in subsequent chronicles. The portion of the Khold-e barin that deals with the period of Shah Safi and Shah ‘Abbas II, 1629–66, for example, mentions ‘Iran’ no more than 25 times. Most instances are of the generic variant, e.g. mamlekat-e Iran, with a few references to the army, sepah, of Iran, and the commander-in-chief, sepahsalar, of Iran. One refers to the ‘extensive realm of Iran’, molk-e vasi‘ al-faza-ye Iran.38 The Dastur-e shahreyaran, a rare late seventeenth-century chronicle, is no different. It mentions Iran 15 times, four times as mamalek-e fasih al-masalek-e Iran.39 It, too, mentions the soldiers of Iran, ‘asaker-e Iran.40 In sum, with one exception, all of the chronicles consulted for this study show similarities in their use of Iran as territory. In each of them, the term ‘Iran’ as an overarching concept remains subdued, implicit rather than boldly present in introductory chapters, chapter headings and throughout the text. Somehow, the notion of an integrated territorial unit with clearly delineated constitutive regions is absent. At no point, for instance, do the sources articulate Shah ‘Abbas I’s military forays into the Persian Gulf region, leading to the incorporation of Lar, Bahrain and Bandar ‘Abbas, as the fulfilment of an ancient Iranian dream of territorial restoration, as a natural extension of the Iranian realm to the shores of the Persian Gulf. The same is true with regard to the incorporation of the Caspian regions by the same ruler. Indeed, as is true of many other ‘marginal’ peoples – the Kurds, the Baluchis – the people of Gilan on the Caspian littoral tend to be portrayed as distinctly different, as hardheaded, rebellious, devoid of intellect and phlegmatic.41 The various late Safavid Persian-language sources at our disposal are no clearer in their articulation of ‘Iran’. This includes even a chronicle like the anonymous Tarikh-e ‘alam-ara-ye Safavi. Composed under Shah Soleyman (r. 1666–94), this work nostalgically narrates the exploits of the forefathers, and especially Shah Esma‘il I, at a time when such royal role models were no longer available. Yet it hardly presents the country in glowing terms. True, it contains over 70 references to ‘Iran’, but all these are rather bland and banal, hardly imbued with the ‘sacred ideology’ that one would expect from such an idealizing celebration of the past, either standalone or, more typically, yoked to the ruler, as in padshah-e Iran, and never presented as the protected realm or a sacred space.42 Even less effusive are the three main Safavid manuals of statecraft, the Tazkerat al-moluk, the Dastur al-moluk and the Alqab va mavajeb-e dowra-ye salatin-e Safaviya, written following the fall of the Safavids to instruct the country’s new rulers, the Afghans. None mentions the name ‘Iran’ in its introduction or otherwise refers to it as the polity it purports to inventory. The first lacks any geographical specificity and just refers to the ‘exalted court’, dargah-e mo‘alla, and the ‘Safavid kings’, salatin-e Safaviya.43 The second introduces the territory it covers as mamalek-e mahrusa.44 The third completely ignores geography and, instead, in its introduction refers to the three

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most consequential rulers of the dynasty, Shah Esma‘il I, Shah Tahmasp and Shah ‘Abbas I.45

More Explicit Manifestations of Iraniyat One could also argue that the very absence of an explicit overarching concept of ‘Iran’ speaks to a supreme self-confidence among the Safavid elite, sure in the knowledge that their country was the envy of the world and its ruler the mightiest of all monarchs, self-evidently sovereign. The territorial dimension of Safavid identity, in other words, probably remained implicit for the most part because it was, in Bourdieu’s terminology, a habitus, ‘second nature and so forgotten as history’.46 For some more explicit references to a distinct sense of Iraniyat we may turn to sources other than the Persian-language ones. Contemporary as well as later outside observers allude to a high degree of self-confidence among Iranians, expressed in overblown notions about their country’s size and importance. The French Capuchin Father Poullet d’Armainville, who spent years in Iran in the 1660s, insisted that it was an Iranian habit not to cede to foreigners in anything and to show that they knew best.47 Pedros Bedik, a Syrian-Armenian who resided in the Safavid realm between 1670 and 1675, referred to a similar self-image when he stated, ‘they think that their people and their country surpass all other nations named above and, in accordance with the judgment of their astrologers, they call their territory the centre of the world’.48 The French Huguenot merchant-traveller Jean Chardin, in the same period, claimed that Iranians were convinced that they possessed everything that made life agreeable.49 Most people in Iran, he averred, thought that it was because their continent had so little to offer that Europeans swarmed out over the globe in search of the nice and necessary things that they themselves lacked.50 The French Jesuit missionary Jacques Villotte, at the turn of the eighteenth century, offers a telling vignette, too. He noted how Iran’s grandees liked to visit the Jesuit convent in Esfahan, where they showed great interest in the beautiful stamps and the famous celestial atlas of Père Ignace-Gaston Pardies SJ (1636– 74) with which its main hall was decorated. The Iranians, Villotte continues, were particularly curious about geography, of which they nevertheless had very little knowledge. One day, when one of the Jesuits pointed out the space that the realm of Iran occupied in outline on a map of Asia, they demurred against what they saw as a ridiculous lack of truthfulness. How was it possible, they argued, that Iran, a country measuring more than 400 leagues (ca. 1,600 km) across, from whichever side one approached it, would fit into the palm of a human hand?51 As these examples suggest, an idea of Iran was clearly present in the minds of the Safavid elite. But its constituent parts, the provinces and regions that still today play a key role in any individual Iranian’s sense of self, figure prominently as well, and in a way more prominently, in the written sources of

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the period. Iran’s regions – Azerbaijan, Khorasan, Fars – quite explicitly receive the bulk of attention in the chronicles. In other words, we are faced with a more complex, layered and composite type of identity than simply the degree to which people identified with ‘Iran’. Nor is this surprising. Courtesy of the country’s forbidding physical environment – largely consisting of steppes, deserts and formidable mountain ranges interspersed with scattered fertile oases – Iranian civilization has always drawn its creative energy from the country’s archipelago of urban centres. These were not just economically autonomous – each constituting a production and consumption nexus catering to and being supplied by its immediate hinterland, but also largely self-sufficient in cultural and political terms.52 Two examples from the late Qajar period illustrate this point and should, without too much risk of anachronism, reflect conditions in the Safavid period, when Iran was even less homogeneous and connected to the world than in the (mid- to late) nineteenth century. The people in Baluchestan, the British telegraph employee Ernest Floyer observed in the 1870s, talked about Kerman in the same way that the English peasant talked about London – as a faraway, inaccessible, largely imaginary place.53 The French explorer Gabriel Bonvalot, travelling through Iran a decade later, met someone in Kordestan who was carrying Russian paper money. Asked why he did not carry Iranian coinage, the man responded by saying that the Iranians were too stupid. When Bonvalot inquired if the man himself was not Iranian, he replied by saying, ‘No, I am from Hamadan’.54 We have a few local chronicles from the Safavid period to test the extent to which local or regional affinities prevailed or existed in juxtaposition to a more expansive identification with Iran. Mohammad Mofid Mostowfi Bafqi’s work, Jame‘-e Mofidi, written in the late 1670s, offers an excellent example of a strong local identity – a love of the town and region of Yazd – embedded in an unambiguous affiliation with the state of which it is part, personified by the reigning sovereign, Shah Soleyman, whom the author connects to Timur Lang and, beyond, to the first ‘world conqueror’, Alexander the Great.55 The Sahifat al-ershad, a late Safavid chronicle that describes events in Kerman, offers another clear example of regional pride. At the outset of his account, its author, Molla Mohammad Mo’men Kermani, delineates the region of Kerman rather precisely, combining historical genealogy with geography. The Kerman of olden times, he insists, consisted of seven regions, belad. This division, he adds, goes back to the Sasanian monarch Ardashir, who first brought prosperity to Kerman. The region of Kerman, he continues in rather trope-like fashion, echoing notions about Iran at large, is a grand and vast land, zamin va velayat-e ‘azim va vasi‘, that stretches from the deserts of Sistan and Khorasan, from Sind and Multan in the east to the farthest reaches of Fars in the west. Towards the south it extends all the way to Hormuz and Minab on the Arabian Sea and the Persian Gulf, Darya-ye ‘Oman, and in the north it borders on the deserts of

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Khorasan, Yazd and Abarquh. No other territory of such expansiveness exists anywhere else.56 How do we resolve the tension between pride in Iran as an idea, an overarching concept, as identified by foreigners and implicitly conveyed by the indigenous sources, and the intensely regional and local identification reflected in the two anecdotes from Qajar times? One way to reconcile the two is to consider Joseph Arthur, comte de Gobineau’s observations about Iranian identity. Gobineau is mainly known as the father of scientific racism, but in his capacity as French consul in Iran in the mid-nineteenth century he wrote very perceptively about the country and its people. Iranians, Gobineau submitted in an observation that still resonates today, loved their country very much; they forever sang the praises of khak-e iruni, considering it the most agreeable, fertile and healthy of all lands, but, having suffered through an endless series of oppressive regimes, their allegiance was to their culture rather than to their political leaders.57

Urban Pride People’s immediate and concrete allegiance, one is led to conclude, was, first and foremost, with their towns and regions. The pride and prejudice inherent in this allegiance tends to be concentric, working its way outwards from one particular city – one’s own. ‘Abdi Beg Shirazi, the mid-sixteenth-century author of the chronicle Takmelat al-akhbar, sings the praises of his hometown, Qazvin, in one of his poems and calls it superior to any city anywhere, domestic and foreign, whether in Egypt, Syria, the Ottoman lands or Iraq.58 The anonymous late-seventeenth-century person cited at the top of this chapter articulates the same sentiment in epigrammatic fashion. Another excellent, more elaborate example of such urban pride, also focused on Esfahan, is found in the Towfiq-e rafiq, a recently edited Mirror for Princes-type work of advice and reflection on politics and morals dating from the 1680s, halfway through the reign of Shah Soleyman. Mohammad ‘Ali Qazvini, the author, calls his hometown the city with the smartest people for being located in the first clime. And, to him, Iran is to the world what Esfahan is to Iran: the centre of civilization: Paradisiacal Iran most of whose territory is situated in the fourth and third and second clime and which extends from the Oxus River to the River Euphrates, and from the Iron Gate [Darband in the Caucasus] to the Sea of Oman, is the civilized centre of the world and the summation of the cream of humanity, the virtues, the conditions, the intelligence and the perfection of its inhabitants of its populated regions exceeds those of the inhabitants of other lands and regions by far. And anyone who looks into it, will recognize that among those who have excelled or

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stood out in any of the rational and religious sciences or the arts, most are Iranians.59 Qazvini goes on to argue that, since time immemorial, Iran has been known as a land of plenty, superior in the bravery of its people to Turkestan, wealthier than the Ottoman lands and with a greater crop of outstanding artisans and artists than India, with its rich tradition of arts and crafts.60 The Towfiq-e rafiq evinces a strong sense of Iraniyat; yet, in it, Iran remains an idea rather than a realm with clearly delineated perimeters. The aforementioned Tohfat al-‘alam offers the outline of such perimeters when it calls Iran-zamin the territory stretching to the borders of Rum and from the Alborz [Mountains] to India.61 For a fuller, more detailed overview and celebration of the idea of Iran as a geographical unit we must wait for Mohammad Mofid Mostowfi’s other main work, the Mokhtasar-e Mofid, a rare geographical compendium from the late Safavid period.

Summation: The Mokhtasar-e Mofid The Mokhtasar-e Mofid fully stands in the tradition of the great masalek va mamalek genre of Islamic geography and travel literature, whose authors followed the Ptolemaic way of dividing geographical locations according to the climes in which they were located. The author of this encyclopedic survey of Iran refers to many classical texts but also draws on information gathered from contemporary, living sources. And he establishes a clear cultural link with the past by narrating the story found in Ferdowsi’s Shahnama, according to which the mythical King Fereydun, sensing his approaching death, gave Iranshahr – the land between the Euphrates and the Oxus, the cynosure of the world’s habitable quarter, rob‘-e maskun, a vast land blessed by the divine, inhabited by learned and eloquent people – to his oldest, wisest and worthiest son, Iraj.62 True to tradition, the term Iran only occurs sporadically in the Mokhtasar-e Mofid and when it does it is mostly in juxtaposition with ‘Turan’ and/or ‘Hendustan’, or in conditions of being assaulted and invaded by its enemies.63 Yet, the contours of Iran are clear, as is the hierarchy of its constituent parts. Pride of place is given to Iraq, ‘ground zero’ of the Shi‘i faith, hallowed land that animates and legitimizes the Safavid polity. ‘Eraq-e ‘Ajam, the western part of Iran, follows, emphasizing the centrality of the Safavid capital in the seventeenth century, Esfahan. Regions are described with an eye to their inclusion in or exclusion from the ‘idea of Iran’. Greater Armenia, for instance, falls within the boundaries of Iran.64 In the section on Kich and Makran the author evinces ambiguity. Classical geographical sources, Mofid Mostowfi tells us, considered these barren regions to be beyond Iran. Yet, he reminds his readers, the rulers of Sistan currently pay the land tax, kharaj, to Iran’s authorities, and thus the region should be included, even if its people are Shafi‘i Sunnis who hardly have any notion of the outside world.65 Meanwhile,

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remarkably little space is devoted to the Garmsirat, the Persian Gulf coast, which figures so prominently in the Western, trade-based sources, but here comes last. In keeping with a conspicuous absence of any interest in the sea among premodern Iranians in the Islamic period, except as a source of danger, the Caspian Sea, the Bahr-e Khazar or Darya-ye Gilan va Mazandaran, receives a perfunctory mention in the introduction to the Mokhtasar-e Mofid yet does not warrant its own entry in the text.66 Two final points about the Mokhtasar-e Mofid merit attention. The first is that it was not commissioned by the ruler at the time, Shah Soleyman.67 It therefore does not contain any of the fawning over the shah and his realm that would otherwise have been obligatory. The author clearly composed his work because he felt called upon to do so for his own reasons. The second, related point is that Mostowfi Mofid wrote from exile, from India, looking back on what he had lost – Yazd and Iran. He had begun to compose the Mokhtasar-e Mofid in the Deccan in 1676–77 and finished the work in Lahore in 1680–81. An unmistakable sense of nostalgia and homesickness suffuses his work, both the Mokhtasar-e Mofid and the Jame‘-e Mofidi. Such nostalgia, born of a sense of distance and loss, is also visible in other contemporary works written by Iranians who had moved to try their luck in India. Throughout the Safavid period, many men of talent and ambition had been migrating to the subcontinent, seeking the money and the status that they felt their homeland had denied them within the households of the (Shi‘i) rulers of the Deccan or at the Mughal court. Iranian immigrants enjoyed the wealth and prestige that the subcontinent had to offer. Yet, at least those who committed their impressions to paper invariably expressed a dislike of their new homeland, its climate and its food, its religious manners and its people, considering it a ‘liver-eating’ (jegarkhur) land of darkness, keshvar-e zolmat.68 Incidentally, Fazli Beg Khuzani, too, was one of the migrants who came to regret his decision to leave Iran, and it is tempting to attribute the rather unusual focus on Iran in the section he dedicates to Shah ‘Abbas I at least in part to this feeling of loss. He was not the only one. Several other emigres express an identity-forming sense of loss and longing induced by decades of living in an alien land. One is Ruh al-Amin, known as Mir Jomla, a ‘distinguished sayyed from Isfahan’ who had become wealthy and powerful in the Deccan, rising to the rank of vizier of Mohammad-Qoli, the Qotb Shahi ruler of Golconda. In ca. 1615, his new employer even sent him back to Shah ‘Abbas’s court as an envoy. As Eskandar Beg Monshi tells the story, when Mohammad-Qoli died, Mir Jomla’s fortunes fell. He did not get along with Soltan Mohammad, Mohammad-Qoli’s nephew, son-in-law and successor, who restricted his freedoms. Mir Jomla, Eskandar Beg Monshi continues, told him that the ‘love of his native country (hobb-e vatan) and the desire to return to Iran and the delights of Esfahan (arezu-ye amadan-e Iran va khushi-ha-ye Esfahan), and the desire to kiss the feet of the shah, had overcome him’.69

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A sense of loss, of fate making its claims of decay and decline, emerges even more clearly from the works of the well-known Mohammad b. Abi Taleb Hazin Lahiji, poet, traveller and polymath, who escaped the turmoil accompanying the fall of Esfahan in 1722 by migrating to India. By the time that Hazin Lahiji was reminiscing about his earlier life, during the 1730s and 1740s, the idea of Iran was receding into an idealized past, having been overtaken by a chaotic present. Having lived in internal exile during the tumultuous final days of Safavid rule and moving to India following the fall of the dynasty, Hazin acknowledged the mistake he had made in so doing. Pining for his homeland from the swampy place that he found India to be, he calls Iran-zamin the elevated paradise, its expanse wider than Solomon’s realm and its majesty better than the gem on his ring.70

Conclusion In her study of identity, Nathalie Heinrich views identity as the outcome of three interlocking elements: self-perception, attribution – perception by others – and presentation – of the self to the outside world.71 Self-perception and presentation are hard to disentangle in the Safavid case. Ideologically and rhetorically, the Safavid ‘project’ was and remained animated and legitimized by faith and dynasty. Realm and faith were twinned, Molk va din tow’aman, as the chroniclers put it.72 Twelver Shi‘ism was the official faith, the shah was the trustee of the divine and his mandate was to be the enforcer of God’s will and the executive officer of the Twelfth Imam. The bulk of attention in the Persian-language sources, meanwhile, goes to the dynasty, with occasional references to Turko-Mongol historical antecedents and beyond, to a pre-Islamic Iranian mythological past, all of which suggests that the will to power of the ruling elite was essentially secular in make-up. Safavid Iran, in other words, was salvific in presentation but essentially a dynastic enterprise. None of this excluded Iran as a realm, molk, either as an idea or as a territory, a space onto which the dynasty projected its power and which was counted as ‘protected’ – by that dynasty as well as by the divine. The early chronicles use the term ‘Iran’ sparingly, as if it seems too obviously the terrain of action to be mentioned with any frequency. The reign of Shah ‘Abbas I, who stood fast against Iran’s external enemies as he reduced the autonomy of peripheral regions and islands, increased the attentiveness to ‘Iran’ as a coherent entity, protected by the ‘Iranian’ army, but not significantly. Iran, it appears, did not have to be avowed to be present. Attribution by others did not affect Safavid self-perception in any appreciable way. Yet various sources, including foreign ones, suggest that Iran lived in people’s hearts, with pride and prejudice. The idea of Iran at this level was culturally articulated rather than geographically defined, entwined with a strong local and regional sense of identity that was the natural, and perhaps inevitable, outcome of Iran’s centrifugal tendencies. By unifying Iran, the

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Safavids by no means ended the country’s regional particularisms. Iran remained – and remains today – a country with as many centripetal tendencies as centrifugal ones, a land to which the cliché ‘unity within diversity’ applies more than to most. Local and regional identity operated in concentric circles; urbanites at once viewed their own town and region as the best, the most fertile and the most prosperous among all other towns and regions, and perceived Iran as the repository of all this cultural capital. The resulting collective sense of self proved strong enough to survive the fall of Esfahan and the subsequent tumultuous eighteenth century. The epitome of this overarching sense of self is the Mokhtasar-e Mofid – at once a latter-day version of the medieval masalek va mamalek genre and a sophisticated expression of Iraniyat, specific and precise in its geographical classification. Yet the Mokhtasar-e Mofid remained a singular geographical compendium, unique for the Safavid period. It did not generate an urge to map Iran and its constituent parts in any greater depth or to explore the world beyond. The Mokhtasar-e Mofid is one of a number of works written in exile, in India, a country that had beckoned many as a promised land only to disappoint as the ‘heart of darkness’. From the distance of exile, home, either the ancestral city or Iran-zamin, not only must have looked far more attractive than it ever had but, now romanticized as a perpetual paradise, appears to have awakened a melancholy sense of hobb-e vatan in those who had left. Limited economic opportunities throughout the lifespan of the dynasty, followed by the misery and chaos accompanying its fall, may, paradoxically, have strengthened a rudimentary sense of national identity. Iran’s identity remained culturally grounded rather than politically and territorially marked for another two centuries. A real concern about territory as an integral part of Iraniyat only emerged in the early nineteenth century, most notably following various humiliating military defeats at the hands of the Russians.73 And it would take another century and the Constitutional Revolution before the idea of Iran as a community defined by clearly delineated borders, as an assembly not of subjects but of citizens, tied together by civic rights as well as responsibilities, would gain ground.

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Notes: 1. Rasul Ja‘fariyān, Safaviya dar ‘arsa-ye din, farhang va seyāsat, vol. II, p. 792. 2. David Hume, The Treatise on Human Nature, p. 252. 3. As discussed in Eric Taylor Woods and Mira Debs, ‘Towards a cultural sociology of nations and nationalism’, pp. 607–8. 4. Nathalie Heinrich, Ce que n’est pas l’identité, pp. 25–37. 5. Woods and Debs, ‘Towards a cultural sociology’, p. 608. 6. Gregory B. Lee, China Imagined. From European Fantasy to Spectacular Power, pp. 23–24, 33–34. 7. Gherardo Gnoli, The Idea of Iran, p. 178. Also see the discussion in Sarah Bowen Savant, The New Muslims of Post-Conquest Iran, pp. 8–12. 8. Patricia Crone, The Nativist Prophets of Early Islamic Islam. 9. Hasan Ansari, ‘Patricia Crone’s contribution to Iranian studies’, pp. 453–54. 10. C.E. Bosworth, ‘The heritage of rulership in early Islamic Iran’, p. 53. 11. Hugh Kennedy, ‘The survival of iranianness’. For an earlier treatment of continuity between pre-Islamic and Islamic Iran, see Ehsan Yarshater, ‘Iranian National History’ and, along the same lines, seeking to demonstrate that many Persian elements originate in Arab culture and religion, idem, ‘The Persian presence in the Islamic world’. 12. Florian Schwarz, ‘Politische Krise und kulturelle Transformation im mongolenzeitlichen Iran’. The idea that the concept of Iran was revived under the Mongols was first suggested by Dorothea Krawulski, Mongolen und Ilchane: Ideologie und Geschichte. 13. Bert Fragner, “The mental mapping of Iran’, p. 64. 14. Bert Fragner, Die Persophonie. 15. Charles Melville, ‘The Mongol and Timurid periods’, pp. 166–70. 16. Shāh Tahmāsb, Tazkera-ye Shāh Tahmāsb, p. 43. 17. See Maria Szuppe, ‘L’évolution de l’image de Timour et des Timourides’. 18. Khvāndamir, Tārikh-e Habib al-seyar, vol. III, pp. 555ff. 19. Mohammad Ebrāhim b. Zeyn al-‘Ābedin Nasiri, Dastur-e shahreyārān, pp. 21–24. 20. Pietro Della Valle, Viaggi di Pietro Della Valle il Pellegrino, vol. I, p. 657. 21. Samuel P. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of the World Order, pp. 20–21, as cited in Zygmunt Bauman, Retrotopia, p. 163. 22. Dick Davis, ‘Iran and Aniran’, pp. 39ff., 46. 23. For Safavid observations about the Turkmen, see Giorgo Rota, ‘Safavids against Turkmen in the early seventeenth century’, p. 37. 24. For Safavid perceptions of Europeans (and other foreigners), see Rudi Matthee, ‘Between aloofness and fascination’. With some exceptions, this is, of course, true for all of the Islamic world throughout the eighteenth century. See Ahmad Dallal, ‘Appropriating the past’, pp. 333–34. 25. For the notion that Europeans, Farangis, were superior technicians and good at engineering and mathematics, see Ja‘fariyān, Safaviya dar ‘arsa-ye din, vol. II, p. 794. 26. Abbas Amanat, ‘Introduction: Iranian identity boundaries, a historical overview’, p. 12.

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27. See, for instance, Mohammad Yusof Nāji, Resāla dar pādeshāhi-ye Safavi, passim. This work centres on the legitimacy of the Safavids – at a time when it was eroding – and the obligation to obey them. 28. Khvāndamir, Habib al-seyar, vol. IV, pp. 5, 15, 67, 90, 367 and 191. In total, this work mentions Iran some 105 times over a span of almost 2,600 pages, or approximately once every 25 pages. 29. Hasan Beg Rumlu, Ahsan al-tavārikh, pp. 87, 603, 653. 30. Qāzi Ahmad Qommi, Kholāsat al-tavārikh, vol. I, pp. 6, 19, 72, 73, 101, 209, 219, 364, 457, 461, 526, 593, 595, 596, 637, 739, 782, 827, 849, 852, 889, 892, 895, 909. For other examples, see Sāsān Tahmāsebi, ‘Mo’allefa-hā-ye hoviyat va vahdat-e melli dar Irān-e ‘asr-e Safavi’, pp. 7–8. 31. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. I, pp. 83, 122, 124, 643, 856. 32. Ibid., vol. I, p. 441. 33. ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Navā’i, ed., Shāh Tahmāsb-e Safavi, p. 204. For an analysis of this so-called ‘belt letter’, see Colin Michell, The Practice of Politics in Safavid Iran, pp. 81–87. 34. Fazli Beg Khuzāni-Esfahāni, Afzal al-tavārikh. Ruzgār va zendegāni-ye Shāh Tahmāsb, pp. 3, 7, 9, 16, 25, 50, 162, 164, 238, 248, 254, 255, 448, 455, 506 [hereafter cit. Fazli Beg, Afzal al-tavārikh]. The second tome of volume two, on the period of Shah Esma‘il II and Mohammad Khodabanda (1576–87) has yet to be found. See, idem, A Chronicle of the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas, ed. Kioumars Ghereghlou, introd. with Charles Melville, p. xxxvi [hereafter cit. Fazli Beg, Chronicle]. 35. Fazli Beg, Afzal al-tavārikh, pp. 3, 248, 254. 36. Fazli Beg, Chronicle, passim. 37. Ibid., pp. 2, 5, 6, 32, 58, 59, 73, 83, 253, 504, 541, 558, 565, 591, 603, 622, 712, 724, 732, 743, 772, 783, 965. For references to Iran’s army, its soldiers and their commander-in-chief, see pp. 89, 606, 738, 747, 768, 778, 797. 38. Mohammad Yusof Vāla Qazvini Esfahāni, Irān dar zamān-e Shāh Safi va Shāh ‘Abbās-e devvom, pp. 51, 53, 98, 136, 149, 331, 371, 439, 475, 516, 589. 39. Nasiri, Dastur-e shahreyārān, pp. 7, 9, 156, 21. 40. Ibid., p. 240. 41. For this, see Matthee, ‘Between aloofness and fascination’, pp. 222–23. 42. Tārikh-e ‘ālam- ārā -ye Safavi, passim. 43. V. Minorsky, ed. and trans., Tadhkirat al-Mulūk, Persian text, p. 1, tr. p. 41. 44. Mirzā Mohammad Rafi‘ Ansāri, Dastur al-moluk, p. 1. 45. Mirzā Naqi Nasiri, Alqāb va mavājeb-e dowra-ye salātin-e Safaviya, p. 1. 46. Pierre Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, p. 56. 47. Poullet [d’Armainville], Nouvelles relations du Levant, vol. II, pp. 217–18. 48. Pedros Bedik, A Man of Two Worlds, pp. 437–38. 49. Jean Chardin, Voyages du Chevalier Chardin en Perse et aux Indes, vol. IV, pp. 89, 192, 197. 50. Chardin, Voyages, vol. III, pp. 429–30. 51. [Jacques Villotte and Nicolas Frizon], Voyages d’un missionnaire de la Compagnie de Jésus, p. 446. Villotte lived in the Ottoman Empire and Iran between 1689 and 1708.

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52. For a further elaboration of this notion, see Rudi Matthee, ‘“Neither Eastern nor Western, Iranian”’. 53. Ernest Ayscoghe Floyer, ‘Journey of a route of Jask to Bampur’, p. 194. 54. Gabriel Bonvalot, Du Caucase aux Indes à travers le Pamir, pp. 113–14. 55. Derek J. Mancini-Lander, ‘Memory on the Boundaries of Empire’, pp. 161ff. The author, at p. 283, argues that this affiliation was designed as a metaphorical and allusive message to the shah, with the aim of exhorting him to renew the previous connection between the central court and Yazd, and thus to restore the glory of both. 56. Mollā Mohammad Mo’men Kermāni, Sahifat al-ershād, pp. 208–9. 57. Joseph Arthur, comte de Gobineau, ‘Trois ans en Asie’, p. 230. 58. ‘Abdi Beg Shirāzi, Jannat-e ‘adn, pp. 155–57. 59. Mohammad ‘Ali Qazvini, Towfiq-e rafiq, pp. 223–24. 60. Ibid., pp. 224–25. 61. Sayyed Abu Tāleb Musavi Fendereski, Tohfat al-‘ālam, p. 33. 62. Mohammad Mofid Mostowfi, Mokhtasar-e Mofid, p. 21. 63. Ibid., pp. 13, 107, 136, 190. 64. Ibid., p. 171. 65. Mofid Mostowfi, Mokhtasar-e Mofid, p. 357. Fazli Beg, Chronicle, p. 606, talks about the incorporation of Makran, the barren coastal area straddling the current border between Iran and Pakistan, into the Safavid fold, by referring to the ‘army of Iran’. 66. Mofid Mostowfi, Mokhtasar-e Mofid, p. 19. 67. Fragner, ‘The mental mapping of Iran’, p. 66. 68. Sunil Sharma, Mughal Arcadia, pp. 32, 173. Also see Stephen Dale, ‘A Safavid poet in the heart of darkness’. 69. Mir Jomla, presumably blinded by overweening ambition, did not stay in Iran. Having had his claim to high office at the shah’s court rejected, he returned to India, where he ended up serving the Mughal Emperor Shah Selim (Jahangir, r. 1605–27). See Eskandar Beg Monshi, Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, vol. II, p. 833; trans. Savory, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, p. 1098. 70. Mohammad ‘Ali Hazin Lāhiji, Divān-e Hazin-e Lāhiji, p. 664. For Hazin Lahiji, also see Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Indo-Persian Travels in the Age of Discoveries 1400–1800, pp. 229–40. 71. Heinrichs, Ce que n’est pas l’identité, pp. 67–77. 72. Rumlu, Ahsan al-tavārikh, p. 623; Fazli Beg, Chronicle, p. 1; Nāji, Resāla dar pādeshāhi-ye Safavi, p. 155. 73. Abbas Amanat, Iran: A Modern History, p. 212. For the most complete study of this development, see Firoozeh Kashani-Sabet, Frontier Fictions: Shaping the Iranian Nation.

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Krawulski, Dorothea, Mongolen und Ilchane: Ideologie und Geschichte (Tübingen and Beirut: Verlag für Islamische Studien, 1989). Lee, Gregory B., China Imagined: From European Fantasy to Spectacular Power (London: Hurst, 2018). Mancini-Lander, Derek J., ‘Memory on the Boundaries of Empire: Narrating Place in the Early Modern Local Historiography of Yazd’, doctoral dissertation (University of Michigan, 2012). Matthee, Rudi, ‘Between aloofness and fascination: Safavid views of the West’, Iranian Studies 31, no. 2 (1998), pp. 219–46. — ‘“Neither Eastern nor Western, Iranian”: How the quest for self-sufficiency helped shape Iran’s modern nationalism’, Journal of Persianate Societies 13, no. 1 (2020), pp. 59-104. Melville, Charles, ‘The Mongol and Timurid periods, 1250–1500’, in Persian Historiography, ed. idem (London: I.B. Tauris, 2012), pp. 155–208. Michell, Colin, The Practice of Politics in Safavid Iran: Power, Religion and Rhetoric (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009). Minorsky, Vladimir, ed. and trans. Tadhkirat al-Mulūk. A Manual of Ṣafavid Administration (London: E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Trust, 1943; repr. 1980). Mofid Mostowfi Bafqi, Mohammad, Jāme‘-e Mofidi, ed. Iraj Afshār, 3 vols (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e asāter, 1385/2006). — Mokhtasar-e Mofid: Dar ahvāl-e belād va velāyat-e Irān, ed. Iraj Afshār (Tehran: Bonyād-e mowqufāt-e Doktur Mahmud Afshār, 2nd edn, 1396/2017). Mo’men Kermāni, Mollā Mohammad, Sahifat al-ershād (Tārikh-e Afshār-e Kermān – pāyān-e kār-e Safaviya), ed. Mohammad Ebrāhim Bāstāni-Pārizi (Tehran: Nashr-e ‘elm, 1394/2005). Nāji, Mohammad Yusof, Resāla dar pādeshāhi-e Safavi, ed. Rasul Ja‘fariyān and Fereshta Kushaki (Tehran: Ketābkhāna-ye muza va markaz-e senā-ye majles-e shurā-ye eslāmi, 1387/2008). Naqi Nasiri, Mirzā, Alqāb va mavājeb-e dowra-ye salātin-e Safaviya, ed. Yusof Rahimlu (Mashhad: Enteshārāt-e Dāneshgāh-e Ferdowsi, 1371/1992). Nasiri, Mohammad Ebrahim b. Zeyn al-‘Ābedin, Dastur-e shahreyārān, ed. Mohammad Nāderi Nasiri Moqaddam (Tehran: Bonyād-e mowqufāt-e Doktur Mahmud Afshār, 1373/1992). Navā’i, ‘Abd al-Hoseyn, ed., Shāh Tahmāsb-e Safavi: Asnād va mokātebāt hamrāh bā yāddāsht-hā-ye tafsili (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e Arghavān, 1368/1989). Poullet [d’Armainville], Nouvelles relations du Levant: Avec une exacte description … du Royaume de Perse, 2 vols (Paris: L. Billaine, 1668). Qazvini, Mohammad ‘Ali, Towfiq-e rafiq. Dar rosum-e vezārat va ādāb-e saltanat bā ta’kid bar dowra-ye Safavi, ed. Rasul Ja‘fariyān (Qom: Nashr-e mo’arrekh, 1396/2017).

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Qommi, Qāzi Ahmad b. Sharaf al-Din, Kholāsat al-tavārikh, ed. Ehsān Eshrāqi, 2 vols (Tehran: Dāneshgāh-e Tehrān, 2nd edn, 1383/2004). Rafi‘ Ansāri, Mirzā Mohammad, Dastur al-moluk, ed. Nobuaki Kondo (Tokyo: Research Institute for Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, 2018). Rota, Giorgo, ‘Safavids against Turkmen in the early seventeenth century: Warfare against the nomads of the Caspian steppe’, Iran: Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies 55, no. 1 (2017), pp. 35–43. Rumlu, Hasan Beg, Ahsan al-tavārikh, ed. ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Navā’i (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e Bābak, 1357/1978). Savant, Sarah Bowen, The New Muslims of Post-Conquest Iran: Tradition, Memory, and Conversion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). Schwarz, Florian, ‘Politische Krise und kulturelle Transformation im mongolenzeitlichen Iran’, in Krise und Transformation, ed. Sigrid JalkotzyDeger and Arnold Suppan (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2012), pp. 168–79. Sharma, Sunil, Mughal Arcadia: Persian Literature in an Indian Court (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2017). Szuppe, Maria, ‘L’évolution de l’image de Timour et des Timourides dans l’historiographie safavide, xvie–xviiie siècles’, Cahiers d’Asie Centrale 3–4: L’Heritage Timouride. L’Iran-Asie centrale-Inde XVe–XVIIIe siècles (1997), pp. 313–31. Tahmāsb, Shāh, Tazkera-ye Shāh Tahmāsb (Tehran : Enteshārāt-e sharq, 2nd edn, 1363/1985). Tahmāsebi, Sāsān, ‘Mo’allefa-hā-ye hoviyat va vahdat-e melli dar Irān-e ‘asr-e Safavi’, Faslnāma-ye revāyat-e tārikh 1 (1395/2016), pp. 2–17. Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye Safavi, ed. Yadollāh Shokri (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e ettelā‘āt, 1363/1984). Vāla Qazvini Esfahāni, Mohammad Yusof, Irān dar zamān-e Shāh Safi va Shāh ‘Abbās-e devvom. Khold-e barin, ed. Mohammad Rezā Nasiri (Tehran: Anjoman-e āsār va mafākher-e farhangi, 1380/2001). [Villotte, Jacques and Nicolas Frizon], Voyages d’un missionnaire de la Compagnie de Jésus en Turquie, en Perse, en Arménie, en Arabie, et en Barbarie (Paris: J. Vincent, 1730). Woods, Eric Taylor and Mira Debs, ‘Towards a cultural sociology of nations and nationalism’, Nations and Nationalism 19, no. 4 (2013), pp. 607–14. Yarshater, Ehsan, ‘Iranian national history’, in Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 3 (1), The Seleucid, Parthian and Sasanid Periods, ed. Ehsan Yarshater (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), pp. 359–480. — ‘The Persian presence in the Islamic world’, in The Persian Presence in the Islamic World, ed. Richard G. Hovannisian and George Sabagh (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 4–125.

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5 Safavid Town Planning Sussan Babaie (The Courtauld Institute of Art, University of London)

U

rban planning implies the premeditated design of a city and its environs to meet a number of objectives, most of which are interlaced and principally concern the physical form, economic functions and social impact of the built environment of a city.1 The standard definition further describes urban planning as ‘a technical and political process’ which includes concerns for air, water and infrastructure – transportation, communication and distribution networks – in developing and design of land use. The academic definitions tend to position urban planning as a profession, requiring teams of professional designers, experts in land use, water distribution and traffic, architects and others. By definition, urban planning is future-orientated, aiming to create ‘both short and long term visions balanced with market and cultural influences’.2 The Islamic cities of historical periods are rarely understood to be the product of such integrated, coordinated and premeditated design procedures, much less those resulting from a master-planned vision behind the city’s conception.3 Professional urban designers rarely feature in historical records from the pre-modern era. This applies almost as much to European cities as to those in the lands inspired principally by the cultural practices of Islam (the Islamicate world in Marshall Hodgson’s designation).4 Traces of premeditated urban planning, always with walled perimeters and with clearly articulated preferences for land use, the location of social and governmental functions and the provisions for transportation and supply of water and other natural resources, are attested in archaeological findings from cities of pre-Islamic eras of the Iranian plateau, Mesopotamia, Egypt and the Eastern Mediterranean. In the Iranian expanse, to use Matthew Canepa’s designation of the vast region that we associate with pre-Islamic Iran, cities of the Achaemenid, Parthian and Sasanian eras – Firuzabad (in Fars) and Ecbatana (Hamadan of today), for example – developed according to prescribed designs, famously in the round in the case of Firuzabad, serving urban needs with carefully designated functional zones, separated for reasons of security, ease of access or functionality.5 The building of royal cities as a conscious act of political renewal also has a long history in the Islamic world. ‘Abbasid Baghdad, for example, which was indeed inspired by pre-Islamic, and especially Sasanian, models of planned cities, is

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among the best known examples.6 There is some evidence of the growth of early Islamic cities in Iran, among which the port city of Siraf on the Persian Gulf has revealed a quasi-grid layout, with a mosque, a covered bazaar and some houses.7 Nevertheless, evidence of the medieval cities in Iran does not point to large-scale urban planning. The master-planned development based on a predetermined scheme in pre-Islamic Iran – such as that of the radial cities of Firuzabad or Ecbatana – gave way, it appears, to the spontaneous and gradual assemblage of mostly pre-existing parts of settlements into new urban formations. Regardless of how much we might wish to see the traces of ancient Iranian cities – Sasanian ones in particular – under the fabric of towns of the Islamic period, they simply are not there. The early history of Esfahan, for example, demonstrates patterns of development that were especially well anchored in the urban principles and principal features of early Islamic cities: a mosque is the most crucial requirement in order to constitute the status of a settlement as a city or mesr, a legal term that has been foregrounded in Ruba Kana’an’s current research and book project on the subject of the Friday prayer, mosques and the definition of the city in Islamic legal terms in pre-modern times.8 It is well known that the building of a jame‘, a congregational mosque initiated and supported by a ‘just’ ruler, the caliph or, in his name, by the qadi or imam, formed the core of the cities during the early decades of Islam and continued to dominate the legal understanding of what defines a city well into the eighteenth century.9 The garrison cities of Basra, Kufa and, later, Fostat and early Esfahan all followed that pattern. The other feature of the early Islamic city, about which also scholars are unanimous, is the combination of the mosque with a marketplace (bazaar) and often, but not always, the seat of government, a governor’s palace, a qasr, or dar al-emarat. Early medieval Esfahan grew along those lines. Renata Holod and Lisa Golombek have convincingly showed the formation of Esfahan out of the joining of the two settlements of Jay and Yahudiya (and Khushinan), which gradually clustered around Yahudiya as the urban node.10 Islamic Esfahan pivoted around its principal mosque, the Masjed-e jom‘a (Friday Mosque or jame‘), still standing, which was founded in the eighth to ninth centuries and which underwent strategic restorations and adaptations, especially during the Seljuq period in the eleventh and twelfth centuries.11 The city, as it grew organically, pivoted on the Friday Mosque, while the Seljuq city grew with a nearby marketplace and a seat of governance forming a city centre (now known as Meydan-e kohna, the old square).12 There is, however, no evidence to demonstrate a pre-planned scheme for the Meydan-e kohna; instead, the mosque, the seat of governance and the marketplace emerge each in their own time to constitute the key elements of the Islamic city in Iran, as elsewhere in the Islamic world. Kana’an suggests that such a key Friday/jame‘ mosque, once established, cannot be easily and legally challenged by the addition of another

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jame‘ mosque in the city. Esfahan, for instance, remained with this single jame‘ as its principal marker of city – mesr – status from the eighth to the sixteenth century, that is more than eight hundred years! During those hundreds of years, every new ruler or patron – from among the rich Esfahanis or the Seljuq, Ilkhanid, Mozaffarid, Timurid and Safavid royal and elite society – made their mark on the fabric of the city’s same main congregational mosque. Kana’an’s point is a remarkable observation and I will invoke it again for the royal mosque in the seventeenth century but, for now, it is important to reiterate the pattern of development that Esfahan shares with other cities in Iran and elsewhere in the Islamic world. Regardless of eco-systems and geographies, and regardless of confessional distinctions, the mosque and its adjacent bazaar remained central to the urban development in cities on the Iranian plateau before the Safavid period and those cities grew organically out of the mosque–bazaar nexus. Despite the shared elements – the mosque–bazaar ensemble – in Islamic town planning, the development of cities in Iran has often been discussed with the assumption of a distinctive model, positing an unchanging concept of a ‘typical’ Iranian city.13 Deeply rooted in morphological studies, the ‘typical’ Iranian city is supposed to have been laid down with urban forms to act as if analogous to spine, head, heart and so forth and as such, and purportedly, representing a vague notion of a spiritually unchangeable category of Iranianness. The morphological methodology is in reality no different from the forms prevalent across various parts of the Islamicate world. A mosque, a marketplace and a seat of governance formed the core of the earliest barrack cities of Basra, Kufa and Fostat, for example; these principles remained, presumably, unchanged across history and the vast expanse of the Islamicate world; and they formed the core of the medieval Islamic city. Planning in its future-orientated, premeditated, design conscious, eco-aware and public-minded spatial formations is inherently expressive of an abstract concept: of a dominion for which the city serves a central role or, in modern times, of a nation-state. That conceptual framework is, I suggest, the armature for the kind of premeditated urban planning we find in Safavid Iran. The organic development may continue apace in older parts or in later periods within the planned city, but the point here is the initial master plan. Such a master plan requires building adjacent to existing populated settled city quarters or else to be built in toto in sparsely occupied lands. The coordinated appearance in Safavid Iran of a number of major new town-planning projects offers compelling evidence for this sort of development; a highly sophisticated and premeditated urban design agenda. From Qazvin to Esfahan, Farahabad in Mazandaran to Farahabad in Esfahan, Kerman, Mashhad, Yazd and Kashan; all these cities had an older medieval core but were freshly redesigned according to the spatial coordinates of social life.14 This chapter suggests that the design of Safavid urban centres and their

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constituent institutions – mosque, palace, madrasa, marketplace – serves in varying compositions as a blueprint of an urban ‘thinking’, a theory teased out of a discourse that is built in bricks and not written in words. This ‘theory’ of urban planning, it further emerges, points to a significant reiteration of an idea of kingship that is cognizant of the antiquities of Iran, deep-seated without being archaeological but specific to a Safavid ideological and socio-political armature. Sketch plans of the best preserved Safavid cities – well known through physical survival or through a combination of textual and archaeological remains – demonstrate the main thrust of this argument: the preponderance of master planning in this period.15 Esfahan alone represents three distinct urban development campaigns from 1590–91 through to the end of Safavid rule in 1722 (Figure 1 and 7). Shah ‘Abbas the Great (r. 1587–1629) initiated the Meydan–Chahar Bagh ensemble. Shah ‘Abbas II (r. 1642–66) commissioned the Khvaju Chahar Bagh, bridge and its residential and royal quarters. Shah Soltan-Hoseyn (r. 1694–1722), in whose reign the first Chahar Bagh was repurposed with the construction of the massive Madrasa–Bazaar–Caravanserai complex, was also the patron of the often ignored but important urban development of Farahabad, a fullfledged city on the south-western side of the vastly expanded Esfahan in the period between 1700 and 1722. Fig. 1. Esfahan – sketch plan The Mazandarani town of showing the main thrust of the urban Farahabad was developed almost development, starting in 1590–91, simultaneously with Shah ‘Abbas’s with the Meydan and the Chahar campaign to turn Esfahan into the Bagh (drawing by Tasnim Eshraqi). capital city of the empire. The Caspian seashore site of Farahabad was conceived as the other royal city of the realm, better suited to summer retreats and especially important for the local production of silk, the major economic engine of Shah ‘Abbas’s new imperial scheme (Figure 2).16 The precedent for those major developments was the work undertaken in rebuilding Qazvin during the reign of Shah Tahmasp (r. 1524–76) in anticipation of his relocation of the capital after Tabriz proved too vulnerable.17 Qazvin, the second Safavid capital, demonstrates the earliest example of this

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Fig. 2. Farahabad, Mazandaran – sketch plan showing the Meydan on a north–south axis with the Masjed-e Jame‘ on the south side and the garden-palaces on the north (after Mahvash Alemi, drawing by Tasnim Eshraqi). core idea: a meydan as the organizing concept for a new urban development (Figure 3). Kerman later was the subject of the other major campaign of urban development in Safavid Iran but was transformed on the initiative of the governor of the province, Ganj ‘Ali Khan (Figures 4 and 5).18 The case of Kerman, with its meydan ensemble, serves in fact to support my contention, that there was in place a semblance of urban schemata, a theory, that could be reformulated for other cities. Little survives of Yazd, Shiraz, Mashhad or Tabriz – the latter an inherited capital city rather than a newly developed one.

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Fig. 3. Qazvin – the new long Meydan, which replaced a hippodrome, and the royal precinct of gardens and pavilions to its north extended the urban developments to the east and south of the old city and re-used the old jame‘, seen on the far south-west of the meydan in this sketch (drawing by Tasnim Eshraqi).

Fig. 4. Kerman – the Meydan complex of Ganj ‘Ali Khan extended the urban development from the Mozaffarid Friday Mosque and marketplace to the east and initiated the later developments to the west (drawing by Tasnim Eshraqi).

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Fig. 5. Kerman – the Meydan complex of Ganj ‘Ali Khan demonstrates the deliberate regularity of a meydan and the clarity of purpose in articulating the political (a mint and a private chapelmosque) and social-commercial (caravanserai, hammam, cistern) necessities to represent urban centring. And little comes down through scholarship in terms of textual material to allow us to paint a reliable picture at this point. The study of Yazd, on the other hand, promises to provide further evidence for the provision of an urban scheme there, following similar patterns, albeit smaller in scale, to those adopted in Qazvin and Esfahan.19 Expansions and transformations of such cities as Istanbul, Esfahan and Delhi in the early modern period, roughly between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, indicate divergent and distinctive local approaches.20 It is in the light of those differing urban development agendas and designs that Safavid town planning appears to offer evidence of a master-plan idea: premeditated as an urbanization scheme with attendant economic, political and social motivations that bring together resources, both royal and sub-imperial, deployed in different cities within the territorial confines of the Safavid polity. A master plan, such as discussed here, is strategic from its inception and displays elements of the kinds of systemic thinking we associate with the shared social, political and economic parameters of the early modern period. Moreover, the plans and architectural remains of the most prosperous and politically and commercially central Safavid cities – Qazvin, Esfahan, Kerman, Farahabad – demonstrate that these

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were not simply appendages to their old medieval fabric; nor were they in fact the result of the slow and organic growth that we recognize from most medieval cities. As master planning goes, Esfahan remains among the most compelling examples, not only in Safavid Iran but also in a global early modern context. Although well known, it is worthwhile reiterating the new urban scheme in sketch form. It was laid down and carried out systematically, starting with the initial works in 1590–91 under Shah ‘Abbas I (Figure 1). The sketch plan highlights the bare-bones armature of the urban plan: the paired development campaigns of the Meydan-e Naqsh-e Jahan and the Chahar Bagh. Central to the urban scheme – a feature repeatedly found in all the Safavid cities under discussion here – lies a vast rectangular open space, in the form of a meydan. The one in Esfahan is reiterated here because it offers the design concept par excellence, the model or master idea: a public square with its attendant buildings representing commerce, politics and religion on a monumental scale and with such carefully coordinated design elements as to make it the place to be seen and to access all the requirements of urban life, including entertainment (Figure 6).21 The tree-lined boulevard known as the Chahar Bagh served as a major artery linking the old city with its new developments stretching south of the Zayanda River.

Fig. 6. Esfahan – sketch of the Meydan-e Naqsh-e Jahan with its main foundations highlighting the Masjed-e Jadid-e ‘Abbasi, the new city’s new congregational mosque (drawing by Tasnim Eshraqi).

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In addition to its function as a road connecting two sections of the city, the Chahar Bagh, as has been amply demonstrated, served as an urban site for leisure activities: strolling, checking out the café and tavern scene and picnicking in the gardens that flanked the length of the boulevard.22 The twin projects were more than spatial coordinates; they created new urban schemes for political expression (in terms of their centralizing agenda), religious practices (in the Imami Shi‘ism of the Safavids) and commercial needs (within both local and global exchange networks). While individual buildings and their spatial, practical and symbolic links to the main urban scheme and to one another have received a good deal of attention, here I wish to underscore the impulse for an urban master plan, which anticipates the longterm growth and development of the city. Not all of the plan’s constituent parts were built in one campaign, which would have been impossible, in any case. Rather, all were planned along a conceptual layout that guided the realization of the full scheme. The unfolding of the plan, wrongly assumed by some historians of Safavid Esfahan to be evidence of a piecemeal approach, was methodical and coordinated: the Qeysariya entrance into the marketplace on the north side and the layout of the main rectangular shape of the meydan were accompanied by concurrent development of the two buildings on the east and west flanks of the square – the Sheykh Lotfollah chapel-mosque and the ‘Ali Qapu Palace, which also served as a royal gateway into the imperial precinct. The last piece of the meydan scheme was the monumental new Friday Mosque of the city, to which I will return shortly. The Chahar Bagh was laid down at the same time as the meydan–marketplace and developed southwards, crossing a newly designed Allahverdi Khan Bridge (completed 1607) and reaching all the way to the Hezar Jarib royal retreat.23 Along the way, new quarters for the transplanted Armenian and Tabrizi merchants – the New Jolfa and ‘Abbasabad quarters respectively – were begun. Both those quarters were also planned according to a master design, a fact that is recorded in the works undertaken by Mohebb ‘Ali Beg Lala, the chief of the gholams (slave elite) and the supervisor of the royal building projects in Esfahan (sarkar-e ‘emarat-e khassa-ye sharifaye Sefahan).24 The sum total of all this construction was a dynamic urban scheme that unfolded over three decades and guided and inspired further development of the Safavid capital beyond Shah ‘Abbas I’s original foundations in 1590–91. When, in the middle of the seventeenth century, Shah ‘Abbas II’s patronage encouraged further urban development – a sure sign of economic vitality and imperial ambitions – the city’s extension was laid down on the model of the promenade-bridge-residential-and-palatial quarters, reminiscent of the earlier urban design (Figure 7). A new district was developed alongside the Khvaju Chahar Bagh, the promenade that connected the Meydan-e Naqsh-e Jahan and its bazaars to the Khvaju Bridge (completed 1650) and to the newly constructed palace district along the banks of the Zayanda River.25

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Fig. 7. Esfahan – sketch showing the two later developments in Esfahan: to the east lies the Khvaju quarter with its own chahar bagh boulevard, bridge and residential and palatial structures. The Chahar Bagh madrasa, a foundation commissioned by Shah Soltan-Hoseyn, is also marked in darker colour to the east of the main Chahar Bagh while his new city, Farahabad, is seen in this sketch to the south-west (composite plan drawn by Tasnim Eshraqi). What makes the Khvaju district expansion of the Safavid city so relevant is the fact that the principles of an earlier pattern were preserved as the point of reference for the new development: the public square and its amenities, including the main congregational mosque and the bazaar continued to be the backbone of the expansion plans. An equally important urban intervention about which we know very little was Farahabad, built further south and to the west of Shah ‘Abbas’s initial plans. This was initiated in the reign of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn and was paired with the campaign of revitalization of the religious-commercial axis of the city. The Chahar Bagh madrasa, the most monumental single ensemble since the buildings of Shah ‘Abbas I in the Meydan area, included two commercial foundations: a bazaar (now known as Bazaar-e honar) and a caravanserai (repurposed in the twentieth century as the luxury Hotel Abbasi).26 Those establishments, together with the important vaqf (endowment) provisions dedicated to the ensemble, provided for the madrasa’s maintenance, for the salaries of its teachers and tuition of the students as well as its hugely significant library of religious and legal knowledge. More importantly, however, the complex focused an unprecedented emphasis on the religious

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education and propagation of Imami Shi‘ism along one of the principal urban nodes of Esfahan, the Chahar Bagh. Farahabad, even though at a substantial distance from the main arteries and foci of the city, was part of a larger town-planning campaign (Figure 7). According to the Vaqa’e‘ al-senin of Khatunabadi, the most important source from the last decades of Safavid rule, the royal garden-palace was laid down at the end of a promenade (like the Chahar Bagh of Shah ‘Abbas) that served as a new district south-west of Esfahan.27 Internally, Farahabad too was designed as a city closely following the urban developments of earlier campaigns, albeit on a smaller scale. It had a promenade which linked the new city with Shah ‘Abbas’s Hezar Jarib garden-palace. Along the avenue, the grandees of the reign of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn were granted land and charged with building garden-mansions of their own – the same feature of urban development that had informed the very first Safavid campaign in Esfahan, as was reported by Monajjem Yazdi, the historian of Shah ‘Abbas.28 Significantly, as well, the Shahr-e Now (the New City), as it was known, was connected to Esfahan via the new Marnan Bridge. Whether Farahabad was a palace-garden or a city remains debateable. Evidence, as sketched here, indicates a broader urban scheme: a chahar-bagh kheyaban (avenue) to link the end of the Chahar Bagh to the city; a bridge to connect the other wing of the city to Esfahan’s central zones and to connect to the main Chahar Bagh and the new madrasa complex of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn. A recently edited chronicle, Fotuhat-e giti-setan (World-conquering victories), written by Sayyed Ahmad Hoseyni Khalifa, a historian during the reign of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn, indicates the presence in Farahabad not only of the gardens and palace complex but also of shops (dakakin), hammam and caravanserai (khan).29 The author was related to the sadr-e khassa (the chief royal cleric) at the court of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn and had received a piece of land in Farahabad as well. His composition in verse was written for Shah Soltan-Hoseyn and completed in 1132 AH/1720, at around the same time as the building projects in Esfahan undertaken on the orders of the last Safavid shah. The Esfahan examples delineate many of the urban design features noted at the start of this chapter: the political, economic and religio-cultural concerns interlaced through the physical forms and spatial networks that allow the smooth running of an urban system. Marketplace, mosque, madrasa, palace, public space of leisure, houses, cafés, bridges and roads; all connecting and distributing the economic functions and shaping the social impact of the built environment of a city. These are master planned projects describing in their physical expression the sort of urban thinking that is based on technical and political processes and which includes concern for the environment and the distribution of natural resources, especially water, and communication: the public square providing for the principal functions of the city, including places for worship, shopping and social gatherings; the tree-lined kheyaban with its

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water channels running toward the river and its flanking gardens greening the city; the river as an element of urban design and the bridges serving the function of crossing it but also providing sites for entertainment and for taking in the cool air; the sophisticated engineering of sluice systems within the bridges to facilitate the redistribution of water; and the housing projects that followed the pattern of subterranean waterways (madi).30 Those urban design features would be on the drafting tables of any respectable urbanism project today. The point here is that it was all pre-planned and not the result of a haphazard series of constructions. The precedent for Esfahan in Safavid Iran, and the examples that were inspired by the planning that we see so fully realized in the capital, point to an urban design ‘thinking’ and agenda. Of the examples noted earlier, Kerman, the better preserved and more closely studied, demonstrates the town planning ‘discourse’ I have sketched above. Under the governorship of Ganj ‘Ali Khan (d. 1625) and his son, a rectangular meydan gave the new urban development its spatial anchor.31 Planned in the mid-1590s – soon after the meydan in Esfahan – it extended the life of the old marketplace through additional rows of shops linking to the old bazaar artery of the city (Figure 4). The Meydan of Ganj ‘Ali Khan is a standalone ensemble, complete as a Safavid urban design (Figure 5). It had the marketplace at its peripheries, except on the east side, where a handsomely composed caravanserai stands with a small private mosque at its north-eastern corner. A mint is located on its northern flank, indicating the special status of Ganj ‘Ali Khan in relation to Shah ‘Abbas I, a cistern (completed by his son ‘Ali Morad Khan) on the western side and the famous hammam on its southern flank. Each of these buildings and their architectural and functional relationship to the meydan ensemble and to Esfahan’s Meydan-e Naqsh-e Jahan deserves further study. Here, however, the point to emphasize is the self-sufficient design of the urban centre and its deliberate link through the bazaar artery to the Mozaffarid Friday Mosque further east of the new meydan (Figure 4). Here too, the decision to build the meydan without a congregational mosque (the little mosque in the corner of the caravanserai was more akin to the private chapel mosque of Sheykh Lotfollah in Esfahan) was predicated on the fact that a Friday Mosque already existed and that a second mosque was not legally justifiable, as Kana’an has argued. In my earlier study of the meydan–mosque ensemble of the Safavids, and unaware of Kana’an’s research, I had not made the connection between the legal aspects of the definition of a mesr and its Masjed-e Jom‘a. A surprising realization as well is the orientation of Ganj ‘Ali Khan’s ensemble; it is not orientated along the north–south axis as we find in nearly all the other freshly built meydan complexes; rather it follows the east–west direction set by the city’s already existing, nearby Masjed-e Jom‘a. Ganj ‘Ali Khan’s designers chose, first, not build a second jame‘ mosque so close to the Mozaffarid one, and, second, to build instead a small private mosque adjacent to the caravanserai, indicating

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that the Ganj ‘Ali Khan complex draws together the many strands of placemaking we see in Esfahan. The building campaign on Farahabad, a royal city in Mazandaran, alongside Behshahr (‘Ashraf al-belad’ of the Safavid sources), began in 1611–12, just as the principal features of the master plan in Esfahan were reaching completion, and the foundations for the new congregational mosque, the Masjed-e Jame‘ (the Shah or Imam Mosque) were laid down (Figure 2).32 Both Mazandaran cities are understood through a few extant buildings and descriptions of the urban scheme and there is generally less clarity regarding their building chronology or principal features. Focusing on Farahabad, it is clear that the scheme included a meydan–mosque ensemble and a royal enclave and gardens.33 The Farahabad constructions were as complex in terms of urban design as we would expect from such planning: taking advantage of the natural sources of water – especially the Tajina River – with a bridge to connect the urban developments on either side, bazaars, a congregational mosque and other amenities. The order by Shah ‘Abbas I to build a congregational mosque in Farahabad should be seen as the legal necessity for this newly established settlement to constitute a city, a mesr. Moreover, this was the summer capital, the place to which the court and the shah could retreat. That Farahabad–Ashraf served as the summer capital is amply attested to by travellers who followed the shah there to gain audience and to negotiate commercial and diplomatic deals.34 The mosque in Farahabad was the only other congregational mosque, as opposed to local, neighbourhood mosques, to have been built during the entire reign of the Safavids. The first one was in Esfahan and marked, as I have argued, the consolidation of imperial authority invested through Imami Shi‘ism.35 This was a political gesture of enormous consequence, an affirmation of the centrality of the version of Islam that permanently changed the power dynamics in the Islamicate world; an act comparable to the building of St Peter’s Basilica in Rome in the fourth century as the symbolic confirmation of the empire’s ‘conversion’ to Christianity. Farahabad of Mazandaran was laid out afresh as a brand-new city and its design bears the hallmarks of the Safavid town planning seen in other cities, albeit each with their own obligatory foundations: in this case a meydan and the congregational mosque – alongside the marketplace, the location of which is not easily ascertained from the sources – articulated the urban–legal necessities. The argument here is not that the building of a jame‘ mosque makes this a specifically Safavid town-planning enterprise. Rather, the fresh planning, as opposed to an organic outgrowth from other urban features, distinguishes Farahabad as a model of Safavid urban design that meets and anticipates both short- and long-term visions of the city. The earliest of these Safavid examples is, of course, Qazvin, an old city that was targeted for new development to accommodate the need to transfer the capital from Tabriz during the reign of Shah Tahmasp in around 1555

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(Figure 3).36 Qazvin’s design is celebrated for its royal precinct – an ensemble of pavilions, gardens and administrative buildings that inspired the poetic descriptions by ‘Abdi Beg Shirazi and their modern-day literary analysis.37 What is of interest here, however, is the features of the design that speak to both the practical and the political criteria for the new city. In Qazvin, the royal precinct was laid to the east of the old city, while its public square – a perfect rectangle, albeit very narrow and very long – was situated to the south of the main entrance gateway into the precinct. Here, the new development did not qualify as a brand-new city, in the way that Esfahan’s transition into the Safavid capital would do late in the century or that Farahabad’s did in Mazandaran. Instead, the medieval Seljuq-era jame‘ of Qazvin continued to serve as the principal congregational mosque of the city. The legal arguments that Kana’an has foregrounded should settle the oft-repeated but mistaken assumption that the so-called Shah Mosque in Qazvin was a Safavid foundation. The city was nevertheless planned to assume the functions of a capital city with amenities that set the political agenda – the capacity to perform imperial functions in the public view in the meydan – in concert with the economic and social needs of an urban development. In Qazvin, but also in Kerman and Yazd, both of which continued to use their respective Mozaffaridperiod jame‘ during the Safavid period, the cities were subjected to a new premeditated, designed and future-facing urban thinking that did not include the building of a new congregational mosque, a jame‘. It is worth a brief glance at the evidence from before the Safavid period, at Samarqand and Herat, the closest precedents and often presented as models for the urban developments in Qazvin or Esfahan. In Samarqand, the building of a new city was predicated on Timur’s interventions when he laid down the basic armature of his capital with a jame‘, the famous Bibi Khanom Mosque, and a bazaar artery leading to the dynastic tomb, the Gur-e Amir.38 This, however, does not add up to a full articulation of an urban scheme, which grew later in two phases: with his grandson Ologh Beg’s eponymous madrasa built in 1417– 20, and even later, in the seventeenth century, with the Shibanid additions of two more madrasas to make the rectangular public space of Registan. Fifteenthcentury Herat grew around the crossing point of four bazaars at a chaharsu and inside the city walls while its principle religious and governmental features grew outside the city.39 In neither case is there any evidence of urban planning of the sort I have proposed here for the Safavid period. The only other planned city contemporaneous and comparable with the Safavid Esfahan, is the Mughal city of Shahjahanabad. According to the sources, Esfahan inspired Shah Jahan to lay down a fully articulated new capital in the vicinity of the earlier cities that make up Delhi.40 While Esfahan and Delhi present fresh campaigns of urban design, Istanbul offers a comparison for its mahalla (quarter) approach, each comprising a new urban centre. Even though the Byzantine-era hippodrome was gradually developed in the Ottoman period as an imperial

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urban centre, the city’s transition into the new capital city of the Ottomans, from the middle of the fifteenth century, hinged on multiple major mosque complexes, each creating an urban nodal point focused on the hills of Istanbul, and not on a single jame‘.41 This brief survey suffices only to underscore the differing approaches to urban planning and to highlight the particularity of the Safavid plans, which inform a method of approach, a systemic design thinking articulated by the built features of the urban environments. To conclude, the evidence of Safavid cities suggests the crucial feature to be the full-scale planning of urban centres. Whether they are freshly laid down (as in Esfahan and Farahabad of Mazandaran), injected into the older medieval fabric of the city (as in Qazvin and Kerman), or developed as ‘new’ areas of the new city (as in the Khvaju quarter and Farahabad in Esfahan), these building programmes indicate a degree of design intentionality that extends beyond the presumed organic growth in the built environment of towns and the histories of the cities in this period. The concept of urban planning in this case is anchored by the proliferation of habits we associate with urbanity; these include aspects of social consciousness of one’s urban context of living and all the attendant features of belonging to and partaking in complex social structures and practices: strolling, seeing others, dressing up to visit public sites of sociability, café- and tavern-hopping, spending time in leisurely pursuits. Furthermore, the argument for urban planning, as opposed to organic development of the preSafavid cities, may be couched in the language of early modernity. Urban planning in the Safavid period is predicated on the provision of spaces and conducive conditions for social life, which in fact engender new habits of sociability. Frequenting the meydan, hanging out under the arches to watch parades, strolling down tree-lined avenues or across a bridge, picnicking; if urban denizens in Samarqand, medieval Esfahan or medieval Shiraz were also engaging in such urban-centred activities, the evidence is scanty and unconvincing. But in the sixteenth and especially seventeenth centuries in Iran (as in Istanbul and Delhi), denizens took their places inside the urban spaces and engendered new habits and partook in the social life of the city. Habits of urbanity are perhaps so developed, so prevalent indeed, in the Safavid period as to begin to appear in pictorial representations even if as smaller vignettes and in otherwise fixed iconographies in classical subjects (stories of the Shahnama or Khamsa and others). In the seventeenth-century proliferation of new subjects too, artists depict or invoke the urban context. In Safavid-era paintings – in manuscripts and single-folio format – vignettes of urban life appear with greater frequency and interest in their details: a glimpse of the street leading to the hammam entrance where ‘the dervish picks up his beloved’s hair’ in one of the paintings in the famous Freer Jami;42 the city with its shops, mosque and a view into the palace in the folio attributed to Mir Sayyed ‘Ali detached from a manuscript of Khamsa of Nezami made for Shah Tahmasp;43 and numerous examples in Shiraz manuscript paintings of the

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second half of the sixteenth century.44 A new text, composed during the last years of the reign of the Timurid Soltan-Hoseyn-e Bayqara in Herat, the Majales al-‘oshshaq, was copied and illustrated in Shiraz in the Safavid period with its stories staged in urban scenes; with streets where shoemaker, butcher or bookseller shops are depicted with the denizens strolling about and shopping.45 It is also possible to suggest here that those habits of urbanity came about at the same time as the proliferation of a literary genre in the early modern period known as shahrashub (urban sedition), which was widespread across the Ottoman, Safavid and Mughal worlds.46 Sunil Sharma, whose chapter in this volume further expounds on the genre, and other scholars attribute the flourishing of the shahrashub genre to the rise of a literary form that was local and socially engaged; as much concerned with pride in one’s city as with the conditions of life; as much a eulogy for a building or site as a social or political critique.47 The shahrashub genre is not limited or unique to the Persianate world or to Safavid Iran: there is the Mughal variety in Persian and the Ottoman Turkish genre, known as şehrengiz.48 While the link between the urban literary genre and the emergence of an urban-focused design and development enterprise are not necessarily enmeshed – certainly not in a cause and effect formula – the literary emphasis on city sites in the Safavid context, especially in Esfahan, is compelling evidence of the sort of urban consciousness that the planning impulse seems to indicate. The evidence for Farahabad of Esfahan in the Fotuhat-e giti-setan, noted earlier, is in fact in the form of a shahrashub. There are other examples of the same genre, such as the Khvaju developments during the reign of Shah ‘Abbas II, recorded in the chronicle by the court historian Taher Vahid.49 While there is not enough evidence at the moment to draw the links with certainty, the subject is generating increasing scholarly interest and holds a great deal of promise for early modern urban studies in the Islamicate world and especially in the Safavid era. This research has detected in the planned Safavid cities a built ‘theory’ of urban planning. It has pointed to a significant reiteration of an idea that centres on the provisions for integrated social and political life. In that regard, the planned design is, at least in principle, more in line with or cognizant of the ancient cities of Iran, without suggesting that the Safavid ones were modelled on the Sasanian cities, for example. The argument here is about the Safavid ideological and socio-political armature that invokes the deep past.50 It posits that urban design and theory are integral features of a sense of distinction – in part inspired by Pierre Bourdieu’s argument about distinction and difference – understood through the lens of a sense of Iran and Iranianness for which the most pronounced and self-consciously consistent expressive instances since the rise of Islam in Iran are found in the Safavid period. Town planning, in other words, is revived as an enterprise for giving physical shape to an idea, a conceptual inclination for which we may find occasional disparate sparkles in

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the medieval Islamic history of urban developments in Iran, but nothing as persistently prevalent as the cases of the Safavid period.

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Notes: 1. I would like to take this opportunity to acknowledge the assistance of Alexandra Gimbel for her stellar work on the bibliography and references. For a dictionary definition of the subject, see Susan S. Fainstein, ‘Urban planning’. The classic studies on urban planning are Spiro Kostof, The City Shaped and Spiro Kostof, Greg Castillo and Richard Tobias, The City Assembled. 2. ‘What is urban planning?’, School of Architecture and Urban Planning, University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, online at https://uwm.edu/sarup/urban-planning/faq/ [accessed 20 May 2020]. See also Bert de Munck, ‘Re-assembling actor-network theory and urban history’. 3. For classic studies on Iranian and Islamic cities, see Heinz Gaube, Iranian Cities; Ira M. Lapidus, Muslim Cities in the Later Middle Ages; and Frédy Bémont, Le villes de l’Iran. See also Sussan Babaie, Isfahan and its Palaces. 4. Marshall Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 1, p. 59; see also Gaube, Iranian Cities. 5. Matthew Canepa’s concept, The Iranian Expanse, focuses largely on funerary and palatial sites of memory and utilizes buildings, their landscape and their related objects. For the round city of Firuzabad, see Hossein Maroufi, ‘Urban planning in ancient cities of Iran’. 6. Alastair Northedge, ‘Early Islamic urbanism’; Robert Hillenbrand, ‘The symbolism of the rayed nimbus in early Islamic art’. The circular design of Baghdad and its connection with Ecbatana, for example, is discussed by A.A. Duri, in Bosworth, ed., Historic Cities of the Islamic World, pp. 31–33. For the crafting of royal cities in general and in Baghdad, see Mary W. Helms, Craft and the Kingly Ideal, especially pp. 85–87. 7. David Whitehouse, ‘Siraf: A medieval port on the Persian Gulf’. 8. Ruba Kana’an, The Friday Mosque: Law, Architecture, and Urbanism in Muslim Societies (in preparation). I am grateful to Dr Kana’an, who has shared her new research with me during a number of discussions about the subject, and generously provided me with the text of ‘The shah and the ‘ulama: A tale of two mosques in Isfahan’, a paper she presented at The Courtauld Institute of Art on 9 May 2019. 9. See Samuel Stern, ‘The constitution of the Islamic city’, pp. 1–30; Robert Ilbert, ‘La ville islamique’, pp. 6–13; and Janet Abu-Lughod, ‘The Islamic city’, pp. 155–76. 10. Renata Holod, ed., Studies on Isfahan; Lisa Golombek, ‘Urban patterns in preSafavid Isfahan’, pp. 18–44. 11. For one of the most comprehensive studies on the Friday Mosque of Esfahan, see Oleg Grabar, The Great Mosque of Isfahan. 12. Eugenio Galdieri, ‘Two building phases of the time of Šāh ‘Abbas I in the Maydan-i Šāh of Isfahan’, pp. 60–69. 13. Nader Ardalan and Laleh Bakhtiyar, The Sense of Unity; Iranian architect-scholars tend to promote these sorts of essentialized ideas of the city in Iran and consider it as timeless, continually reasserting ideas and forms from antiquity into the modern era. 14. Robert Hillenbrand surveys the most important monuments and some of the urban development schemes of the Safavid period; he does not, however, explore urban planning as discussed here: Hillenbrand, ‘Safavid architecture’, pp. 759–842.

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15. See Figures 2, 3, 4, 7; these images were prepared by Tasnim Eshraqi, an architect and artist who has, on my request, used his pen-and-ink mastery in sketching buildings and spaces to evoke the urban plans and their constituent parts. I am grateful to Mr Eshraqi for his cheerful and skillful collaboration. The point of the sketches is to evoke what we know and can see or walk in a city and not to convey the certainty of a plan or elevation in the traditional technical drawings that usually accompany such architectural studies. 16. See Rudi Matthee, The Politics of Trade in Safavid Iran for the silk trade and its significance. For the Mazandaran development, at least in the context of a local history, see Manuchehr Ebrāhim Sotuda, Az Āstārā tā Estārbād, vol. IV, pp. 580– 663. See also Babaie, Isfahan, Chapter 5. 17. For sources on Qazvin, see Maria Szuppe, ‘Palais et jardins’; Ehsan Echraqi, ‘Description contemporaine des peintures murals disparues des Palais de Shah Tahmasp à Qazvin’ and idem ‘Le Dār al-Saltana de Qazvin’, pp. 105–15; Babaie, Isfahan, Chapter 2. On Tabriz, the physical evidence is completely lacking, and the descriptions remain difficult to reconcile. One thing seems clear, nevertheless: Shah Esma‘il (r. 1501–24), who assumed Tabriz as his capital following his defeat of the Aq Qoyunlu predecessors, did not build an urban ensemble and we do not know exactly what the usual meydan-bazaar-mosque in Tabriz looked like in terms of a designed plan. 18. Babaie, ‘Sacred sites of kingship’, pp. 193–94. 19. Peyvand Firouzeh, ‘Architecture, Sanctity, and Power’, pp. 134, 189. For medieval Yazd and its congregational mosque, see Mohammad Mofid Mostowfi Bāfqi, Jāme‘-e Mofidi, p. 800. See also Hamid Afshar and Parham Karimi, The Historical Urban Fabric of Yazd City. For the early modern history of Yazd, see Derek J. Mancini-Lander’s doctoral dissertation, ‘Memory on the Boundaries of Empire’ and a review of it by Kaveh Hemmat. For a study of Yazd in the medieval period, see Renata Holod, ‘The Monuments of Yazd, 1300–1450’. 20. Sussan Babaie and Çiğdem Kafescioğlu, ‘Istanbul, Isfahan, and Delhi’. 21. Robert McChesney, ‘Four sources on Shah Abbas’s building of Isfahan’; Heinz Gaube and Eugene Wirth, Der Bazar von Isfahan; Masashi Haneda, ‘Maydān et Bāġ, pp. 87–99; idem, ‘The character of the urbanization of Isfahan in the later Safavid period’, pp. 369–88, as well as Babaie, Isfahan, pp. 65–113 and Babaie, ‘Sacred sites.’ 22. Seyed Mohammad Ali Emrani, The Role of Gardens and Tree-Lined Streets in the Development of Safavid Isfahan; Farshid Emami, ‘Coffeehouses, urban spaces, and the formation of a public sphere in Safavid Isfahan’. 23. For a discussion of a Safavid source discovered by Charles Melville and his redating of the bridge, see Charles Melville, ‘New light on Shah ‘Abbas and the construction of Isfahan’, pp. 155–76, esp. pp. 168–69. 24. Sussan Babaie, ‘Launching from Isfahan,’ pp. 89–92; and Eskandar Beg Monshi, Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, pp. 949–50. 25. Little has been written about the Khvaju quarter and its urban development. For the principal documents and a description, see Lotfollāh Honarfar, Ganjina-ye āsār-e tārikhi-ye Esfahān, pp. 582–85; see also Heinz Luschey, ‘The Pul-i Khwājū in Isfahan’.

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26. The complete inscriptions are published by Honarfar, Ganjina-ye āsār-e tārikhi, pp. 685–722. A brief study of the complex as a building project is offered by Hillenbrand, ‘Safavid architecture’, pp. 808–11. Yasmin Siabi, a current PhD candidate at The Courtauld Institute of Art, focuses her dissertation on this complex and its significance in re-situating late Safavid architecture and art away from the usual scholarly lamentations over the decline of the empire. 27. For Khātunābādi and Farahabad, see Hans Roemer, ‘The Safavid period’, p. 320; Babaie, Isfahan, pp. 206–13. 28. The royal complex is often seen as a palatial garden and not necessarily as a city. I disagree, as the sources seem to point to elements of an urban development and not simply a palace complex; Isfahan, pp. 209–11. For a brief description drawn from European sources and a plan, see also Mahvash Alemi, ‘Bagh-i Farahabad’. 29. Nozhat Ahmadi and Muhsin Muhammadi Fasharaki, Fotuhāt-e giti-setān (forthcoming, Uppsala University). I am grateful to Dr Ahmadi for sharing with me a pre-publication draft of the text. 30. For a full discussion of the water sources and the greening of the city, see Emrani, The Role of Gardens. 31. On Kerman, see especially Golombek, ‘The “Citadel, town, suburbs” model’. Bāqer Āyatollāhzāda Shirazi briefly discusses the characteristics of Seljuq and Safavid Kerman in ‘Moshakhkhassa-hā-ye bārez dowra-ye Saljuqi va dowra-ye Safavi’. Hillenbrand, ‘Safavid architecture’, pp. 793–95 and Matthee, ‘Kerman’ on the history and economic significance of Kerman in the Safavid period. See also Babaie, ‘Sacred sites’, pp. 193–99. 32. On Farahabad, remains are fragmentary and scholarship is scanty. For a general reference to the archaeological remains, see Sotuda, Az Āstārā tā Estārbād, vol. IV, pp. 580–663. On Ashraf, see also Yves Porter, ‘Les jardins d’Ashraf vus par Henry Viollet’, pp. 117–38; Babaie, Isfahan, pp. 169–76; Kleiss Wolfram, ‘Farahābād’. 33. On Farahabad, see also Alemi, ‘Bagh-i Farahabad’. 34. Sir Thomas Herbert, among them, gives a good description of the new constructions in Mazandaran; Herbert, Travels in Persia, pp. 154–55. 35. Babaie, Isfahan, pp. 95–97, and ‘Sacred sites’, pp. 189–91. 36. On Qazvin, see Szuppe, ‘Palais et jardins’; Echraqi, ‘Description contemporaine des peintures murals’; Babaie, ‘Sacred sites’, pp. 201–2; idem, Isfahan, Chapter 2. For the debates on the date of transfer, see the chapter by Gregory Aldous in this volume. 37. See ‘Abdi Beg Shirāzi, Rowzat al-sefat, in Losensky, ‘The palace of praise and the melons of time’; Szuppe, ‘Palais et jardins’. 38. Lisa Golombek and Donald Wilber’s The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan, perhaps the most important study of Timurid architecture in not only Samarqand but also the Timurid realms, does not have a sustained discussion of urban planning. 39. Terry Allen, Timurid Herat, pp. 46–55. 40. See Stephen P. Blake, Shahjahanabad, and Babaie and Kafescioğlu, ‘Istanbul, Isfahan, and Delhi’. 41. See Çiğdem Kafescioğlu, Constantinopolis/Istanbul.

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42. The hammam scene is in the Selselat al-dhahab (Chain of gold) in the Haft owrang (Seven thrones) by Jāmi (d. 1492); opaque watercolour, ink and gold on paper, 34.2 × 23.2 cm; Iran, 1555–56; National Museum of Asian Art (Washington, DC), F1946.12.59. Accessible at https://asia.si.edu/object/F1946.12.59/. 43. Mir Sayyed ‘Ali, ‘Nighttime in a city’, possibly from a manuscript of Khamsa of Nezāmi made for Shah Tahmasp, opaque watercolour, gold and silver on paper, 28.6 × 20 cm; Tabriz, ca. 1540; Harvard University Art Museums (Cambridge, MA), 1958.76. Accessible at https://hvrd.art/o/3033. 44. See Lâle Uluç, Turkman Governors, Shiraz Artisans and Ottoman Collectors, especially pp. 183–223. 45. For the Majāles examples, see Uluç, Turkman Governors, figures 144–145; for other illustrated texts, see figures 157 and 160, where the artist offers a full image of the urban fabric with crowds of people shopping, talking and walking about. 46. Sunil Sharma, ‘City of beauties in Indo-Persian poetic landscape’ and his chapter in this volume. 47. See also Losensky, ‘“The equal of heaven’s vault”’. 48. See Nile Green, ed., The Persianate World. Çiğdem Kafescioğlu’s current research considers the genre in relation to Istanbul. She presented the subject in her keynote address delivered on 15 November 2019 at the conference, ‘Decentring the Flâneur: Global histories of walking the early modern city’, organized by Sussan Babaie and Richard Wrigley at The Courtauld Institute of Art. See also her ‘Viewing, walking, mapping Istanbul, ca. 1580’. 49. Mohammad Tāher Vahid, ‘Abbāsnāma, pp. 259–63; see also Losensky, ‘Heaven’s vault’. 50. This argument inspired Persian Kingship and Architecture, my co-edited volume, and my own chapter therein, ‘Sacred sites’. A recent study by Lindsay Allen and Moya Carey, ‘Éminences grises: emergent antiquities in seventeenth-century Iran’, explores the revivalist tendencies which inspired the adoption of Persepolitan motifs in some Safavid paintings, especially of the seventeenth century. I thank the authors for sharing their forthcoming article with me.

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Bibliography: Abu-Lughod, Janet L., ‘The Islamic city: Historic myth, Islamic essence, and contemporary relevance’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 19, no. 2 (May 1987), pp. 155–76. Afshar, Hamid and Parham Karimi, The Historical Urban Fabric of Yazd City (Tehran: Iranology Foundation, Department of Art and Architecture, 2017). Alemi, Mahvash, ‘Bagh-i Farahabad’, online at https://www.doaks.org/resou rces/middle-east-garden-traditions/catalogue/C178 [accessed 17 May 2020]. Allen, Lindsay and Moya Carey, ‘Éminences grises: emergent antiquities in seventeenth-century Iran’, in Carvings in and out of Time: Afterlives of Rock-Cut Reliefs in the Ancient Near East, ed. Jonathan Ben Dov and Felipe Rojas, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming), pp. 304-63. Allen, Terry, Timurid Herat (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1983). Ardalan, Nader and Laleh Bakhtiyar, The Sense of Unity: The Sufi Tradition in Persian Architecture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973). Babaie, Sussan, ‘Launching from Isfahan: Slaves and the construction of the empire’, in Sussan Babaie, Kathryn Babayan, Ina Baghdiantz-McCabe and Massumeh Farhad, Slaves of the Shah (London: I.B. Tauris, 2004), pp. 80– 113. — Isfahan and its Palaces: Statecraft, Shi’ism and the Architecture of Conviviality in Early Modern Iran (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008). — ‘Sacred sites of kingship: The maydan and mapping the spatial-spiritual of the empire in Safavid Iran’, in Persian Kingship and Architecture: Strategies of Power in Iran from the Achaemenids to the Pahlavis, ed. Sussan Babaie and Talinn Grigor (London: I.B. Tauris, 2015), pp. 175–217. Babaie, Sussan and Talinn Grigor, eds, Persian Kingship and Architecture: Strategies of Power in Iran from the Achaemenids to the Pahlavis (London: I.B. Tauris, 2015). Babaie, Sussan and Ciğdem Kafescioğlu, ‘Istanbul, Isfahan, and Delhi: Imperial designs and urban experiences in the early modern era (1450– 1650)’, in A Companion to Islamic Art and Architecture: Early Modern Empires and their Neighbors (1450–1700), vol. II, ed. Finnbar Barry Flood and Gülru Necipoğlu (Oxford: Blackwell, 2017), pp. 846–73. Bémont, Frédy, Le villes de l’Iran. Les cités d’autrefois à l’urbanisme contemporain, 3 vols (Paris, 1969–77). Blake, Stephen P., Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City in Mughal India 1639– 1739 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). Bosworth, Clifford Edmund, ed., Historic Cities of the Islamic World (Leiden: Brill, 2007).

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Canepa, Matthew, The Iranian Expanse: Transforming Royal Identity through Architecture, Landscape, and the Built Environment, 550 BCE–642 CE (Oakland: University of California Press, 2018). de Certeau, Michel and Steven Rendall, trans., The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984). Eaton, Richard M., India in the Persianate Age, 1000–1765 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2019). Echraqi, Ehsan, ‘Description contemporaine des peintures murals disparues des Palais de Shah Tahmasp à Qazvin’, in Art et société dans le monde iranien, ed. Chahryar Adle (Paris: Editions Recherche sur le civilization, 1982), pp. 117–26. — ‘Le Dār al-Saltana de Qazvin deuxième capitale des Safavides’, in Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society, ed. Charles Melville (London: I.B. Tauris, 1996), pp. 105–15. Emami, Farshid, ‘Coffeehouses, urban spaces, and the formation of a public sphere in Safavid Isfahan’, Muqarnas 33 (2016), pp. 177–220. Emrani, Seyed Mohammad Ali, The Role of Gardens and Tree-lined Streets in the Development of Safavid Isfahan (1590–1722); A Comparative Approach (Paris and Versailles in the 17th century) (Munich: Verlag Dr. Hut, 2013). Eskandar Beg Monshi Torkamān, Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, ed. Iraj Afshār, 2 vols (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1350/1971). Fainstein, Susan S., ‘Urban planning’, online at https://www.britannica.com/ topic/urban-planning [accessed 20 May 2020]. Firouzeh, Peyvand, ‘Architecture, Sanctity, and Power: Niʻmatullahi Shrines and Khanaqahs in Fifteenth-Century Iran and India’, doctoral dissertation (University of Cambridge, 2016). Galdieri, Eugenio, ‘Two building phases of the time of Šāh ‘Abbas I in the Maydan-i Šāh of Isfahan – preliminary note’, East and West 20 (1970), pp. 60–69. Gaube, Heinz, Iranian Cities (New York: New York University Press, 1979). Gaube, Heinz and Eugene Wirth, Der Bazar von Isfahan (Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 1978). Golombek, Lisa, ‘Urban patterns in pre-Safavid Isfahan’, Iranian Studies 7, no. 3 (1974), pp. 18–44. — ‘The “Citadel, town, suburbs” model and medieval Kirman’, in The City in the Islamic World, ed. Salma K. Jayyusi, Renata Holod, Attilio Petruccioli and André Raymond (Leiden: Brill, 2008), pp. 445–64. Golombek, Lisa and Donald Wilber, The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988). Grabar, Oleg, The Great Mosque of Isfahan (New York: New York University Press, 1990). Green, Nile, ed., The Persianate World: The Frontiers of a Eurasian Lingua Franca (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2019).

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Haneda, Masashi, ‘Maydān et Bāġ. Reflexion à propos de l’urbanisme du Šāh ‘Abbās’, in Documents et Archives provenant de L’Asie Centrale: Actes du colloque franco-japonais, Kyoto (Kyoto International Conference Hall et Univ. Ryukoku, 4–8 octobre 1988), ed. Akira Haneda (Kyoto: Association Franco-Japonaise des Études Orientales, 1990), pp. 87–99. — ‘The character of the urbanization of Isfahan in the later Safavid period’, in Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society, ed. Charles Melville (London: I.B. Tauris, 1996), pp. 369–88. Helms, Mary W., Craft and the Kingly Ideal: Art, Trade, and Power (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1993). Hemmat, Kaveh, ‘A review of Memory on the Boundaries of Empire: Narrating Place in the Early Modern Local Historiography of Yazd, by Derek J. Mancini-Lander’, Dissertation Reviews, online at http://disserta tionreviews.org/archives/8127 [accessed 18 May 2020]. Herbert, Sir Thomas, Travels in Persia 1627–1629, abridged edn, ed. W. Foster (London: G. Routledge & Sons, Ltd, 1928). Hillenbrand, Robert, ‘Safavid architecture’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6, The Timurid and Safavid Periods, ed. Peter Jackson and Laurence Lockhart (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 759–842. — ‘The symbolism of the rayed nimbus in early Islamic art’, Cosmos 2 (1988), pp. 1–52. — Islamic Architecture: Form, Function, and Meaning (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004). Hodgson, Marshall G.S., The Venture of Islam, vol. 1: The Classical Age of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974). Holod, Renata, ‘The Monuments of Yazd, 1300–1450: Architecture, Patronage and Setting’, doctoral dissertation (Harvard University, 1972). — ed., Studies on Isfahan, special issue of Iranian Studies 8, no. 1–2 (1974). Honarfar, Lotfollāh, Ganjina-ye āsār-e tārikhi-ye Esfahān (Isfahan: Ketābforushi-e Saqafi, 1344/1965). Ilbert, Robert, ‘La ville islamique: réalité et abstraction’, Les cahiers de la recherche architecturale 10–11 (1982), pp. 6–13. Kafescioğlu, Çiğdem, Constantinopolis/Istanbul: Cultural Encounter, Imperial Vision, and the Construction of the Ottoman Capital (University Park: Penn State University Press, 2009). — ‘Viewing, walking, mapping Istanbul, ca. 1580’, in Littoral and Liminal Spaces: The Early Modern Mediterranean and Beyond, ed. Hannah Baader and Gerhard Wolf (Florence: Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz, 2014), pp. 17–37. Kana’an, Ruba, The Friday Mosque: Law, Architecture, and Urbanism in Muslim Societies (forthcoming).

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Keyāni, Mohammad Yusof, ‘Behshahr (ashraf al-belād): pāytakht-e tābestāni’, in Pāytakht-hā-ye Irān, ed. Mohammad Yusof Keyāni (Tehran: Sāzmān-e mirās-e farhangi-ye keshvar, 1995). Kleiss, Wolfram, ‘Faraḥābād’, Encyclopaedia Iranica (1999), online at http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/farahabad [accessed 17 May 2020]. Kostof, Spiro, The City Shaped: Urban Patterns and Meanings (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1992). Kostof, Spiro, Greg Castillo and Richard Tobias, The City Assembled: The Elements of Urban Form through History (London: Thames and Hudson, 1999). Lapidus, Ira M., Muslim Cities in the Later Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). Losensky, Paul, ‘The palace of praise and the melons of time: Descriptive patterns in ‘Abdi Bayk Shirazi’s Garden of Eden’, Eurasian Studies 2 (2003), pp. 1–29. — ‘“The equal of heaven’s vault”: The design, ceremony, and poetry of the Ḥasanābād Bridge’, in Writers and Rulers: Perspectives on their Relationship from Abbasid to Safavid Times, ed. Beatrice Gruendler and Louise Marlow (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2004), pp. 195–216. — ‘Coordinates in space and time: Architectural chronograms in Safavid Iran’, in New Perspectives on Safavid Iran: Empire and Society, ed. Colin P. Mitchell (London: Routledge, 2011), pp. 198–219. Luschey, Heinz, ‘The Pul-i Khwājū in Isfahan: A combination of bridge, dam and water art’, Iran 23 (1985), pp. 143–51. McChesney, Robert, ‘Four sources on Shah ‘Abbas’s building of Isfahan’, Muqarnas 5 (1988), pp. 103–34. Mancini-Lander, Derek J., ‘Memory on the Boundaries of Empire: Narrating Place in the Early Modern Local Historiography of Yazd’, doctoral dissertation (University of Michigan, 2012). Maroufi, Hossein, ‘Urban planning in ancient cities of Iran: Understanding the meaning of urban form in the Sasanian city of Ardašīr-Xwarrah’, Planning Perspectives (2019) DOI: 10.1080/02665433.2019.1684353. Matthee, Rudi, The Politics of Trade in Safavid Iran: Silk for Silver 1600–1730 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). — ‘Kerman vii. History in the Safavid Period’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, online at http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/kerman-07-safavid-period [accessed 21 May 2020]. Melville, Charles, ‘New light on Shah ‘Abbas and the construction of Isfahan’, Muqarnas 33 (2016), pp. 155–76. Mofid Mostowfi Bāfqi, Mohammad, Jāme‘-e Mofidi, ed. Iraj Afshār, vol. 2 (Tehran: Asadi Books, 1340/1961). de Munck, Bert, ‘Re-assembling actor-network theory and urban history’, Urban Studies 44 (2017), pp. 111–22.

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Northedge, Alastair, ‘Early Islamic urbanism’, in A Companion to Islamic Art and Architecture: Early Modern Empires and their Neighbors (1450–1700), vol. I, ed. Finnbar Barry Flood and Gülru Necipoğlu (Oxford: Blackwell, 2017), pp. 155–76. Porter, Yves, ‘Les jardins d’Ashraf vus par Henry Viollet’, in ‘Sites et monuments disparu d’aprés les témoignes de voyageurs’, Res Orientales 8 (1996), 117–38. Quiring-Zoche, Rosemarie, Isfahan im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert: Ein Beitrag zur persischen Stadtgeschichte (Freiberg: Schwarz, 1980). Rizvi, Kishwar, ‘Architecture and the representations of kingship during the reign of the Safavid Shah Abbas I’, in Every Inch a King: From Alexander to the King of Kings, ed. Charles Melville and Lynette Mitchell (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 240–56. Roemer, Hans R., ‘The Safavid Period’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6, The Timurid and Safavid Periods, ed. Peter Jackson and Laurence Lockhart (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 189–350. Shafaqi, Sirous, Joghrāfeyā-ye tārikhi-ye Esfahān (Isfahan: Isfahan University Press, 1381/2003). Sharma, Sunil, ‘The city of beauties in Indo-Persian poetic landscape’, Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East 24, no. 2 (2004), pp. 73–81. — ‘“If there is a paradise on earth, it is here”: Urban ethnography in IndoPersian poetic and historical texts’, in Forms of Knowledge in Early Modern Asia: Explorations in the Intellectual History of India and Tibet, 1500– 1800, ed. Sheldon Pollock (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2011), pp. 240–56. — ‘Shahrashub’, in A History of Persian Literature (forthcoming). Shirāzi, Bāqer Āyatollāhzāda, ‘Moshakhkhassa-hā-ye bārez dowra-ye Saljuqi va dowra-ye Safavi’, in the conference proceedings Tārikh-e me‘māri va shahrsāzi-ye Irān: Arg-e Bam, Kermān, vol. IV, pp. 219–22 (Tehran: Cultural Heritage Organization, 1374/1995). Sotuda, Manuchehr Ebrāhim, Az Āstārā tā Estārbād, 10 vols (Tehran, 1366/1987). Stern, Samuel, ‘The constitution of the Islamic City’, in The Islamic City: A Colloquium, ed. A. Hourani and S. Stern (Oxford: Bruno Cassirer, 1970), pp. 1–30. Szuppe, Maria, ‘Palais et jardins: Le complexe royal des premiers safavides à Qazvin, milieu XVI–début XVII siècles’, Res Orientalis 8 (1996), pp. 143– 77. Taghavi, Abed, Saman Farzin and Maryam Zoor, ‘Function of Iranian cities in Safavid era: Political cities or commercial cities’, Journal of Anthropology and Archaeology 1 (2013), pp. 28–40.

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Uluç, Lâle, Turkman Governors, Shiraz Artisans and Ottoman Collectors: Sixteenth Century Shiraz Manuscripts (Istanbul, Türkiye İş Bankası, 2006). Vahid, Mohammad Tāher Qazvini, ‘Abbāsnāma, ed. Ebrāhim Dehqān (Arak, 1329/1951). Whitehouse, David, ‘Siraf: A medieval port on the Persian Gulf’, World Archaeology 2, no. 2, Urban Archaeology (October 1970), pp. 141–58.

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6 From Absolute Prince to Despot: The Political Representations of Safavid Iran in Seventeenth-Century France Aurélie Salesse-Chabrier (Independent scholar) De tous ces vastes Empires de l’Orient, où les hommes ont esté attirez jusqu’à present des climats les plus éloignez, soit par la curiosité d’acquerir de nouvelles connoissances, soit par l’avidité de s’enrichir, il n’y en a point ce me semble qui ne doive ceder à la Perse, tant pour la temperature de l’air, pour le genie qui y est plus raisonnable qu’ailleurs, et plus approchant du nostre, que pour toutes les choses excellentes et rares qui s’y trouvent en abondance.1

I

n the introduction to the Couronnement de Soleïmaan troisième, roy de Perse, Jean Chardin briefly outlines the mindset of the French people concerning the Safavid monarchy: Persia is viewed as a distant but attractive country, arousing the attention and curiosity of learned elites as well as travellers eager to get rich. The author refers to a specific period of Safavid history, beginning at the turn of the sixteenth century, with the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I (r. 1587–1629). The royal power then succeeded in asserting itself not only over the various factions of the Turkmen aristocracy, the ‘Red-headdress’ amirs (qezelbash in Turkish, named after their distinctive red headgear), but also over the neighbouring powers represented by the Ottoman, Ozbek and Mughal Empires.2 The establishment of authoritarian power, concentrated in the hands of the shah, raises fundamental issues about the nature and reality of power in Iran. The shah appears as an ambivalent sovereign figure, both tyrannical and temperate. This new conception of authority, as the exercise of true absolute power, must be seen in the context of the rise of absolutism in France, as perceived and theorized by seventeenth-century thinkers.3 In his book, Chardin intends not only to present a political model, which is already well known to the educated public – notably through the narratives of Antonio de Gouvea, Pietro Della Valle, Adam Olearius, the Ambassador Don Garcia de Silva y Figueroa or Thomas Herbert, who had achieved great publishing success since the middle of the century – but also to participate in a wider debate on the evolution of monarchical power. His dedication to Louis

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XIV also emphasizes the importance, according to him, of public reflection on a model of government whose nature and changes can serve to educate ‘honnêtes gens’ as well as men of power. His example was followed by many authors, such as François Sanson, Gabriel de Chinon, Corneille Le Bruyn and Father Krusinski, who continued to reflect on the changes in power in Iran. Despite the interest aroused by the Safavid state in seventeenth-century France, few studies have so far been devoted to understanding these political representations.4 How did the French perceive the power of the Iranian rulers? What image did they retain of it: that of a model, likely to inspire their political leaders, or a deterrent, intended, on the contrary, to protect them from possible excesses or abuses in the exercise of their office? In this chapter, I would like to highlight the different representations conveyed by travel narratives or diplomatic reports on Persia, trying to distinguish the different stages of their understanding in France. We will see that the authors of the early seventeenth century are particularly interested in the figure of Shah ‘Abbas, the fifth ruler of the Safavid dynasty and mastermind of the restoration of monarchical authority. In the second half of the century, which corresponds to the reigns of Shah Safi (1629–42), Shah ‘Abbas II (1642–66) and Shah Soleyman (1666–94), the authors are more concerned with the tyrannical or despotic nature of the regime; the Safavid system aroused both fear and fascination. Finally, during the reign of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn (1694–1722), the travellers’ tales reflect on the causes of the decline of the Iranian monarchy, highlighting the decadence and collapse of the prince’s absolute power.

Shah ‘Abbas: The Assertion of Absolute Power? Two years after his death and subsequently, the figure of Shah ‘Abbas became known to the French public. In 1631, Jean Baudoin translated the book entitled Histoire apologétique d’Abbas, roy de Perse, glorifying the Safavid ruler.5 Published by the Italian traveller Pietro Della Valle, who was living in Iran between 1617 and 1623, this curious book, composed of three parts, depicts the portrait of a wise prince, a fine politician and a formidable warlord, whose personality and charisma make him a perfect incarnation of the modern prince. The focus on the notion of ‘reasons of state’ represented a particular interest in the 1630s, since it shows how a prince must become the head of government to restore and maintain the cohesion of the state. Through his political action, ‘Abbas was able to subject elites to his will. The book also embodies the notion of power and majesty linked to the monarchical figure. This admiration for Shah ‘Abbas’s art of governing is also obvious in the writings of the Portuguese Antonio de Gouvea,6 who served as ambassador in Iran at the beginning of the seventeenth century, and is even echoed, at the end of the seventeenth century, in the words of Abraham of Wicquefort. Translator of three reports of diplomatic missions to Iran,7 the latter ranks Shah ‘Abbas

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among the greatest rulers of his time, both for his political intelligence and for the way in which he wielded his power.8 To understand this consideration of a foreign and, specifically, a Muslim sovereign, it is necessary to look at the way in which these authors interpreted the origins of the political changes that took place from the moment he came to power. Among the very first visitors to the Iranian court, Gouvea reported the atmosphere of disorder and civil war within the country.9 He focused specifically on the revolt and insubordination of the great Turkmen amirs. For several years, ‘Abbas enforced his authority by repression and by drastically reducing the influence of the amirs within the government. Gouvea was in favour of royal action which involved quelling, by force if necessary, the disobedience of subjects ‘si meschans’ that they ‘ont besoin d’estre chastiez severement et par des peines rigoureuses pour les arrester et réfréner’.10 By using brutal but necessary violence, ‘Abbas hence freed the country from the ‘tyranny of the elites (‘des Grands’) who have almost usurped it’,11 and saved it from imminent danger; he thus restored order and peace. Now ‘extraordinarily feared and dreaded by the elites’,12 Shah ‘Abbas asserted himself as the only legitimate source of power. Della Valle shares this view. According to him, the sovereign: a retranché (aux grands émirs) autant qu’il a pû tout le crédit et le pouvoir qu’ils avoient, a fait mourir en plusieurs occasions quantité des plus puissans et des plus considérables, humiliant les autres et les tenant bas le plus qu’il peut, et surtout sans finances, afin qu’ils ne puissent pas se révolter et entreprendre quoi que ce soit contre luy.13 To reduce the influence of the amirs, ‘Abbas resorted to new men, often coming from Georgia or Caucasia – the gholams – who were devoted to him and depended entirely on his will.14 Gradually establishing a subtle competition between the Qezelbash amirs and the ‘servants of the Royal Household’, ‘Abbas established a system of royal favour by creating personal bonds of loyalty with each of his advisers.15 All members of the court – whether royal officers, provincial governors or administrators – were now considered to be courtiers, which is very much in keeping with the idea of service and obedience to the Crown. Surrounded by reliable servants who provided him with advice, the shah could now devote himself to his main task, which was to govern. In this respect, also, ‘Abbas represents the absolute prince, since one of his most remarkable virtues was his ability to exercise power alone. Like many of his contemporaries, Della Valle looks favourably on the beneficial effects of this mode of government, which allows one to avoid the fallacious opinions of schemers and bad advisers: Lui seul est le maistre de son secret, sans dépendre, comme les Princes de l’Europe, de quelque Ministre particulier, qui pourra estre infidelle ou interessé.16

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The author describes a reasonable king, capable of conducting all the affairs of state on his own. Informed of everything, taking advice not only from his advisers, but also from his humblest subjects, with whom he maintains – according to Della Valle – a permanent dialogue, Shah ‘Abbas ‘régit luy seul l’Estat’:17 he takes the final decisions according to his own internal instincts. However, these exceptional powers are acceptable only if they are used by a wise king, whose actions are conducted solely for the common good. Inspired by the thoughts of Erasmus (L’Education du prince chrétien (ou l’art de gouverner), 1516) and even more by his contemporary Giovanni Botero (Della Ragion di Stato libri dieci, 1589),18 Della Valle presents the Safavid ruler as capable of using the means to maintain and increase his domination while being attentive to the happiness of his people. This is an essential point in the thoughts pursued by European authors on the character of ‘Abbas. Under his government, Della Valle insists, ‘ses peuples joüissent d’une profonde paix et d’une pleine abondance de toutes choses’.19 This opinion is shared by Gouvea, who illustrates it by reporting the scene of the shah’s entry into the city of Kashan in 1604, during which ‘Abbas, according to the author, stated these intriguing remarks: Voyez-vous avec quelles réjoüissances et allegresses ce peuple me reçoit, en vérité que mon coeur est plus noir de tristesse que n’est vostre habit quand je considère que je suis indigne de tout cela pour les fautes que j’ay commises contre Dieu, de combien seroit-il mieux estre un homme particulier, à qui il suffiroit d’un morceau de pain pour se substanter? que d’estre Roy de tant de peuples et de tant de villes que je possède indignement. Ces paroles estoient accompagnées de tant de larmes qu’en vérité il nous en fit répandre d’autres, et s’estant un peu séparé de nous pour couvrir les siennes il ne put, au contraire, les accompagnant de soupirs et de ressentiment il les fit paroistre si ouvertement que nous en fûmes amèrement touchez.20 The shah’s tears are exalted here as a sensitive manifestation of his love for the people: by showing humility, he embraces a higher responsibility in guiding his people like a benevolent father: ‘Il n’y a jamais eu de père de famille plus soigneux de la conduite de cinq ou six qui luy appartiennent que ce Roy l’est effectivement des millions d’âmes qui lui sont soûmises et qui sont de sa dépendance’.21 Such a representation reminded the French public of a familiar figure, that of Henri IV (r. 1589–1610), whose authoritarian government did not prevent him from projecting the easy-going, deeply human and reassuring image of a good family father.22 The Spanish ambassador, Don Garcia di Silva y Figueroa also insists on this peculiarity of Shah ‘Abbas’s personality: on many occasions, we see him maintain a close relationship, even familiarity, with his subjects. In the bazaar, he talks familiarly with the shopkeepers, proudly presents their wares to his

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foreign guests, spontaneously eats a meal in the home of one of his favoured Armenian subjects, talks with the wives of his officers on the promenade of the Four Gardens (chahar bagh)23 and stands up in the middle of a banquet to attend to his guests.24 These colourful scenes – appreciated by most of the readers – cover dozens of pages of travel and embassy-related narrations. By emphasizing, and no doubt idealizing, the construction of these ties, Western travellers esteem a sovereign who guards himself against the dangers lying in wait for an authoritarian and distant power. These writers see this course as the surest way to keep the monarchy within reasonable bounds. Therefore, the idea prevails that the union of all subjects is possible only in voluntary submission to a power guided by reason and love. For the partisans of a strong monarchical power, ‘Abbas becomes a fascinating subject for representation; this is reflected in the iconography of Giacomo Franco’s portrait (Figure 1), which presents the monarch in majesty, holding a sceptre to symbolize his power, in front of his troops, drawn up in battle formation. However, the Safavid prince was not unanimously popular. Sir Dodmore Cotton’s secretary, Thomas Herbert, echoed a darker view of the true nature of Safavid sovereignty. The first version of his Relation, published in 1634 against a backdrop of strong tensions between Charles I and Parliament, helped to construct the image of the tyrant.25 Sensitive to parliamentary ideas,26 Herbert took the opportunity to describe the excesses of an authoritarian and tyrannical power, applied to a distant country. Having arrived in Iran in 1627, during the last years of ‘Abbas’s reign, Herbert describes the monarch as a Fig.1. ‘Portrait de Shah ‘Abbas Ier , roi de kind of ageing monster, frozen Perse, 1596’, from ‘Effigie naturali dei in his majesty, embittered by maggior prencipi et piu valorosi capitani power and engendering in all di questa eta con l’arme loro’, by respect mixed with fear. In the Giacomo Franco (1550-1620) © audience hall of the palace of Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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Ashraf, on the shores of the Caspian Sea, all the officers and governors are present – about 60 in all – and they all have the right to be present at the court: ‘ne disant mot et ne se mouvant non plus que des statuës’. (…) Leurs yeux ne se détachoient point de l’objet où ils étoient arrestez d’abord, n’osant parler les uns aux autres, ny mesme éternuer, tousser ou cracher, parce que ce seroit un crime irrémissible en la présence du Schah, qui est tellement redouté, mesme des plus grands, que comme César disoit à Metellus, les éclairs qui sortoient de ses yeux étoient capables de tuer.27 For Herbert, the court is not the promised paradise praised by Della Valle, where the elites are courting ‘sans sujétion aucune’,28 but an austere place, where the disgrace of a great lord can occur without any reason, with a fierce barbarity.29 In support of his opinion, he relates many cases of torture inflicted by executioners: strangulation, disembowelment, etc. The shah’s reputation for justice is strongly rebuffed: ‘On ne le peut point appeller juste, parce que quand le supplice excède le crime, la justice dégénère en cruauté’.30 After the account of a few isolated cases, supposedly showing the effects of this sinister policy, the author addresses the assassination of Prince Safi – the eldest son of the sovereign – which indeed seems perfectly to illustrate the shah’s tyrannical power. According to Herbert, ‘Abbas embodies above all the brutality of a state that lacks any counterbalancing power; this is also reflected in the iconographic representation of the relationship between monarch and state. In Herbert’s original 1634 publication, the Safavid ruler is depicted as a warrior king (Figure 2), scimitar in hand, in a dynamic and warlike attitude, terribly threatening. This image, which reflects all the ambivalence attached to Safavid sovereignty, paradoxically does not appear in the 1663 French edition. Nevertheless, the book also contributes to the permanent Fig. 2. ‘Equestrian portrait of Shah debate between the supporters of ‘Abbas I , king of Persia’, from Thomas a strong monarchical power and Herbert, Some Yeares Travels into the defenders of a more moderate Africa and Asia…,1638. regime, as was the case with

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Wicquefort, who was close to parliamentary circles during the Fronde31 and who published a French translation of Herbert’s work six years after Louis XIV seized power.

Despotism, Tyranny or Temperate Power? In his Relation du voyage de Moscovie, Tartarie et Perse, published in 1656, Adam Olearius, secretary of the Holstein embassy mission, relates the story of a despotic and authoritarian prince called Shah Safi the First, grandson and successor of the great Shah ‘Abbas. Convinced that the exercise of power under his reign was ‘absolute and despotic’,32 the German scholar seeks to convince his readers by describing the circumstances of the fall of the supreme minister (vazir-e a‘la), Abu Taleb Khan, three years before his arrival in Esfahan in 1636.33 Reconstructing a sketch of the scene, he depicts the young prince, fond of wine, being astonished not to see several of his ministers at the royal banquet (majles). He therefore invited them to join him. When the ministers declined the invitation, the prince suddenly lost his temper. The next day, he invited the main culprit – the supreme minister – and, again according to Olearius, made the following remarks: Qu’est-ce que mérite celuy, qui mangeant le pain et vivant de la seule grace de son Maistre, perd le respect qu’il luy doit et le méprise? Le Chancelier lui répondit: il mérite la mort; et le Roy lui répartit: Tu as toy-mesme prononcé ta sentence; C’est toy qui, ne vivant que de mes bienfaits, et qui mangeant à ma table, as eu l’audace de me traitter d’enfant (…). Le Chancelier se voulut justifier, mais le Roy ne lui en donna pas le loisir, et lui fendit le ventre d’un coup de cimeterre.34 The violence of the sentence – carried out by the shah himself – is as surprising as its suddenness. For the reader, it is indeed an arbitrary act that testifies to the eminently despotic nature of the Iranian government. The prince’s will has no bounds and is executed in the most brutal manner. The indictment of the regime for despotism is also investigated by Chardin: Le Gouvernement des Perses est Monarchique, Despotique et absolu, étant tout entier dans la main d’un seul homme, qui est le Chef Souverain, tant pour le spirituel que pour le temporel, le Maître à pur et à plein de la vie et des biens de ses Sujets.35 The concern was all the more acute due to the fact that the shahs indulged in frequent binge drinking and therefore nothing was safe from the ‘extravagances de leur caprice, ni probité, ni merite, ni zèle, ni services rendus’ and, with one word, ‘les gens les mieux établis et les plus dignes de l’être’36 might fall victim to royal displeasure, or even death.

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These arbitrary executions struck the readers’ imagination as they reminded them of the coups de force committed by several French monarchs against great lords or favourites considered, a posteriori, to be enemies from within: everyone still remembered the assassination of the Duke of Guise by Henri III, that of Maréchal d’Ancre (Concini) at the beginning of the reign of Louis XIII37 or, more recently, the arrest of the Superintendent of Finance, Nicolas Fouquet, whose trial may have seemed unjust.38 The elimination or side-lining of a minister who has become cumbersome because of his power or influence in government constitutes an act that is not considered reprehensible in a young monarch establishing his authority. Absolute power theorists have thus provided arguments to legitimize such practices. In his book Le Prince, Machiavelli explains, for instance, that the sovereign can use cruelty in order to ensure the security of the state and retain his power.39 Botero also justifies the use of cruelty, provided that it is reserved for exceptional circumstances. It is therefore the repetitive nature of these practices that is denounced by the authors of the travel Relations in Iran, in order to highlight the dangers of unchecked power. Nevertheless, no sooner is this observation made, than it is immediately qualified by other considerations. Actually, ‘hors du rang des Courtisans et des plus Grands Seigneurs, je n’ai jamais vû ni entendu dire que le Roi ait fait aucun outrage personnel sur le champ et sans procédure’,40 Chardin notes confidently. Similarly, if the condition of the great figures of the state is exposed to the arbitrary and despotic power of the ruler, that of the people is ‘la plus assurée et la plus douce qu’en divers États Chrétiens’;41 i.e. we act in accordance with the laws and religious rules set out for the conduct of society. The idea of a cruel and capricious prince is thus surreptitiously replaced by that of a just prince, who only strikes the powerful when ‘y auroit du danger pour l’État d’agir avec les formalitez et les procédures régulières’.42 We now have a better understanding of Chardin’s subtle criticism of monarchical absolutism. Ruthless towards the powerful, the Safavids are, on the other hand, temperate towards the most humble of their subjects. This idea is also reflected in the representations of the Shah of Persia that spread through France in the second half of the century. The portrait of Shah ‘Abbas II (Figure 3) uses the visual codes of the king of France or the emperor.43 Represented as a victorious general, leading his troops, the shah fully embodies the image of the ‘roi de guerre’.44 The text reinforces this heroic dimension: Shah ‘Abbas, 2e du nom, roi de Perse, arrière petit-fils de ce grand roi Shah ‘Abbas, la terreur des armes ottomanes, succéda à son père Shah Séfi en l’an 1642 sur l’Empire des Perses, et trois ans après entreprit la guerre contre le Moghol, sur lequel il a remporté de grandes victoires, et fait de grandes conquêtes.

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Fig. 3. Engraving from the collection ‘Portraits du schah de Perse Abbas II’ © Bibliothèque nationale de France, département Estampes et photographies, N-2 (ABBAS 2, schah de Perse). This does not mean it is a portrait. The features of the face matter little: it is not a person who is portrayed but rather a political programme. The shah is supposed to personify the entire monarchy, as well as the glory attached to absolute power. As we can see by comparing it with the engraving depicting Henri IV as absolute ruler (Figure 4), this iconography refers to a distinctly

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Western symbolism, allowing the French to better understand the reality of this power and how the shah embodies it.

Fig. 4. ‘Portrait of Henri IV on horseback, galloping to the right’ © Bibliothèque nationale de France, département Estampes et photographies, réserve FOL-QB-201 (17). However, the picture would not be complete without mentioning the action of the Safavids in the field of faith. In a specific context in France, represented by the intensity of the debates concerning the coexistence of several faiths, the policy of tolerance conducted by the authorities in Iran necessarily challenges readers of the travel Relations.

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In modern times, the notion of tolerance has undergone a major semantic shift.45 First perceived as an admission of weakness, ‘l’imposibilité d’unifier ou de maintenir l’unité’,46 it became a more positive concept at the turn of the seventeenth century, under the impetus of both Protestant and Catholic authors, who saw it as a means of preventing violence linked to confessional conflicts.47 The tolerance issue thus became central to theological debates during the second half of the seventeenth century. Some authors of Relations – in particular, Jean Chardin, François Sanson and Gabriel de Chinon – made their contribution by proposing the Safavid model, in which political power imposed tolerance towards religious minorities, especially Christians.48 After the 1610s, Christians in Iran enjoyed special privileges that went far beyond the traditional framework of Islamic law.49 The Armenian community of New Jolfa, in particular, enjoyed freedom of conscience as well as freedom of worship – the Safavid rulers even going so far as to finance the construction of their churches – and were considered, at least the wealthiest among them, as subjects in their own right.50 For Sanson, this tolerance is a political choice that signifies the sovereignty of the prince: evoking the figure of Shah ‘Abbas II, he asserts he ‘aime les Chrétiens et ne veut pas qu’on les inquiète sur la religion. Il désapprouve qu’on les violente pour les faire Mahométans’.51 Chardin also ascribes similar intentions to the shah.52 He presents the shah in an enthusiastic light as the guarantor of the peace and safety of his subjects. This vibrant plea in favour of pragmatic tolerance should therefore be viewed in the light of contemporary French religious policy, particularly in the context of the restoration of the unity of the faith, with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1585,53 from which Chardin, as a Protestant, suffered personally.54 But he is not the only one to insist on the benefits of the tolerance practised in Iran by the Safavid rulers: Catholic authors also use this argument to glorify the shah. Thus, the memory of Shah ‘Abbas II is celebrated by all the Christians of Esfahan: Les Chrestiens, qui avoient le bonheur d’estre ses sujets, le pleurent aujourd’hui secrètement comme s’il n’eust esté non pas seulement leur Roy, mais leur Père; car sa justice et sa bonté ne souffrirent jamais qu’on leur fist aucune violence, ny qu’on les inquiestast pour leur Religion, dont l’exercice leur fust conservé assez librement.55 According to Chardin, tolerance can therefore be useful to the state. By ensuring peace within his realm, Shah ‘Abbas II stimulated the prosperity of his country. Armenians became rich international merchants and Iran attracted commercial companies from all over the world as well as the wealth of neighbouring countries. Tolerance is therefore presented as a means of improving the image of the ruler and increasing his prestige. Above all, it provides readers with an essential idea: the true glory of a monarch is not to impose religious unity on his kingdom, but rather to ensure

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the happiness of his people. In this respect, Iranian rulers are presented as models to be emulated. However, and this epitomizes the ambiguity of European thinking, this tolerance may be relative and may not apply to all religious minorities. Hence, it is with a certain indifference, even leniency, that the authors testify to the persecution by the authorities of Iranian Jews,56 who – like the poorest Christians – are frequently compelled to undergo forced conversion.57 It should be noted, however, that these actions are often attributed to the supreme ministers – Khalifa Soltan, Mohammad Beg – while the sovereign appears to be the arbitrator who puts an end to these eruptions of religious zeal, hence reinforcing his image as a moderator. In the minds of our authors, tolerance is therefore not necessarily a positive value in itself, but must be understood as a political stance in a context of cohabitation between different religious communities. Freedom of conscience and harmony between confessions are entirely based on the equity of the prince.

The Decline of the Safavid Monarchy: Projection or Anticipation? The end of the seventeenth century, nevertheless, saw the reputation of the Safavids significantly tarnished. According to the authors of the Relations, the fault lies with the sovereigns themselves. Having reached the ultimate level in terms of embodiment of the state, they personified not only its greatness but also its weaknesses. For Martin Gaudereau,58 who assiduously attended court in the 1690s, Shah Soleyman’s long illness was the primary cause of his decay, producing deleterious effects over the long term. Bedridden during the last years of his reign, he gradually relinquished the conduct of his affairs to his eunuchs, whose increasing influence led to an alteration in court functions. Corruption creeps into all levels of power: ministers and eminent government figures have no choice but to go through the eunuchs to gain access to the shah’s ear.59 The justice system is also damaged; ordinary subjects can no longer personally press their claims to punish the perpetrators. Gradually, licentiousness prevails over the whole country, making the once well-guarded roads unsafe. A climate of social as well as political tension develops.60 In the eyes of European observers, there is no doubt that this deplorable situation is the responsibility of the monarch. His withdrawal from political matters results in a profound dysfunction of the absolutist system, leading to its gradual decline. This term, which refers to a long historiographical tradition, both Western and Muslim, on the life and death of empires,61 could be compared with the contemporary vision of the decline of the Ottoman Empire.62 With respect to the Safavid monarchy, this idea is present in the work of many authors of the last third of the seventeenth century. Chardin identifies some signs of the weakening of the regime from the end of the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I.63

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Although today we can strongly qualify this representation, as Rudi Matthee has done by shedding new light on the economic and social issues of this period,64 it is interesting to understand what it meant for the men of the late seventeenth century and the situation to which it referred. For some authors, the degeneration of the dynasty is mainly due to the sedentarization and effemination of power from the 1630s onwards. Raised in the depths of the royal palace of Esfahan (Naqsh-e Jahan), isolated from their subjects and the realities of social life, the Safavids then wallowed in the guilty pleasures of flesh and drink, abandoning their trade as kings to the greedy hands of harem slaves or unscrupulous ministers and their common interests. The sophistication and refinement of court culture are also seen as strong sign of the military and political decline of the state. The advent of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn in 1694, a few days after the death of his father, did not seem to be a sufficient remedy. For Father Krusinski,65 whose report was first published by Father du Cerceau in 1728,66 the young prince was not a bloodthirsty or cruel figure – quite the contrary. ‘Il est bon et humain’, but, he says immediately, ‘de cette espèce de bonté qui souffre tout et ne punit rien, et à laquelle les méchants, à qui elle assure l’impunité, trouvent mieux leur compte que les gens de bien à qui elle ôte toute espérance de justice’. The author therefore concludes that these qualities, while good in themselves for an individual, are not so valuable in a sovereign. Lacking the ‘lumières et des vertus nécessaires à un roi’,67 he turns out to be incapable of governing. So Krusinksi looks back with regret to the time of Shah Soleyman who, although brutal and sometimes violent with his ministers, had sufficient intelligence (‘assés de lumières’) to choose men able to lead the state on his behalf. The important longevity of Sheykh ‘Ali Khan’s tenure as Supreme Minister (between 1669 and 1689) shows, according to him, some of the wisdom of the previous monarch.68 The traveller Corneille Le Bruyn also passed severe judgement on the reign of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn at the beginning of the eighteenth century. He attributed its mediocrity to the limited education of the prince: born among the elite, guarded permanently by black eunuchs, he grew up far from the concerns of the world, ‘like a plant languishing in the earth deprived of the invigorating warmth of the sun’.69 Educated according to the strict rules of the Muslim religion, he was kept in ignorance of matters that could have served him in his future function as a sovereign – history and politics. Once in power, the prince tried to restore religious morality in society: he prohibited the consumption of wine, broke the bottles stored in the palace in the royal square (meydan-e shah) and forbade the Armenians to produce or sell wine on pain of heavy sanctions. These virtuous resolutions – which had a poor reception, as such measures often did in the Safavid court – quickly earned him the nickname ‘mollah Hoseyn’ and exposed him to the contempt of his people.70

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This is the problem of an unenlightened despot, in its strictest sense, since no one tries, according to Le Bruyn, to ‘lui ouvrir les yeux’, but on the contrary everyone rushes to flatter and please him in order to obtain his favours. Fond of women, wine and opium, which led him to an ‘insensibilité absolue’, the sovereign no longer has ‘aucun égard au salut de l’État’.71 The great lords are also more concerned about their careers and those of their friends than about the welfare of the state. This tangible weakening of the monarchical authority involves inevitable disorder: the exactions of the provincial governors grow, the border regions undergo the repeated attacks of the Lezgi, Baluchi and Afghan populations, who are agitated both in the west and the east of the territory.72 Esfahan itself is the scene of riots and popular movements caused by inflation and the corruption of officials. Faced with such a worrying situation, Krusinski denounces the sovereign as culpable, claiming that he was more interested in the construction of his buildings than in managing the political, economic and social crisis that the country was going through.73 His timid support for Prime Minister Lotf ‘Ali Khan, who, between 1715 and 1720, tried to rouse the monarchy from its apathy and suppress the Afghan rebellion in Qandahar, was not enough to exonerate him from his primary fault: a blatant lack of authority. Krusinski – and probably also his translator, the Jesuit du Cerceau – hence developed a theme well-known by the theorists of absolute power: the obligation for a sovereign to prove himself worthy of his status and to assume full responsibility for it. It is only on this condition that the people can consent to subjection to his rule and submit to full and complete obedience. By allowing his ministers to engage in power struggles at the expense of public affairs, Shah Soltan-Hoseyn publicly revealed the structural weakness of the monarchy. After the capture of Esfahan by the Afghans in 1722 – which he suffered from within, since he was locked up in the capital for almost a year – Krusinski wondered about the causes of this sudden and brutal collapse. The Afghans themselves, led by Mir Mahmud, a less skilled commander than his father, Mir Veys, seemed astonished at the ease with which they were able to penetrate the territory, break through its defences and subjugate its population to their yoke.74 Their advance, at first timid and groping, only became truly threatening when the shah found it impossible to mobilize competent and energetic men capable of stopping the incursion. Some provincial governors categorically refused to answer his call; others were slow to respond. Within the court, competition between the different factions still raged and led, after a terrible siege, to the deposition of the shah in favour of a new conqueror: Mir Mahmud (r. 1722– 25). In his detailed tale of the last days of Shah Soltan-Hoseyn’s reign, Krusinski also reflected the anxieties of French society about the limits of absolute power and perhaps enlightened the public about the dangers of overconfident authority. If the weakness of the monarch:

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ne cause pas toujours des révolutions aussi extraordinaires et aussi éclatantes que celles de Perse, ce n’est que parce qu’il ne se trouve pas toujours, ni en tout païs, des gens assez habiles pour sçavoir profiter de la conjoncture et en même temps assés ambitieux et assés déterminés pour vouloir en courir les risques.75 Inevitably, his judgement sounded like a warning to his readers and certainly influenced the thinking of eighteenth-century philosophers who, in turn, reflected on the evils of absolute power.76

Conclusion When Montesquieu published his Lettres persanes in 1721, discussions on the nature and limits of monarchical power had been enlivening conversations in France for several years. Through the pen of the philosophers and theorists of the monarchy, the idea emerged of a specifically oriental connotation of this type of regime. In his article on ‘despotisme’,77 published in the first edition of l’Encyclopédie in 1751, the Chevalier Louis de Jaucourt (1704–79) saw in the monarchies of Asia – Turkey, Iran, the Mughal Empire and Japan – all the horrors of a tyrannical, arbitrary and absolute government, in which the power of the prince is imposed on all without distinction or possible appeal. It made ‘la Perse’ one of the most important examples of this type of regime. Based on the tales of travellers in Iran – now somewhat dated, since the Safavid state had ceased to exist – he depicted the brutality of a ‘hors de sens’ ruler to whom ‘on ne peut plus (…) parler ni demander grâce’ without incurring his fury. Such an assertion reflects the change of view that took place between the beginning and the end of the seventeenth century on the nature of royal power, probably due to the strengthening of absolutism in France. A pragmatic politician, with both self-control and mastery of his thoughts, Shah ‘Abbas embodied a certain monarchical ideal in the first part of the seventeenth century, as he ensured political stability in a country still weakened by civil war – echoing, in the French mind, the troubles of the wars of religion and the Fronde – and guaranteed social order. The authors of Relations then build the image of an absolute prince, capable of curbing the appetites of the powerful while maintaining close ties with his subjects. As such, they show their adherence to the exercise of this authoritarian power, provided that it is within just limits: those of reason and concern for the common good. In the second half of the century, criticism became sharper; the authors then emphasized the excessive nature of certain government practices, particularly the summary justice meted out to aristocrats, which appeared to be the obvious sign of a drift in monarchical power. However, unquestioning obedience can be granted only if it guarantees peace and liberty to the greatest number. The ruler then acts as an arbitrator of factions and, by his wise government, moderates the passions of his subjects, especially in religious matters. In the sedentary court of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, on the other hand,

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the sovereign’s power appeared increasingly remote and, as a result, ineffective, leading to its weakening and slow decline. Relying on a subtle play of representations, the authors of the Relations de voyages depict multiple facets of the Iranian monarchy, thereby exposing both the aspirations and the fears of a French public mindful of the recent evolutions of absolute monarchy.

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Notes: 1. Jean Chardin, Le Couronnement de Soleïmaan troisième, Preface. 2. On the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I, see Hans Roemer, ‘The Safavid period’, pp. 262–78; R.M. Savory, ‘Abbas I’, pp. 71–75; Andrew Newman, Safavid Iran, pp. 50–72 and the recent biography by David Blow, Shah Abbas, pp. 15–51. 3. On the affirmation of absolute power in France, see the work of Arlette Jouanna presented in the bibliography. 4. Regarding the understanding of travel narratives and embassy-related narrations in Iran in the seventeenth century, the following works can be consulted: Anne-Marie Touzard, ‘Les voyageurs français en Perse’, pp. 41–47, Frédéric Jacquin, Le Voyage en Perse au XVIIe siècle and Safoura Tork Ladani, La Perse dans les récits de voyageurs français. 5. A future member of the French Academy (admitted from 1635), Jean Baudoin was close to Richelieu’s party, to which he dedicated his main works. On this topic, see Emmanuel Bury, ‘Jean Baudoin (1584–1650)’, p. 394. 6. Antonio de Gouvea, Relation des grandes guerres, p. 111: ‘‘Abbas qui règne aujourdhuy Prince excellent en quelques vertus moralles’. 7. Abraham de Wicquefort translated the narratives of the diplomatic missions of Thomas Herbert (1663), Adam Olearius (1656–63) and Don Garcia de Silva y Figueroa (1667). 8. Abraham de Wicquefort, L’Ambassadeur et ses fonctions, vol. 1, p. 85: ‘Schah Abas, le plus fin et le plus adroit prince de son temps’, and p. 310: ‘Shach Abas, roy de Perse, estoit un des plus adroicts Prince de son temps’. 9. Gouvea, Relation des grandes guerres, pp. 111–12. On the same topic, see also Pietro Della Valle, Les fameux voyages, vol. II, p. 476. 10. Gouvea, Relation, p. 112. 11. Ibid. 12. Ibid. 13. Della Valle, Les fameux voyages, vol. II, p. 476. 14. As an illustration of this phenomenon, authors often use the figures of Allahverdi Khan, a gholam of Georgian origin, who became governor of Fars in 1598, and his son, Emam-Qoli Khan, who also had a brilliant career under Shah ‘Abbas. The promotion of the gholams within the Safavid state, however, predates Shah ‘Abbas’s reign, beginning in the reign of Shah Tahmasp (1524–76). On this period, see Sussan Babaie et al., Slaves of the Shah, pp. 28 and seq. 15. On the economics of favour in France, Nicolas Le Roux’s work can be consulted, in particular the work resulting from his thesis, La Faveur du roi. 16. Della Valle, Histoire apologétique d’Abbas, p. 73. 17. Ibid., p. 71. 18. Giovanni Botero, Della ragion di stato libri dieci, translated into French by Gabriel Chappuys, Raison et gouvernement d’estat en dix livres, du seigneur Giovanni Botero. 19. Della Valle, Histoire apologétique d’Abbas, p. 118. 20. Gouvea, Relation des grandes guerres, p. 152. 21. Della Valle, Les fameux voyages, vol. II, p. 243. 22. Jouanna, Le Prince absolu, p. 28. 23. Figueroa, L’Ambassade, pp. 293–95.

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24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

48. 49.

50.

51. 52. 53.

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Della Valle, Les fameux voyages, vol. II, p. 464. Stéphane Haffemeyer, ‘La ‘tyrannie’ de Charles Ier Stuart’. See R.W. Ferrier, ‘Herbert, Thomas’, pp. 229–30. Thomas Herbert, Relation du voyage de Perse et des Indes orientales, p. 277; see also, idem, Travels in Persia, p. 155. Della Valle, Les fameux voyages, vol. II, p. 243. Herbert, Relation du voyage, p. 277. Ibid., p. 282; cf. idem Travels in Persia, pp. 158–67. See Claude Boutin, Les Gazettes parisiennes d’Abraham de Wicquefort pendant la Fronde and Robert Mandrou, Abraham de Wicquefort: Chronique discontinue de la Fronde. Adam Olearius, Relation du voyage de Moscovie, Tartarie et Perse, vol. I, p. 610. After three years of maintaining the government team bequeathed by his grandfather Shah ‘Abbas, Safi I proceeded to oust several prominent figures in the government in order to assert his authority. In 1632, the assassination of the governor of Fars, Emam-Qoli Khan, the son of Allahverdi Khan, inaugurated this series of political murders. See Babaie et al., Slaves of the Shah, p. 37. Olearius, Relation, vol. I, p. 642. Chardin, Voyages du Chevalier Chardin en Perse et aux Indes, vol. VI, p. 18. Ibid. Fabrice Hoarau, ‘Le 24 avril, acte de naissance de Louis XIII?’, pp. 429–40. Jouanna, Le Prince absolu, p. 229. Machiavelli, Il Principe (Le Prince), p. 28. Chardin, Voyages, vol. VI, p. 20. Ibid., p. 24. Ibid., p. 23. Friedrich Polleross, ‘Paraphrases artistiques ou contre-images politiques?’. On the symbolism attached in France to the representations of the ‘king of war’, see Joël Cornette, Le Roi de guerre, pp. 265–83. Philippe Martin, ‘Entre politique et philosophie’, pp. 13–33. Ibid., p. 18. See the issue devoted to this question: ‘Tolérance et intolérance des religions en Europe, XVIe–XVIIe siècle’, Annales de Bretagne et des Pays de l’Ouest 125, no. 1 (Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2018). On the relations between the royal power, the Shi‘i clergy and religious minorities in Iran in the seventeenth century, see Rudi Matthee, Persia in Crisis, pp. 172–95. Deported to Iran during the years 1600–1610, some Armenian communities were able to maintain their religious practices. The actual conditions of their deportation are discussed in Edmund Herzig, ‘The deportation of the Armenians in 1604–1605’, pp. 59–71. On the Armenian community in Esfahan, see Vartan Gregorian, ‘Minorities of Isfahan’, pp. 652–80. On the sources, see, for instance, Figueroa, L’Ambassade, p. 193. François Sanson, Voyage ou relation de l’état présent du royaume de Perse, p. 10. Chardin, Le Couronnement de Soleïmaan, pp. 170–71. Frédéric Tinguely, ‘La différence religieuse selon Jean Chardin’, pp. 111–22.

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54. Worried about the situation of Protestants in France, Jean Chardin did not wait for the Edict of Fontainebleau – which revoked the Edict of Nantes (1598) – to leave France. In 1581, he found refuge in England, where he continued his activities and the writing of his Travels. His experience as a Huguenot obviously permeates his reading of the religious situation in Iran, see Tinguely, ‘La différence religieuse selon Jean Chardin’, pp. 111–22. 55. Chardin, Le Couronnement de Soleïmaan, p. 3. 56. See, in particular, Matthias Messerle, The Persecution of the Jews under Shah ‘Abbas II. 57. On the issue of religious persecution in Iran in the second half of the seventeenth century, see also Matthee, Persia in Crisis, pp. 185 and seq. 58. A French missionary and member of the Société des Missions Étrangères, Martin Gaudereau left for Iran in 1689. Accompanied by Bégnine Vachet, one of the directors of the seminary, he arrived in Esfahan at the end of 1690 and acted as Louis XIV’s representative at the Safavid court. His correspondence was edited by Anne Kroell, Nouvelles d’Ispahan. 59. Gaudereau, Relation de la mort de Schah Soliman, Roy de Perse, p. 7: ‘La division des premiers seigneurs de la cour les a tous opposez l’un contre l’autre, et fait qu’ils ne cherchent qu’à s’empêcher mutuellement de terminer quelque affaire; la plupart même sont lassés de se voir gouverner par des eunuques’. 60. Ibid., p. 39. 61. See, for instance, the work of Jane Burbank and Frederick Cooper, Empires in World History, and Gabriel Martinez-Gros, Brève histoire des empires: Comment ils surgissent, comment ils s’effondrent. 62. See Olivier Bouquet, ‘Du déclin à la transformation’, pp. 117–22. 63. Chardin, Voyages, vol. V, pp. 224 and seq. 64. Matthee, Persia in Crisis, Introduction, pp. XXII–XXX. 65. Judasz Tadeusz Krusinski (1675–1755) was a Jesuit of Polish origin. He arrived in Iran in 1702 and was appointed Procurator General of the Missions in Persia in 1720. He accompanied Father Barnabé of Milan, Bishop of Esfahan, to court. He left Iran in 1725, after having managed to escape the siege of Esfahan in 1722 by returning – temporarily – to the service of the Afghan invaders, thanks to his knowledge of medicine. 66. French Jesuit priest, author and poet, Jean-Antoine du Cerceau (1670–1730) is not only the translator but also the adapter of Father Krusinski’s manuscript, originally written in Latin. 67. Krusinski, Histoire de la dernière révolution de Perse, p. 2. 68. Of Kurdish origin, Sheykh ‘Ali Khan first distinguished himself as governor of Kermanshah, then as warlord (sardār) in Khorasan before being appointed Supreme Minister in 1669. He remained so until his death in 1691. See, on this topic, Matthee, Persia in Crisis, pp. 62–72, and idem ‘Administrative stability and change in late seventeenth-century Iran’, pp. 77–98. 69. Corneille Le Bruyn, Voyages, p. 215. 70. Ibid., p. 215. 71. Ibid., p. 214. 72. Gaudereau, Relation, p. 7. 73. Krusinski, Histoire de la dernière révolution, pp. 167–68, 173.

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74. Sovereign builder, Shah Soltan-Hoseyn notably built, outside Esfahan, the palace and gardens of Farahabad, which served as a base, during the siege of Esfahan, for the Afghan invaders and were, in the following years, completely destroyed. See Babaie, Isfahan and its Palaces, pp. 206–12. 75. Histoire de la dernière révolution de Perse, pp. 2–3. 76. Igor Sokologorsky, ‘Le despotisme est-il toujours un mal?’, pp. 109–26. 77. Louis de Jaucourt, ‘Despotisme’, L’Encyclopédie, vol. IV, pp. 886–89.

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Bibliography: Babaie, Sussan, Isfahan and its Palaces: Statecraft, Shi’ism and the Architecture of Conviviality in Early Modern Iran (Edinburgh University Press, 2008). Babaie, Sussan, Kathryn Babayan, Ina Baghdiantz-McCabe and Massumeh Farhad, Slaves of the Shah: New Elites of Safavid Iran (London: I.B. Tauris, 2004). Blow, David, Shah Abbas. The Ruthless King who became an Iranian Legend (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009). Botero, Giovanni, Della ragion di stato libri dieci (Venice: Gioliti, 1589). Bouquet, Olivier, ‘Du déclin à la transformation. Réflexions sur un nouveau paradigme en histoire ottomane’, Revue d’histoire du XIXe siècle 53 (2016, no. 2), pp. 117–36. Boutin, Claude, Les Gazettes parisiennes d’Abraham de Wicquefort pendant la Fronde (1648–1652) (Paris: Champion, 2010). Bruyn, Corneille le, Voyages de Corneille Le Brun, par la Moscovie, en Perse et aux Indes Orientales … on y a ajouté la route qu’à suivie M. Isbrants, en traversant la Russie et la Tartarie, pour se rendre à la Chine et quelques remarques contre MM Chardin et Kempfer avec une lettre écrite à l’auteur sur ce sujet, 2 vols (Amsterdam: Les Frères Wettstein, 1718). Burbank, Jane and Frederick Cooper, Empires in World History: Power and the Politics of Difference (Princeton University Press, 2011). Bury, Emmanuel, ‘Jean Baudoin (1584–1650), témoin de la culture baroque et pionnier du classicisme’, Dix-septième siècle 216 (2002, no. 3), pp. 393–96. Chappuys, Gabriel, Raison et gouvernement d’estat en dix livres, du seigneur Giovanni Botero (Paris: G. Chaudière, 1599). Chardin, Jean, Le Couronnement de Soleïmaan troisième, roy de Perse et ce qui s’est passé de plus mémorable dans les deux premières années de son règne (Paris, Claude Barbin, 1671). — Voyages du Chevalier Chardin en Perse et aux Indes, ed. L.M. Langlès, 10 vols and atlas (Paris: Le Normant, 1810–11). Chinon, Gabriel de, Relations nouvelles du Levant ou traité de la religion, du gouvernement et des coutumes des Perses, des Arméniens et des Gaures. Avec une description particulière de l’établissement et des progrez qui y font les missionnaires avec les Orientaux, donnés au public par le Sieur L. M[oreri]) (Lyon: Jean Thioly, 1671). Cornette, Joël, Le Roi de guerre. Essai sur la souveraineté dans la France du Grand Siècle (Paris: Payot, 1993).

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Della Valle, Pietro, Histoire apologétique d’Abbas, roy de Perse, en la personne duquel sont représentées plusieurs belles quartiez d’un Prince héroïque, d’un excellent courtisan, et d’un parfaict Capitaine, traduicte de l’Italien de Messire Pierre de la Valee, gentil-homme romain, par J. Baudoin (Paris: Nicolas de la Vigne, 1631). — Les fameux voyages de Pietro Della Valle, 3 vols (Paris: Gervais Clouzier, 1661–1665). Erasme [Erasmus], Didier, L’Education du prince chrétien (ou l’art de gouverner) (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2016). Ferrier, R.W., ‘Herbert, Thomas’, Encyclopedia Iranica, vol. XII, fasc. 3 (2003), pp. 229–30, online at http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/herbertsir-thomas [accessed 10 June 2020]. Figueroa, Don Garcia de Silva y, L’Ambassade de D. Garcias de Silva y Figueroa en Perse (Paris: Louis Billaine, 1667). Gaudereau, Martin, Relation de la mort de Schah Soliman, roy de Perse, et couronnement de sultan Ussain son fils (Paris: Jouvenel, 1696). Gouvea, Antonio de, Relation des grandes guerres et victoires obtenues par le roy de Perse Chah Abbas (Rouen: Nicolas Loyselet, 1646). Gregorian, Vartan, ‘Minorities of Isfahan: The Armenian community of Isfahan, 1587–1722’, Iranian Studies 7, no. 2 (1974), pp. 652–80. Haffemeyer, Stéphane, ‘La ‘tyrannie’ de Charles Ier Stuart: Circulation d’une légende noire d’une révolution à l’autre (Angleterre–France, 1649–1789)’, Histoire culturelle de l’Europe (2018), article online at: http://www. unicaen.fr/mrsh/hce/index.php?id=202 [accessed 10 June 2020]. Herbert, Thomas, Relation du voyage de Perse et des Indes orientales (Paris: Jean Du Puis, 1663). — Travels in Persia 1627–1629, abr. and ed. Sir William Foster (London: George Routledge & Sons, 1928). Herzig, Edmund M., ‘The deportation of the Armenians in 1604–1605 and Europe’s myth of Shah ‘Abbas I’, in Safavid Persia, ed. Charles Melville, Pembroke Papers 4 (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 59–71. Hoarau, Fabrice, ‘Le 24 avril, acte de naissance de Louis XIII?’, in Dixseptième siècle 276, no. 3 (2017), pp. 429–40. Jacquin, Frédéric, Le Voyage en Perse au XVIIe siècle (Paris: Belin, 2010). Jaucourt, Louis de, ‘Despotisme’, in M. [Denis] Diderot and M. [Jean le Rond] d’Alembert, Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers par une société de gens de lettres (Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton and Durand, 1751–65), pp. 886–89. Jouanna, Arlette, Le Pouvoir absolu. Naissance de l’imaginaire politique de la royauté (Paris: Gallimard, 2013). — Le Prince absolu. Apogée et déclin de l’imaginaire monarchique (Paris: Gallimard, 2014).

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Kroelle, Anne, Nouvelles d’Ispahan, 1665–1695 (Paris: Société de l’Histoire de l’Orient, 1979). Krusinski, traduit par le père Du Cerceau, Histoire de la dernière révolution de Perse, 2 vols (La Haye: Gosse & Neaulme, 1728). Le Roux, Nicolas, La Faveur du roi. Mignons et courtisans au temps des derniers Valois (vers 1547–vers 1589) (Paris: Champ Vallon, 2000). Mandrou, Robert, Abraham de Wicquefort. Chronique discontinue de la Fronde (1648–1652) (Paris: Fayard, 1978). Martin, Philippe, ‘Entre politique et philosophie. La lente naissance de la tolérance (XVIe–XVIIe siècles)’, Histoire, Monde & Cultures religieuses 43 (2017), pp. 13–33. Martinez-Gros, Gabriel, Brève histoire des empires. Comment ils naissent, comment ils s’effondrent (Paris: Seuil, 2014). Matthee Rudi, ‘Administrative stability and change in late seventeenth-century Iran: The case of Shaykh ‘Ali Khan Zanganah (1669–1689)’, IJMES 26, no. 1 (1994), pp. 77–98. — Persia in Crisis. Safavid Decline and the Fall of Isfahan (London: I.B. Tauris, 2012). Messerle, Matthias J., The Persecution of the Jews under Shah ‘Abbas II: A Look at the Kitab-i Anusi and other chronicles (Munich: Grin Verlag, 2015). Montesquieu, Charles-Louis, Lettres persanes (Amsterdam: Jacques Desbordes, 1721). Newman, Andrew J., Safavid Iran. Rebirth of a Persian Empire (London: I.B. Tauris, 2006). Olearius, Adam, Relation du voyage de Moscovie, Tartarie et Perse (Paris: François Clouzier, 1656). Polleross, Frederich, ‘Paraphrases artistiques ou contre-images politiques? Les empereurs et les rois de France dans des gravures parallèles’, Bulletin du Centre de recherche du château de Versailles, Le Promeneur de Versailles, online at http://journals.openedition.org/crcv/14924 [10 June 2020]. Roemer, H.R., ‘The Safavid period’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6, The Timurid and Safavid Periods, ed. Peter Jackson and Laurence Lockhart (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 189–350. Sanson, François, Voyage ou relation de l’état présent du royaume de Perse, avec une dissertation curieuse sur les mœurs, religion & gouvernement de cet Etat, par M. *** Sanson, Enrichi de figures (Paris: Veuve Mabre Cramoisi, 1695). Savory, Roger M., ‘‘Abbas I’, Encyclopedia Iranica, vol. I, fasc. 1 (1982), pp. 71–75. Sokologorsky, Igor, ‘Le despotisme est-il toujours un mal? La querelle de Voltaire et de Rousseau à propos de Pierre le Grand’, Esprit no. 2 (2009), pp. 109–26.

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Tavernier, Jean Baptiste, Les Six Voyages de J.B. Tavernier, escuyer, baron d’Aubonne, qu’il a fait en Turquie, en Perse et aux Indes, pendant l’espace de quarante ans et par toutes les routes que l’on peut tenir, 2 vols (Paris: Gervais Clouzier, 1676). Tinguely, Frédéric, ‘La différence religieuse selon Jean Chardin’, Dix-septième siècle 278 (2018), pp. 111–22. Tork Ladani, Safoura, La Perse dans les récits de voyageurs français au XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Presses Universitaires de Limoges, 2011). Touzard, Anne-Marie, ‘Les voyageurs français en Perse de 1600 à 1730’, Eurasian Studies 4, no. 1 (2005), pp. 41–47. Wanegffelen, Thierry, L’Edit de Nantes. Une histoire européenne de la tolérance. XVIe–XVIIe siècle (Paris: LGF, 1998). Wicquefort, Abraham de, L’Ambassadeur et ses fonctions, 2 vols, 2nd edn (La Haye, 1682).

7 The Idea of Baqer al-Majlesi as ‘The Idea of Iran: The Safavid Era’ Andrew J. Newman (University of Edinburgh)

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his chapter focuses on the role in the Safavid ‘decline’ process that Western-language scholars before and after the 1979 Iranian Revolution have attributed to the Twelver Shi‘i scholar Mohammad Baqer alMajlesi (d. 1699),1 to gauge the extent to which ‘The idea of Safavid Iran’ in the Western-language scholarship has evolved over these years. The discussion stems from an MSc (MA) course of mine, at the first meeting of which I ask students to consider, during the course of their programme, whether their chosen subfield of Islamic and Middle Eastern studies has experienced any fundamental/‘paradigm’ changes. As to Safavid ‘decline’, Western-language scholars of the seventeenth century generally understand these years to have begun with a burst of cultural and intellectual achievement, in an atmosphere of military, political and economic stability established by ‘Abbas I (r. 1587–1629) only to end in the darkness of fanatical religious orthodoxy amid military, political and economic chaos. The decline of the Safavids was understood to have set in almost immediately after ‘Abbas’s death. His successors, because they were born and raised in the harem, were seen as easily swayed by such powerful, intriguing parties at court as harem women, palace eunuchs and Twelver clerics, and as more interested in debauchery and religion than in affairs of state. The last Safavid shah, Soltan-Hoseyn (r. 1694–1722), was depicted as so attentive to the goodwill of courtiers and clerics – the latter including Majlesi in particular – and to ostentatious building projects that the state was unable to mount any credible response to a series of internal crises, including Afghan raids. Following one such incursion, in 1722, the Afghans captured the capital Esfahan and the dynasty was understood to have come to an end. In four sections, this chapter examines references to Majlesi and Safavid decline in works produced from early in the last century to the end of the last decade. The chapter suggests that Western-language scholars have relied on a range of contemporary and post-Safavid domestic and foreign sources, the availability or accessibility of which markedly increases over these years, but absent are both the identification of these authors’ sources and critical,

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scholarly discussion of the political, religious or commercial agendas that might inform the often unsourced information and ‘analyses’ of these texts. Citation of earlier secondary sources, lacking engagement with their sources and agendas, is also common. Some authors lay charges against Majlesi even as they suggest the supporting evidence is problematic. Others who raise questions about the negative coverage of Majlesi still imply, even as they too acknowledge the weakness or lack of supporting evidence, that the conventional characterizations deserve some credence.2 Instances of selfreflection, dating from the 1990s and offered in English and Persian, regarding the reliability of domestic and foreign sources on the Safavids generally or on Majlesi in particular have, for the most part, not been taken on board. This said, however, recent contributions do bespeak some progress on both Safavid decline and Majlesi’s role therein.

The Pre-1979 Discourses: Separate and Shared Agendas and Outcomes John Malcolm (d. 1833), in The History of Persia, ‘noticed’ Majlesi, whom – minus substantiating citations – Malcolm called a ‘bigot’. Malcolm was not an academic but a soldier, diplomat and East India Company administrator. His discussion of the Safavids privileges decline but accords Majlesi no role therein. Malcolm references many of the foreign travellers’ accounts and Persian chronicle sources cited by later Western-language academics.3 The focus on Majlesi and his role in Safavid decline dates to at least early in the last century. E.G. Browne (d. 1926), in his 1924 work A Literary History of Persia, notes that Majlesi ‘produced’ Behar al-anwar, the Arabic-language multi-volume third of the three great Safavid-period collections of the imams’ hadiths (traditions), and also wrote in Persian to ‘popularize’ the faith. Browne also calls Majlesi one of the ‘most fanatical mujtahids of the Safawi period’,4 without mentioning others. Majlesi defended his father, Taqi al-Majlesi (d. 1659–60),5 against charges that the latter was a Sufi but himself persecuted Sufis ‘and heretics’ and was of a ‘class (the “great ecclesiastics”) whose influence hardly made for either spiritual unity or national efficiency’. Browne cites such sources on Majlesi as his student Sayyed Ne‘matollah al-Jaza’eri’s (d. 1710) Arabic-language al-Anwar al-No‘maniya and Mohammad Baqer alKhvansari’s (d. 1895–96) Shi‘i biographical dictionary Rowdat al-jannat. Mainly, however, he relies on Mohammad b. Soleyman Tonakaboni’s (d. 1885) Persian-language Shi‘i biographical dictionary Qesas al-‘olama’. Browne notes that Tonakaboni posited a link between Majlesi’s death and Iran’s vulnerability to the Afghan invasion of 1722.6 In 1933, D.M. Donaldson (d. 1976) – an American medical missionary resident in Mashshad for some 16 years, member of The Muslim World’s editorial board and principal of the Henry Martyn Institute of Islamic Studies in

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India – published The Shi’ite Religion. The volume, an exposition of the faith and its history, contains numerous citations from and references to Behar. His brief biography of Majlesi is based on Tonakaboni. Donaldson, although familiar with Browne, offered no judgements on Majlesi’s character.7 Laurence Lockhart (d. 1975), in his 1958 The Fall of the Safavi Dynasty, expands on the work of Browne, his teacher at Pembroke College, Cambridge. Lockhart brands Majlesi ‘an extremely bigoted mujtahid’ and ‘a rigid and fanatical formalist’. He notes Majlesi’s works in Arabic, including Behar, and Persian. Citing one Arabic-language essay by Majlesi, Lockhart wrote that Majlesi fiercely denounced Aristotelian and Platonist philosophers as being ‘followers of the infidel Greek’, ‘disliked the Sufis as much as the Sunnis’, and stated that although ‘we have no definite proof … it is highly probable that it was this fanatical leader who was responsible for this increase in persecution’ of Jews and Armenians that marked the latter half of the second Safavid century. In return for participating in Soltan-Hoseyn’s 1694 accession, Majlesi is said to have asked the new ruler to ban wine, ‘faction-fighting’ and pigeon flying and to expel Sufis from Esfahan. Citing Minorsky, Lockhart said that Majlesi’s influence over Soltan-Hoseyn resulted in his being appointed mollabashi, though he rejects Minorsky’s claim this was done late in SoltanHoseyn’s reign and that he co-founded and taught at the Chahar Bagh school, since Majlesi died in 1699. Majlesi and Soltan-Hoseyn also treated Iranian Zoroastrians in a ‘brutal manner’, though he cites no source for Majlesi’s direct involvement. Lockhart’s other sources included Gaudereau (d. 1743), a French missionary in Iran from 1690 to 1703,8 Browne and Tonakaboni.9 Donaldson is uncited. In these years, H. Corbin (d. 1978) and S.H. Nasr, highlighting the esoteric dimensions of Shi‘ism, argued for its compatibility with Sufism.10 In 1966, Nasr, without supporting evidence, refers to Majlesi’s persecution of ‘the intellectual methods of the hakims and philosophers’ and implied that such persecution contributed to the fall of the dynasty to the Afghans.11 Although in 1968 Nasr suggested that Majlesi’s opposition to Sufis was limited, later, again without references, he described him as ‘the most formidable spokesman for the reaction which set in within Shii religious circles during the later Safavid period’ and noted his condemnation of the hokama’ (philosophers).12 On the eve of Iran’s 1979 revolution, Roger Savory identified Majlesi as having defended his father against charges that he was a Sufi, citing Browne, as being made mollabashi (chief mullah) at Soltan-Hoseyn’s accession, as hostile toward Sufis and, lacking any sources, as persuading Soltan-Hoseyn to issue ‘unjust and intolerant decrees’ against religious minorities – Zoroastrians and Jews. Savory also associates Majlesi’s anti-Sunnism with the ‘fall of the Safavids’.13 Around this time, several non-Safavid specialists echo or add to the extant appraisal of Majlesi, such as M.G.S. Hodgson’s (d. 1968) The Venture of

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Islam,14 Hamid Algar’s ‘Shi‘ism and Iran’ (1977)15 and Homa Katouzian’s The Political Economy of Modern Iran (1981).16 Also in 1981, A.K.S. Lambton’s references to Majlesi in her State and Government in Medieval Islam were somewhat different in tone. Majlesi appears twice therein. Discussing basic tenets of the Twelver faith, the role of the imams as intercessors for humanity and the necessity of the imamate, she quotes from Majlesi’s Persian-language Hayat al-qolub, a three-volume work on the lives of the prophets, the Prophet and the imamate, via Donaldson. Discussing the Safavids, Majlesi appears as dominating Soltan-Hoseyn and, in a footnote, as sheykh al-eslam, ‘violently opposed to both Sunnis and Sufis … [and] ‘philosophers as ‘“followers of an infidel Greek”’, citing Lockhart. Regarding Majlesi’s Persian-language ‘Eyn al-hayat, on ethical behaviour, she notes that he was ‘accepting the existence of kingship, [but] makes no attempt to validate it’. One was to obey kings and not rebel. Taqiya (dissimulation) might be practised with ‘unjust and tyrannical kings’ but, she quotes him as saying, ‘Kings are not to be trusted’. Lambton does not, however, mention Safavid decline or, therefore, ascribe any role therein to Majlesi.17

1979 and its Aftermath In the years immediately following the Islamic Revolution, Western-language scholars appropriated the pre-1979 paradigm of Safavid decline and, in particular, Majlesi’s role as the key figure therein. Indeed, his role was juxtaposed, sometimes rather explicitly, with Ayatollah Khomeyni’s (d. 1989) supposedly single-handed overthrow of the Pahlavi ‘dynasty’. These years also witness English- and Persian-language challenges to aspects of the conventional wisdom. In his 1984 The Shadow of God, Arjomand accords Majlesi his pre-1979 role. Majlesi was anti-Sunni, anti-gnostic, anti-philosophy, anti-Sufi, opposed to alcohol and a promoter of the forced conversions of religious minorities. Majlesi’s activities and those of like-minded co-religionists were ‘an important cause’ of the Afghans toppling of the Safavid dynasty.18 Apart from Browne, Lockhart and Tonakaboni, Arjomand cites the nineteenth-century Nesf al-jahan; a Carmelite source – the Carmelites being Catholic missionaries in Iran from the early 1600s through to 1760;19 the autobiography of Sheykh ‘Ali Hazin Lahiji (1692–1766), who left Iran in the 1730s for India, where he completed his book in 1742 and later died;20 and Bostan al-seyaha by Zeyn al-‘Abedin Sharvani (d. 1838).21 Of Majlesi’s own works, Arjomand cites three Persian-language works but references only his Ekhteyarat and his essay ‘So’al va javab’.22 Other pre-1979 paradigms are also clearly in evidence: referencing Corbin and Nasr, Arjomand describes genuine Shi‘ism as characterized by ‘pious antipathy toward political power’ and argues that Khomeyni utilized earlier

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‘mahdi-istic’ tendencies within Shi‘i Islam to promote a distinctly this-worldly political agenda.23 The year before The Shadow of God appeared, Arjomand had shown that Majlesi was never mollabashi, as Minorsky had suggested.24 Less than ten years later, examining a selection of early Shi‘i texts, AmirMoezzi understood Shi‘ism as inherently other-worldly: ‘early Imamism’ was ‘an esoteric doctrine’ and from a very esoteric theory of the Imamate flowed all other aspects of Shi‘i doctrine, e.g. ‘theology, cosmogony, ethics, politics, the practical aspects of worship, mysticism, law, eschatology, and so forth’. Though naming no names, elsewhere Amir-Moezzi then argued that the rise of ‘the Doctors of the Law’ and their promotion of themselves as the imam’s representatives to the community can be dated from the establishment of the faith in Safavid Iran. Feqh (jurisprudence) became ‘the dominant discipline of Islamic studies’ and ‘political ambition and power, defined by the imams as being destroyers of the “true Religion”, were from then on presented as guarantees of its just application … the jurist-theologian took the place of the Imam’, with the intent ‘to drag Imamism into the political arena, apply it on the collective level and crystallise it as an ideology’.25 These same years also witnessed the appearance of overviews of and introductions to Twelver Shi‘ism. These included M. Momen’s An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam (1985), H. Halm’s Shiism (1991) and Y. Richard’s Shiite Islam (1995). In each, Majlesi reprises his familiar role and sources, when cited, are mainly secondary. For Momen, Majlesi is ‘one of the most powerful and influential Shi‘i ulama of all time’. Implicitly referencing the then present-day, Momen states that Majlesi ‘reoriented Twelver Shi‘ism in the direction that it was to develop from his day on’. Momen notes that ‘the government’ of Soltan-Hoseyn ‘made almost no effort to control his activities’ and that the shah had come ‘under Maljisī’s influence whilst still in the harem’. Majlesi undertook ‘the suppression of Sufism and philosophy’ – Sufism, Momen says, pace Corbin and Nasr, having been ‘closely linked’ to Shi‘ism ‘to the time of Majlisī’ – ‘the propagation of a dogmatic legalistic form’ of the faith and ‘the suppression of Sunnism and other religious groups’. Soltan-Hoseyn requested that Majlesi perform his coronation and, in return, Majlesi asked that he ban wine, factionalism and pigeon flying and expel all Sufis from Esfahan. Momen associates Majlesi’s anti-Sunnism with the Afghan invasion. Although Donaldson is among his references, Momen mainly cites Browne and Lockhart.26 According to Halm, whose book originally appeared in German in 1987, Majlesi had influence over Soltan-Hoseyn before the latter’s accession and, for his role in the coronation ceremony, was ‘rewarded with far-reaching authority to enforce various measures against all offenders and deviators … he led an

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operation to cleanse the Shi’a of Iran of all trace (sic) of Sufism, philosophy and gnosis’.27 Richard’s reference to Majlesi, ‘author’ of Behar, as ‘the influential head of the mullas [who] did not spare the powerful Qezelbash (sic) in the repression of Sufism’ is unsourced. Richard’s other reference to Majlesi, questioning – as does Katouzian – the authenticity of Behar’s hadiths, is also unsourced.28 These years also produced perhaps the first Western-language challenge to the conventional wisdom. In 1992, V. Moreen examined Majlesi’s reputation as anti-Jewish,29 addressing and translating his Persian-language essay, ‘Lightning Bolts against the Jews’. Moreen notes Majlesi’s ‘fairly balanced tone considering its subject which is discrimination’. The text ‘clearly demands that the usual stark portrait of Majlesi be somewhat more shaded’.30 Works on Majlesi also began to appear in Iran in the 1990s.31 Some offered challenges to the conventional wisdom. In his general work on religion in the period, R. Ja‘fariyan queries the generally accepted narrative on Majlesi’s antipathy to Sufis and Sufism. Examining in detail Majlesi’s ‘So’al va javab’, cited in passing by Arjomand, Ja‘fariyan notes that Majlesi distinguished between Shi‘i Sufis and Sunni Sufis, focusing his ire on the latter and drawing attention to the interest of such other Safavid-period figures as his own father in the former.32 In his two-volume work on Majlesi, M. Mahdavi notes that the abovementioned Ne‘matollahi Sufi Sharvani who, in his Bostan, argued for Majlesi’s antipathy to Sufism, cited no evidence of Majlesi’s actual involvement in killings or expulsions. Mahdavi notes that none of Majlesi’s legal writings contain rulings ordering, or approving of, the killing of Sufis and, elsewhere, critiques Western scholars for holding Majlesi accountable for the ‘fall’ (soqut) of the Safavids.33

The Unconventional and Conventional from the Turn of the Century The first decade of the present century witnessed examples of both the conventional and some further instances of scholarly self-criticism, both as pertain to Safavid studies generally but also to ‘Majlesi studies’ in particular. Thus, in 2000, Matsunaga examined Majlesi’s view on temporal authority, paying special attention to ‘Eyn al-hayat and, on the authority of the ulema during the imam’s absence, to Mer’at al-‘oqul, a commentary on Mohammad b. Ya‘qub al-Koleyni’s (d. 941) al-Kafi, the first of the four great collections of the Imams’ hadiths compiled in the years after the Twelfth Imam’s occultation. By way of biography, however, and in the absence of any references, Matsunaga says that after his appointment as sheykh al-eslam, Majlesi ‘began his campaign against the Sufis, the ‘irfānī ulama, the Sunnis and non-Muslim minorities’, that Soltan-Hoseyn ‘came under the influence of his teacher … in

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his harem’ and that Majlesi ‘was said to be the most powerful political figure in the Capital’.34 S. Mahdavi’s 2003 paper on Majlesi – who, she notes, was anti-Hindu, antiSufi, anti-philosophy, anti-Sunni and opposed to ‘any kind of innovation’ – and his anti-women position, is based solely on Majlesi’s Persian-language Helyat al-mottaqin, a work on ethics and behaviour. Herein, she argues that Majlesi’s view ‘of woman as a lesser being’, relegated to childbearing and whose ‘sexuality needs to be controlled while fulfilling that of the male’, ‘drastically changed the position of Iranian women’; this in the absence of any evidence or detailed comparative examination of the Arabic/Persian contributions of other contemporary or earlier Twelver scholars. That said, Mahdavi also cites contemporary evidence that not all women adhered to Majlesi’s ‘norms’.35 Up until this date, apart from the occasional ‘sketch’,36 the above-cited Western-language authors had failed to identify for their readers the contemporary and post-Safavid domestic and foreign sources they were citing, let alone offer the reader a scholarly critique of the information and views they offer. The sources, information and ‘agendas’ used in such secondary sources as were cited also were not unpacked. Furthermore, these authors continued to deploy language that acknowledged that, although negative information about Majlesi is unsubstantiated, it still merits attention. In her 2000 Historical Writing during the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas, S. Quinn suggested that care might be exercised in using the period’s court chronicles. Chapter five unpacked the different ways in which some of these addressed the fall of the Qezelbash officer Ya‘qub Khan, to argue that the backgrounds of the authors influenced their different accounts of this event.37 Papers presented at the 2002 conference, ‘Iran and the World in the Safavid Age’, reiterated this point in relation to accounts penned by European visitors to Iran throughout the period. I. McCabe, for example, argued that the Frenchman Jean Chardin’s (d. 1713) Voyages … en Perse, often cited by Western-language scholars, said more about contemporary France than Iran.38 In the same year, S. Brakensiek published a paper in which he offered critical comments on the travel account of Engelbert Kaempfer’s 1684–85 ‘Report on Persia’ and its use.39 Papers in S. Brentjes’ 2009 edited special edition of the Journal of Early Modern History raised further questions with respect to the use of accounts of European travellers to Iran in these years. ‘It is never sufficient’, she argued, ‘to measure the trustworthiness of a narrative by scrutinizing the “facts” presented by the author’.40 Much of K. Babayan’s 2003 Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs is devoted to Safavid religious life. As to Majlesi in particular, while she describes him as ‘shari‘a-minded’ and notes his defence of his father on the charge of being a Sufi, she does not ascribe any role to Majlesi in the decline per se. Indeed,

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although Babayan mentions the various bans noted above, she does not associate these with Majlesi by name but refers only to ‘the jurists’.41 In the same year, W. Floor refers to ‘anti-Sufi, or rather anti-heterodox Shi‘ite’ policies as ‘allegedly’ having been pursued by Soltan-Hoseyn under Majlesi’s influence and argues that there is no proof that the shah expelled Sufis from Esfahan. Indeed, citing a Dutch source, a court source and an essay by a Dhahabi Sufi sheykh, all contemporary, Floor argues for the active presence of Sufis and Sufi sheykhs in Esfahan and elsewhere.42 Scholarly activity relating to Majlesi within Iran continued apace, with a conference in 2000 in Esfahan and the appearance of further works on Majlesi.43 Despite such self-reflection and, indeed, without any reference to it, Western-language authors’ evaluations of Majlesi in these years generally remained of a piece with those offered earlier. Those who raised questions about the conventional negative characterizations of Majlesi imply that these are still worthy of some credence. In 2000, C. Turner noted the criticisms of Majlesi by Browne and Lockhart and underlined the fact that the ‘word “appears”’ is often cited with regard to Majlesi’s influence and actions and that Majlesi’s works remain largely unstudied. Turner critiqued Arjomand’s apparent suggestion that Majlesi’s Shi‘ism ‘is the definitive one’. But Turner also noted that Majlesi’s antiSunnism ‘has been seen by some’ – no names or evidence are cited – as sparking Afghan ‘disaffection’, which culminated in the later Afghan invasions. Citing Tonakaboni, Lockhart and Momen, Turner stated that Majlesi ‘pursued a vigorous anti-Sunni and anti-Sufi policy, converting minorities wherever and whenever possible to the Twelver Shiite creed’ and also noted the bans that Majlesi requested from Soltan-Hoseyn after officiating at the latter’s accession, though he acknowledged that their effect was short lived. Other sources cited include Mohammad ‘Ali Modarres’ Reyhanat al-adab. Turner questions the authenticity of Majlesi’s hadiths, as do Katouzian and Richard, and similarly lacking substantiation.44 In 2004, R. Abisaab, citing M. Mahdavi and R. Ja‘fariyan, raised questions about reports that Majlesi ordered ‘infidels’ to be persecuted or killed and forced Sunnis to convert, and noted that Mahdavi ‘refuted the view that Majlisi persecuted the Sufis as a whole … asserted that Majlisi accepted “moderate” and “ethical’ Sufism”’ and praised earlier scholars who had had Sufi inclinations, including his own father, although she noted he opposed such Sufi practices as music and dancing. ‘It is unclear’, she says, however, ‘whether Majlisi issued decrees to actively persecute or kill “infidels” including Sufis’. Also, ‘[i]t is unlikely that Majlisi used force in converting a presumed 1,070 Sunnites to Shi‘ism in Syrian territories’. As to his conversion of 70,000 Sunnis, ‘the circumstances surrounding these policies remain vague’.45 Abisaab also discussed Majlesi’s efforts to refurbish the theological resources of the

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state by ‘rekindling a forced conversion to Shi‘ism, particularly among Christians and Jews’.46 Finally, she noted, ‘it is possible’ such rhetoric by ‘officials like Majlisi’ – none are named – stemmed from Sunni ‘insurgencies’ and contributed to the Afghan invasion.47 Authors of works on the Safavids as ‘empire’ in these years also accorded Majlesi his familiar role. Although, perhaps as none was a Safavid ‘specialist’, these authors exercised a degree of caution they, too, suggested that the charges against him had some merit. In his 2007 Empire of the Mind, M. Axworthy, a former Foreign Office official and a specialist on modern Iran, referred to Majlesi’s essay on the Jews and suggested it was ‘rather more moderate … than its title might suggest’ and, citing Moreen, that Majlesi’s own role in such activities has been ‘disputed’, that other ulema were critical of his anti-Sufi and anti-Sunni tendencies and that Majlesi’s were but ‘one strand of Shiism at the time’. That said, Axworthy notes that Majlesi ‘has been associated’ with the persecution of minorities, including Indians, Jews, Armenians, Sufis, Zoroastrians and Sunnis.48 Elsewhere he says that, after Soltan-Hoseyn’s accession, under Majlesi’s influence the royal wine cellars were destroyed, various forms of public entertainment were banned, women’s freedom was curtailed and it was commanded that Majlesi’s orders should be obeyed. The latter, Axworthy says, bespeaking an interest in the events of 1979 and after, ‘was a kind of Islamic revolution’, though he noted most of the decrees ‘were probably widely flouted’.49 S. Dale and D. Streusand, then scholars of South Asian history,50 both also addressed the Safavid ‘empire’ in comparison with the Ottoman and Mughal Empires. Herein, also, some nuance with regard to Majlesi is apparent. For Dale, Majlesi appeared as the realm’s most powerful religious figure and, erroneously, as mollabashi. Dale stated that while Majlesi ‘did not actively persecute Armenians, Jews or Sufis’, he did, citing our own Safavid Iran, ‘harass’ Hindu elements in line with their being scapegoated for economic problems in the later seventeenth century.51 Streusand writes, in the absence of any sources, ‘it is possible’ that Majlesi’s anti-Sunnism ‘provoked’ the Afghan attack. Streusand equates Safavid decline with ‘the growth of the religious establishment’. As an example, he erroneously singles out Majlesi, ‘the leading Shii divine’, as being appointed mollabashi.52 The lack of influence of both the above auto-critiques and cautious discussions is evident in A. Hairi’s 2007 entry on Majlesi for the second series of the Encyclopaedia of Islam – promoted as ‘the authoritative source not only for the religion, but also for the believers and the countries in which they live’.53 Hairi reports, for example, Tonakaboni’s statement that Majlesi converted 70,000 Sunnis to the faith and also attacked Sufism, citing Y. alBahrani’s (d. 1772) Shi‘i biographical dictionary and Lockhart. Hairi says that in his last years as sheykh al-eslam, Majlesi ‘was practically the actual ruler of

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Iran’ and that his anti-Sunnism ‘expedited’ the Afghan invasion. Citing H. Nuri (d. 1902), Hairi states that Majlesi ordered the destruction of Indian idols in Esfahan and, citing Lockhart, that he moved against the Zoroastrians.54

The Last Decade: Persistence of the Conventional? The last decade has seen further examples of both the conventional and the cautious with regard to the traditional narrative surrounding Majlesi. On balance, however, even as earlier calls for caution remain formally uncited, the arguments and approaches of the adherents to the conventional wisdom, while still extant, seem to have assumed minority status. In his 2011 article on Majlesi in Encyclopædia Iranica, R. Brunner acknowledges ‘that concrete data and hard facts’ about his life are ‘scanty’ and ‘the historical person … remains rather elusive’. In a generally factual entry, Brunner devotes a separate section to ‘Anglo-American scholarship’, wherein he notes that Majlesi ‘does not usually enjoy a good reputation’. Also, Brunner reports Twelver sources’ positive and negative appraisals as such. The former include al-Bahrani and Tonakaboni and the latter the contemporary Mir Lowhi, to whose attacks on Majlesi he also refers, as well as the later Mohsen al-Amin (d. 1952), author of the Shi‘i biographical dictionary A‘yan al-Shi‘a, ‘Ali Shari‘ati (d. 1977) and Mohammad Hoseyn Tabataba’i (d. 1981). Brunner notes that in many biographical sources – citing al-Khvansari’s Rowdat and Nuri’s Mostadrak – it is reported with satisfaction that Majlesi destroyed an Indian idol. Brunner also notes that when contemporary foreign travellers – e.g. Gauderau and Sanson – spoke of the office of sheykh al-eslam, it is not always clear they were referring to Majlesi.55 This said, Brunner does suggest that Majlesi ‘wielded an unprecedented degree of political power’ during the reigns of the last two shahs, Soleyman and Soltan-Hoseyn, and had ‘enormous influence … on the intellectual history of Twelver Shi‘ism, the politics of eighteenth-century Iran, and the final Shi‘itization of the country’, citing Babayan and Nuri. Again, with an eye on recent events, citing Arjomand, Brunner says that Majlesi’s role ‘foreshadowed the late 20th century assumption of power by the Imamite clergy in Iran’. Brunner’s bibliography lists Majlesi’s works, and secondary works in English, including Donaldson and Moreen, and in Persian.56 In a 2016 essay, M. Moazzen, citing Nasiri, noted that Majlesi urged the shah ‘to implement justice by protecting the common people, especially the peasants upon whom the economy, and therefore the polity, depended’57 – a point heretofore unnoticed by those Western-language authors who had cited Nasiri to date. In a 2018 monograph, Moazzen noted that Majlesi officiated at Soltan-Hoseyn’s accession and that the latter extended Majlesi’s tenure as Esfahan’s sheykh al-eslam the next year. Majlesi urged the shah to move against ‘unlawful and corrupt’ practices, including wine-drinking. Majlesi opposed listening to the Shahnama, Zoroastrian stories and stories about Sufi

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sheykhs and their miracles. But Moazzen also noted that in his ‘So‘al va javab’, an essay cited in passing by Arjomand and examined by Ja‘fariyan, he did not call the Sufis unbelievers but said their approaches were not valid, that Shi‘i Sufi discourse had been badly influenced by Sunni Sufism and that ‘whoever denies Sufism is on the whole bereft of knowledge’. Moazzen’s other sources include Khatunabadi, Majlesi’s own writings and his ejazat (licences to teach).58 Three general works appearing in these years actually downplayed Majlesi’s role. In Babayan’s 2012 chapter on the Safavids in The Oxford Handbook of Iranian History, Majlesi appears only as the author of a manual of acceptable daily behaviour.59 In his 2014 introductory work on Shi‘ism, N. Haider does not mention Majlesi at all in his discussion of the Safavids.60 In their 2018 What is Shi‘i Islam?, A. Amir-Moezzi and C. Jambet’s references to Majlesi are generally factual.61 This said, however, the conventional characterizations and approaches were still on offer in these years. Although R. Matthee’s 2012 Persia in Crisis: Safavid Decline and the Fall of Isfahan is mainly a political and economic discussion of decline, the author does draw on a larger canvas of references. Majlesi’s ‘nefarious influence at his [Soltan-Hoseyn’s] court’ and even before the latter’s accession, play a role in Safavid decline. As sheykh al-eslam, Majlesi was anti-Armenian and had smashed Hindu ‘idols’ in Esfahan.62 At Majlesi’s urging, after his accession, Soltan-Hoseyn banned ‘un-Islamic’ behaviour, according to Nasiri and Abu Taleb Mir Fendereski, a student of Majlesi.63 Sunnis ‘bore the brunt of Majlisi’s vilifications’, according to Majlesi’s Persian-language Haqq al-yaqin, a work on the osul (foundations) of the faith.64 Himself simultaneously casting doubt and ascribing credence, Matthee refers to Majlesi praising the shah for undertaking ‘a wave of persecution [of Sufis] that is otherwise poorly documented’.65 Matthee notes that such sources as al-Bahrani and Tonakaboni associate Majlesi’s death with the onset of the fall of the Safavids but adds, citing only one example, that the ‘generally secular genre of Iranian historiography highlights the influence of “surfeit of religion”’ on Soltan-Hoseyn who was ‘just and friendly but led astray by bigoted mullahs’.66 In the discussion on the Safavids in his 2013 overview of Shi‘ism, F. Daftary suggests the Twelver ulema ‘played an increasingly powerful religiopolitical role in the affairs of the Safavid state’ – a tendency that reached its climax under the later Safavid rulers, whose own authority was waning – ‘and consolidated the influence of the Twelver hierocracy’. Majlesi, the only figure named herein, led the coronation ceremonies for Soltan-Hoseyn and ‘was allowed to initiate a campaign against philosophers’. ‘Sufis and popular dervish orders were severely persecuted’. No sources on Majlesi or his works are cited.67

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In his 2016 Twelve Infallible Men, although M. Pierce mainly refers to and cites from such of Majlesi’s Persian works as Jala’ al-‘oyun, he also refers to Majlesi, without any footnotes, as ‘infamous’ and ‘noted for his role in the persecution of Sunnis and Sufis’.68 In the same year, Momen, in his brief overview of the faith, reprising his appraisal of decades earlier and lacking citations, says Majlesi ‘exerted great power’ as sheykh al-eslam in Esfahan and so ‘dominated’ Soltan-Hoseyn that he issued the bans, as noted above, and was ‘antagonistic to Sufis, philosophers and Sunnis’. Majlesi’s actions ‘may well have … played a part’ in the Afghan invasion.69 Most recently, A. Amanat, in his references to Majlesi in his 2017 Iran: A Modern History adheres to, and expands on, earlier evaluations. Amanat misidentifies Majlesi as mollabashi, highlights his anti-philosophical tendencies, notes that Majlesi’s ‘Sava‘eq’ offers evidence of the persecution of Jews in the period and suggests that Majlesi’s anti-Sunnism facilitated the Afghan invasion. Amanat adds that Majlesi was ‘pampered as royalty … [with] many wives and slave concubines’. While he does refer to some of Majlesi’s Persianlanguage writings, instead of substantiating footnotes Amanat offers only a very lengthy ‘further readings’.70

Summary and Conclusion Even as the availability and accessibility of Safavid and post-Safavid foreign and domestic sources has increased markedly over the course of the last century, it is still the case that Western scholars who have relied on these materials in their discourse on Majlesi have not offered any critical discussion of these sources’ authors and the information and ‘analyses’ they contain. The information and agendas on offer in the frequently cited earlier secondary sources also have not been explored. Charges against Majlesi are frequently levelled even in the face of admitted problems with the relevant evidence. Throughout these years, even those who evince a degree of caution in regard to some of these charges intimate that the charges are not without some merit. This is not for want of calls for such critical engagement, either generally, pace the contributions of Quinn, Brentjes et al., or with regard to specific challenges to the Majlesi ‘paradigm’ offered by Moreen, Mahdavi, Ja‘fariyan, Floor and Moazzen. Indeed, continued recourse to this paradigm seems to mandate active disengagement therefrom. This said, however, the last decade’s further examples of independence of thought on the subject combined with those offered earlier render somewhat idiosyncratic the few conventional references to Majlesi – as an implicit standin for Khomeyni and Safavid decline – standing in for the fall of the Pahlavis. The latter appear against the backdrop of the expanding Iranian diaspora in the West, especially in the United States, and the rise of the study of ‘Persia’ and interest in and support for such discourse from within that diaspora.

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Scholars have remarked that this focus on ‘Persia’, and especially pre-Islamic Iran, is combined with a distinct disinterest in Islam.71 Taken all together, ‘Majlesi studies’, if not also Safavid studies, might well benefit from engagement with ‘decoloniality’. The latter is not a reference to the political withdrawal of the West from the ‘third world’, but to a scholarly project that highlights the contingent nature of ‘knowledge’ and begs consideration of how this understanding might be applied to the study of the past as well as the present.72 In the meantime, efforts to construct a new understanding of Majlesi’s contributions and career are well under way. Attention to particular works of his in relation to specific charges levelled against him have been revealing. Moreen’s translation and analysis and Ja‘fariyan’s discussion of ‘So’al va javab’ suggest the need to re-examine his supposed hostility towards religious minorities and Sufism. The present author examined Majlesi’s approach to materia medica in Behar to challenge his allegedly fierce opposition to all things associated with the ‘infidel Greek’ and to highlight his effort ‘to achieve a reconciliation between Qur’anic citations and, especially, the Imams’ traditions, and the Galenic anatomical tradition in Islam’.73 Consideration of traditions in Behar that Majlesi cited from hadith collections assembled by Mohammad b. ‘Ali al-Qommi (Ebn Babaweyh, d. 381/991), questions those allegations that Majlesi fabricated hadith.74 R. Gleave and M. Moazzen set the stage for further work on Majlesi and Akhbarism, an issue not discussed in detail here. Gleave notes that both Akhbari and Osuli scholars claimed Majlesi as their own but called him a ‘marginal’ Akhbari. Moazzen, arguing that Majlesi adopted a middle-of-theroad approach to the Akhbari /Osuli polemic, notes that he regretted his earlier study of the ‘rational religious sciences (al-‘olum al-‘aqliya) but also taught his students the rational religious sciences’.75 These challenges have been served by further detailed, comparative examination of the Arabic and Persian-language contributions and careers of Majlesi’s contemporaries.76 A. Anzali, contributing to the challenge to Majlesi’s long-standing role as the period’s chief critic of Sufism and philosophy in the period, suggests that further attention to the work of Mohammad Taher Shirazi Qommi (d. 1687) is in order.77 Such investigations have facilitated the outlining of a new role for Majlesi in the context of the period’s broader spiritual discourses – the anti-Sufi polemic, the legitimacy of Friday prayer in the continued absence of the Twelfth Imam and the Akhbari/Osuli ‘debate’ – and, thereby, also, of the realm’s broader religio-political dynamic. The present author, for example, suggests that Majlesi’s appointment as Esfahan’s sheykh al-eslam was one dimension of a broader court effort both to balance and simultaneously to identify with the competing sides in the above discourses and to spearhead a spiritual riposte both to these and to a range of contemporary socio-economic

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challenges. The latter approach was not uncommon in pre-modern societies, but similar efforts by earlier appointees to this and other positions had failed.78 Moazzen, also referring to the century’s broader spiritual and political scene, underlines the role of court and elite patronage of the religious educational system as a means of promoting a ‘uniform identity’.79 Support for integration of the study of the spiritual with that of the sociopolitical domain was part of the project to encourage interdisciplinarity among scholars in the many different sub-branches of Safavid studies at the heart of the several Europe-based Safavid Round Tables – in 1988, 1993, 1998 and 2003. This said, as noted in the public presentation of the present chapter, few of the presenters and audience attending the London October 2018 conference ‘The Renaissance of Shīʿī Islam in 15th – 17th Centuries’, organized by the Institute of Ismaili Studies,80 and presenters or audience at ‘The Idea of Iran: The Safavid Era’, also in London but a few weeks later,81 were aware of, let alone attended, the other. At the same time, there are also ‘green shoots’ appearing that directly question the broader paradigm of Safavid decline. R. Kazemi’s 2016 paper on tobacco challenges notions of Safavid economic decline.82 In the spirit of Floor’s contribution referred to above, Anzali and L. Ridgeon enlarge our understanding of Sufi and Sufi-style movements as actively present in the late seventeenth century and the years after the century’s turn.83 It would be premature to suggest that any paradigm shift has occurred in ‘Majlesi studies’ between the early years of the last century and the last years of the previous decade. Nevertheless, although Brunner suggests that ‘the historical person [of Majlesi] … remains rather elusive’, it does appear increasingly inadequate to continue to characterize him in terms and with approaches based on constructs formulated at least a hundred years ago. As the conventional view of Majlesi remains a key feature of the larger paradigm of Safavid decline, the contingency of this approach appears all the more evident.

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Notes: 1. On the date of Majlesi’s death, see further below, n. 56. 2. Such instances are set in italics, which are also used for foreign-language terms on first appearance. 3. John Malcolm, The History of Persia, vol. I, p. 595 n.; pp. 495f. See A.K.S Lambton, ‘Major-General Sir John Malcolm’, esp. pp. 103–5. Malcolm’s sources included, especially, Mohammad Mohsen’s Zodbat al-tavārikh. The author was an official at Nader Shah’s (d. 1747) court and composed the text at Nader’s command. Zobdat was a key source for V. Minorsky in his 1943 edition of the Tazkerat almoluk, composed in the 1720s for the Afghans. Minorsky, pp. 11, 110, notes the composer’s hostility to the Majlesi family and (pp. 41–42) identifies the ‘Mir Moḥammad Bāqir’ mentioned as the mollābāshi in the text as Majlesi who, according to the text, co-founded (with Soltan-Hoseyn) and taught at the Chahar Bagh school. Minorsky, p. 41 n. 2, calls Majlesi the ‘famous restorer of the Shi’a orthodoxy’ and mentions his hostility to Sufis, while noting that the subject needs ‘special investigation’, p. 126, referring to Browne, vol. IV, p. 104 (sic, see next note). On the Zobdat al-tavārikh and the Tazkerat al-moluk, see Laurence Lockhart, The Fall of the Ṣafavī Dynasty, pp. 498–500 and 513–14, respectively. 4. For what follows, see E.G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia, vol. IV, pp. 120, 403–4, 194–95, 359, 366, 409–10. 5. On Taqi al-Majlesi, see R. Brunner, ‘Majlesi, Moḥammad-Taqi’. 6. On the Safavid period’s three collections of these texts and the four collections compiled in the centuries following the disappearance of the Twelfth Imam in the 870s, see our Twelver Shiism, pp. 44f., 62f., 87f., 179. Unlike Qesas and Rowdat, no direct citation to al-Anwār is offered. On al-Khvānsāri, also referred to by Minorsky, p. 110, see our ‘Anti-Akhbārī sentiments among the Qajar ‘ulama’, pp. 155–73. 7. D.M. Donaldson, The Shi’ite Religion, sv. On Donaldson, see P. Avery, ‘Donaldson, Bess Allen’. 8. On Gaudereau, see J. Calmard-Compas, ‘Gaudereau, Martin’, and below, n. 55. 9. Lockhart, The Fall of the Ṣafavī Dynasty, pp. 32–33, 70, 71 n. 1, 117, also pp. 38– 40, 70–77. Lockhart’s note that the decree against wine was rescinded offered no source. In his 1962 critique of Lockhart, Martin Dickson singled out not only Lockhart’s discussion of Majlesi, faulting him for his use of the word ‘fanatical’, but also Lockhart’s use of ‘decline’. See M. Dickson, ‘The fall of the Safavi dynasty’, pp. 503–17, esp. pp. 513f. 10. For Corbin, writing in 1964, Shi‘ism was, in essence, ‘the esotericism of Islam’. See Henri Corbin, Histoire de la Philosophie Islamique, p. 59. 11. S.H. Nasr, ‘The School of Ispahan’, p. 931. 12. Idem, ‘Le Shī‘isme et le soufisme’, p. 231; idem, ‘Spiritual movements, philosophy and theology in the Safavid period’, p. 694. The former is Nasr’s paper for the 1968 Strasbourg colloquium ‘Le Shi’isme imamite’, the intellectual event marking the emergence of Twelver Shi‘i studies as a distinct field. Herein, in what was apparently the gathering’s only reference to Majlesi, Nasr states Majlesi ‘n’était pas complètement opposé au soufisme, comme l’atteste Zād al-Ma‘ād’ – absent specific example(s) therefrom – though he felt obliged to renounce his father’s Sufism and ‘de s’opposer ouvertement aux soufis’. The Persian-language Zād addresses recommended religious practices.

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13. Roger M. Savory, Iran under the Safavids, pp. 234, 237–38, 251. On Majlesi he cites only Browne, Literary History, IV, p. 404. 14. M. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. III, pp. 28 n. 3, 29 n. 4, 53–55, 58. Although criticism of Lockhart is noted and Dickson thanked, the text nevertheless calls Majlesi a ‘dogmatic and bigoted scholar’ and refers to ‘the communal bigotry that plagued the Shia’, the increasing influence of the ‘religious establishment’ and, in the reign of the last shah, the manner in which the ulema (none are named) came to dominate politics in the absence of any ‘firm hand’ at the top. ‘The state seemed powerless’ to address the ‘rebellion and invasion [that] loomed on many frontiers’ and resulted in the fall of Esfahan. No sources are cited. 15. Hamid Algar, ‘Shi‘ism and Iran in the eighteenth century’, pp. 289–90, identifies Majlesi as mollābāshi, as anti-Hindu and anti-Sufi and associates his anti-Sunni policies with the Afghan invasion. His sources include Nesf al-jahān, a Persianlanguage history of Esfahan completed in 1882 by Mohammad Mehdi b. Mohammad Rezā al-Esfahāni; Tonakāboni; Mohammad ‘Ali Modarres’s (d. 1953) Persian Shi‘i biographical dictionary Reyhānat al-adab; Nasr’s ‘The School’, Browne and Lockhart. 16. Homa Katouzian, The Political Economy of Modern Iran, p. 70 n., absent references, called Majlesi one of the Safavid period’s ‘worldly religious leaders’ – no others were named – who gained ‘a great deal of political power … their influence was the cause of a lot of political mistakes which weakened the state, and helped the Afghan invasion’. Katouzian added, also absent any sources, that ‘apart from his disruptive political influence … [al-Majlisi] has had the greatest share in proliferating unreliable akhbār … and promoting superstitious beliefs, through his writings’. 17. A.K.S. Lambton, State and Government in Medieval Islam, pp. 264f., 268, 268 n.17, 283–86. 18. S.A. Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam, p. 191 n. 30, on the link between Majlesi’s repression of Sunnism – which Arjomand says ‘can be presumed to have been intensified’ after his 1687 appointment as sheykh al-eslām – and the Afghan invasion, citing Lockhart (pp. 70–79) and Nesf al-jahān. On Sufi suppression, Arjomand, p. 191 n. 33, cites Tonakāboni and Lockhart (p. 38, citing Gaudereau), although acknowledging (pace Lockhart) that ‘the details of the suppression are obscure and need further research’. 19. The Carmelite sources were compiled over the period 1929–35, see Minorsky, Tadhkirat al-Mulūk, p. 9; Francis Richard, ‘Carmelites in Persia’. 20. On Sheykh ‘Ali, see Lockhart, The Fall of the Ṣafavī Dynasty, pp. 500–504; John Perry, ‘Ḥazin Lāhiji’. 21. On Sheykh Zeyn al-‘Ābedin, in fact a Ne‘matollāhi Sufi, see Yann Richard, ‘Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn Shīrwānī’. 22. On Majlesi’s ‘So’āl va javāb’, which Arjomand cites for Majlesi’s Akhbāri tendencies, see further below. As the Akhbāri/Osuli dimensions of Majlesi’s works are not directly discussed in relation to his alleged role in Safavid decline, these are not addressed herein. See, however, ad n58 below.

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23. For the above, see Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam, pp. 152– 53, esp. 153 n. 157, 190f. See also pp. 23, 261–63, 269–70, and pp. 156–58, where he says, absent any evidence, that Majlesi’s work was immensely popular among ‘the masses’ (p. 156). Donaldson appears in Arjomand’s bibliography but is not specifically cited on Majlesi. 24. S.A. Arjomand, ‘The office of Mulla-bashi in Shi‘ite Iran’. 25. M.A. Amir-Moezzi, The Divine Guide in Early Shi‘ism, pp. 125–26, 137–79. The original was published in 1992 as Le Guide divin dans le Shī‘isme originel. Donaldson is cited in the bibliography but not in these pages 26. Moojan Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, pp. 114–15, 115 n.7, 118 n. 12. Lockhart mentioned the bans and the Sufi expulsion, the latter absent any source, not Browne. Other, almost passing, references are not sourced. See, for example, pp. 127, 174, 182, 117, 128, 172, 316–17. 27. Hans Halm, Shiism, pp. 93, 99. Halm’s only footnote on Majlesi (p. 93 n. 119) refers to various death dates for Majlesi as discussed by Karl-Heinz Pampus’s 1970 doctoral dissertation ‘Die theologische Enzyklopädie Biḥār al-anwār des Muḥammad Bāqir al-Mağlisi’, p. 47. Halm’s section bibliography (pp. 97–98) cites Lockhart, Arjomand’s 1983 article and The Shadow of God. Donaldson is uncited. 28. Y. Richard, Shiite Islam, pp. 53, 7. This work originally appeared in 1992 as L’islam Chiite, Croyances et Ideologies. Donaldson is unreferenced. 29. For the treatment of this topic up to this date, see Lockhart and, on his general antiminority attitude, Savory and Arjomand, all as cited above. 30. Vera Moreen, ‘Risāla-yi “Ṣawā‘iq al-Yahūd”’, esp. pp. 185–86. 31. These, as cited in R. Brunner, ‘Majlesi, Moḥammad-Bāqer’, included works by A. Davāni and M. Mahdavi, the latter cited below. 32. Rasul Ja‘fariyān, Dīn va seyāsat dar dowra-ye Safavi, pp. 254f., 254 n.2. 33. M. Mahdavi, Zendegināma, vol. I, pp. 104f., 185–86, 128–29. 34. Y. Matsunaga, ‘Examining the views of ‘Allāmah Majlisī’, esp. p. 16. Moreen is uncited. 35. Shireen Mahdavi, ‘Moḥammad Bāqir Majlisi’, pp. 81, 90f., 95–97. For her background on Majlesi she cites Minorksy, Momen, Hairi (see below) and Dale (cited below). 36. See, for example, Minorsky, Tadhkirat al-Mulūk, pp. 8–9, on Sanson and the Carmelites and Lockhart, The Fall of the Ṣafavī Dynasty, pp. 498–505, pp. 513–14, on Mohammad Mohsen, Sheykh ‘Ali Hazin and the Tazkerat al-moluk. 37. Sholeh A. Quinn, Historical Writing, pp. 123–24. 38. I. McCabe, ‘Beyond the lettres persanes’. See also J. Ghazvinian, ‘British travellers to Iran, 1580–1645’; P. Loloi’s paper appeared as ‘The image of the Safavids in English and French literature’. Similarly, in a 2003 paper ‘A nineteenth century glimpse of Safavid Persia’, Birgitt Hoffmann critiqued the nineteenth-century Rostam al-tavārikh, also often used by Western scholars, as ‘not a reliable historical account’. See further below, n. 66. 39. S. Brakensiek, ‘Political judgement between empirical experience and scholarly tradition’. Cf. Minorsky, Tadhkirat al-Mulūk, p. 8. 40. Sonja Brentjes, ‘Immediacy, mediation, and media in early modern Catholic and Protestant representations of Safavid Iran’, p. 180.

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41. Kathryn Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, pp. 463–82, 471, 478 nn. 72, 75–77, 79, 97, 124. Her sources on Majlesi include Momen, some of Majlesi’s Persian-language works, Behār and, especially, an essay by Mir Lowhi. The latter was, however, an acknowledged contemporary critic of Majlesi and his father. Donaldson and Moreen are uncited. On Mir Lowhi, see A. Hairi, ‘Mīr Lawḥī’. 42. Willem Floor, ‘The Khalifeh al-Kholafa of the Safavid sufi order’, pp. 79–80. The court source is Mohammad Ebrāhim Nasiri, Dastur-e shahreyārān; the author was an official at Hoseyn’s court. The Sufi source is an essay by Qotb al-Din Neyrizi. For both, see further below. 43. As cited in Brunner, ‘Majlesi, Moḥammad Bāqer’, these include works by M. Mehrizi and H. Rabbāni, ‘A. Miānji and N. Nā’ini. M. Sefatgol’s general Sakhtār-e nehād, as noted below, also discusses Majlesi. 44. Colin Turner, Islam Without Allah?, esp. pp. 148f. On the hadith, see pp. 171–72, 150. Turner also cites Majlesi’s ‘Eyn al-hayāt, some other ‘manual’ works and Behār. Donaldson and Moreen are uncited. 45. Rula J. Abisaab, Converting Persia, p. 128. On Majlesi, see especially pp. 123 and 126–30, nn. 49–60, 64–83, and pp. 143–45. Abisaab’s sources include Lockhart, Arjomand’s The Shadow of God and Mahdavi, Zendegināma. 46. Abisaab, Converting Persia, p. 127, citing the late Safavid-period chronicler Khātunābādi’s Vaqā’e‘ al-senin, pp. 561–62, which does not name Majlesi directly, and Nasiri, Dastur, pp. 18–19, which notes that at the 1694 accession Majlesi advised piety and promotion. Nasiri’s other references to Majlesi (Dastur, pp. 21f., 35–36, 48, 110, 273) are uncited. On Khātunābādi (d. 1694), his brother and others in the family who completed the work, see Kioumars Ghereghlou, ‘Ḵātunābādī, Mir ‘Abd al-Ḥosayn’. Abisaab, p. 129, also cites Arjomand’s unsubstantiated statement that Majlesi’s work was immensely popular. 47. Abisaab also refers to Ma‘sum ‘Ali Shāh Shirāzi’s (d. 1925) Tarā’eq al-haqā’eq. On Ma‘sum ‘Ali, who was in fact a Ne‘matollāhi Sufi, as was Sharvāni, see R. Tabandeh’s ‘Mīrzā Muḥammad Maʿṣūm Shīrāzī’. Again, Donaldson and Moreen are uncited. 48. Michael Axworthy, Empire of the Mind, pp. 144–45. His sources include our own Safavid Iran, Moreen and Jean Calmard, ‘Popular literature under the Safavids’, p. 331. The ‘one strand’ reference is not sourced. Axworthy’s bibliography includes Ja‘fariyān, cited above, but it does not appear in these footnotes. 49. Axworthy, Empire of the Mind, pp. 148–49, citing only other secondary sources: R. Matthee, The Pursuit of Pleasure, pp. 92–94; Babayan, Mystics, p. 485; and L. Lewisohn, ‘Sufism and the School of Iṣfahān’, pp. 132–33. The reference to Majlesi’s ‘attack on women’s freedom’ is unsourced. 50. Cf. Stephen F. Dale with his 1994 Indian Merchants and Eurasian Trade, for example, and Douglas E. Streusand with his 1989 The Formation of the Mughal Empire. 51. S.F. Dale, The Muslim Empires of the Ottomans, Safavids, and Mughals, pp. 190, 250–51. 52. D.E. Streusand, Islamic Gunpowder Empires, pp. 166, 177, 195–96. Neither refer to Moreen or Donaldson. 53. https://referenceworks.brillonline.com/browse/encyclopaedia-of-islam-2 [accessed 28 March 2020].

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54. A. Hairi, ‘Madjlisī’, referring to H. Nuri’s al-Feyd al-qodsi and Mostadrak alwasā’el and al-Bahrāni’s Lo’lo’āt al-bahreyn. On al-Bahrāni, see E. Kohlberg, ‘Bahrani, Yūsof’. Donaldson is referenced but not cited; Moreen is uncited. 55. On Gauderau, see Calmard-Compas, ‘Gaudereau, Martin’. Père Sanson published Voyages ou relation de l’état présent du royaume de Perse in 1695, the year after Soltan-Hoseyn’s accession. On Sanson, a French missionary, in Iran from 1683–92, see Minorsky, Tadhkirat al-Mulūk, pp. 8–9; Lockhart, The Fall of the Ṣafavī Dynasty, p. 7 n. 4. 56. R. Brunner, ‘Majlesi, Moḥammad-Bāqer’. Brunner questions the reliability of Khātunābādi’s Vaqā’e‘ on the date of Majlesi’s death and other details. 57. M. Moazzen, ‘Institutional metamorphosis or clerical status quo?’, pp. 70, 78–79, 84. 58. Idem, Formation of a Religious Landscape, pp. 52, 114, 151f., 165 n. 10, 168. 59. K. Babayan, ‘The Safavids in Iranian history’, pp. 285–305, esp. pp. 301f. 60. N. Haider, Shi’i Islam, pp. 77–78, 141, 155–60, 164, 224. 61. A. Amir-Moezzi and C. Jambet, What is Shi‘i Islam?, pp. 115, 126, 138 n. 2. To be sure, they are faithful to Corbin, associating Shi‘ism with Sufism (pp. 4–5), discussed above, and Amir-Moezzi’s earlier views on ‘political Shiism’ and its reasons for having arisen from a faith whose ‘sacred texts present it as initiatory, esoteric, mystical and quietist’ (pp. 105f.). The French original appeared in 2004. See also pp. 38 n.7, 51, 138 n. 2, 214. 62. Rudi Matthee, Persia in Crisis, pp. 253 and esp. 192 nn. 108–10, citing otherwise not unpacked Dutch correspondence and Sefatgol, Sakhtār-e nehād, pp. 221, 452, 542. 63. Matthee, Persia in Crisis, pp. 201–2, 314 n. 22. In the pre-1722 account of Abu Tāleb Mir Fendereski, Tohfat al-‘ālam, the author is only mentioned as Majlesi’s student in Ja‘fariyān’s introduction to the Tehran edition, pp. 7 and 11f. 64. Matthee, Persia in Crisis, p. 202 n. 24, citing Turner. 65. Ibid., p. 202 n. 25, citing Sanson, on whom see above, n. 55; Neyrizi, also mentioned above; and Lockhart. 66. Ibid., p. 262 n. 35. Matthee’s example of this ‘generally secular genre’ is the nineteenth-century Rostam al-tavārikh, on whose reliability see note 38 above. Majlesi makes a fleeting appearance in Matthee’s 1999, mainly politico-economic study of decline, The Politics of Trade in Safavid Iran (p. 206), as having ‘sanctioned this increased pressure on non-Muslims’ while sheykh al-eslām. Matthee cites but does not unpack a 1687 Dutch commercial note, the reference to which (p. 206 n. 11) seems very similar to that cited for the Dutch source in Persia in Crisis, cited above, and ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Khātunābādi, Vaqā’e‘ al-senin, pp. 540–41, which, in fact, is Majlesi’s death notice. 67. Farhad Daftary, A History of Shi‘i Islam, pp. 81–89, and the accompanying footnotes. The works cited on Safavid decline (p. 88 n. 32) include Lockhart and Matthee’s Persia in Crisis. 68. M. Pierce, Twelve Infallible Men, pp. 40, 160–61, 49–51, 117, 119–20, 139. Some of Pierce’s citations to Majlesi’s works are indirect, e.g. pp. 117 n. 140, 119–20 n. 160. Elsewhere (p. 160 n. 20), Pierce cites Hairi, Colin Turner’s 1989 PhD dissertation and al-Amin’s A‘yān al-Shi‘a. See also passing references on pp. 25, 76, 135.

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69. Moojan Momen, Shi‘i Islam, esp. pp. 97f., esp. pp. 99–100, 134–35, 147–48, and sv. There are no footnotes herein, but the section’s sources (pp. 287–89) include Babayan, Abisaab, Matthee and Turner. 70. Abbas Amanat, Iran, pp. 120–22, 205, 253, 571. The relevant ‘further readings’ section (pp. 915–21) lists Majlesi’s Persian works in English translation (p. 919) but not Moreen’s translation-cum-analysis of ‘Savā‘eq’ or any bibliographical information about it, although the essay itself is cited in the main text (p. 122). Donaldson is not cited, but Amanat characterizes Lockhart’s Fall as a ‘seminal study’ (p. 919). The COVID-19 lockdown has meant that the author has been unable to access his notes to provide a reference for Majlesi’s ‘many wives and slave concubines’. 71. In her unfinished, posthumously published The Thread of Mu‘awiya, based on research undertaken in the mid-1990s, L. Walbridge suggests, p. 137, that those Shi‘i Iranians who left Iran after 1979 did so because they ‘did not want to live by Islamic law’. In the United States they avoid discussion of religion and ‘strive to keep alive what they refer to as “Persian” (not Iranian) culture’ (p. 138). As to the United Kingdom, see R. Gholami, Secularism and Identity; idem, ‘Integration, class and secularism’. 72. In Latin American studies, to which ‘decoloniality’ owes its origins, see, for example, such works of W. Mignolo as ‘Delinking: The rhetoric of modernity’, pp. 449–514, for which references thanks are due to Mary Newman. Decoloniality is the theme of the 2020 British Society for Middle Eastern Studies (BRISMES) conference, now scheduled for 2021: http://www.brismes.ac.uk/conference/call-forpapers-2020/ [accessed 13 April 2020]. 73. A. Newman, ‘Baqir al-Majlisi and Islamicate medicine’, p. 387; idem, ‘Bāqir alMajlisī and Islamicate medicine II’. 74. Idem, ‘The recovery of the past’. The sections addressed in these three papers, from Behār’s volume 14, ‘Ketāb al-samā’ wa-l-‘ālam’, on cosmology and natural history, would seem to have been among the material collected and collated by Majlesi himself. See E. Kohlberg, ‘Beḥār al-Anwār’, esp. pp. 91–92. 75. Robert Gleave, Scripturalist Islam, pp. 44, 155, 241–44, 262, 264–66, 293 n. 49, 298. For Moazzen, see above n. 58. 76. See, for example, A. Newman, ‘Fayd al-Kashani and the rejection of the clergy/state alliance’. 77. Ata Anzali, Mysticism in Iran, esp. pp. 109–11, though still ambiguous: Majlesi, ‘after his father’s death, vehemently opposed Sufism and wrote treatises against it’ (ibid., p. 89); and Mohammad Tāher al-Qommi, Opposition to Philosophy in Safavid Iran. For the latter, see also the present writer’s forthcoming ‘Glimpses into lateSafavid spiritual discourse’. 78. See Newman, Safavid Iran, esp. pp. 96f.; idem, Twelver Shiism, pp. 188f. 79. Moazzen, Formation of a Religious Landscape, p. 247. 80. See https://iis.ac.uk/video/conference-highlights-renaissance-shi-i-islam-15th-17thcenturies-0 [accessed 1 February 2020]. 81. See https://www.soas.ac.uk/lmei-cis/events/idea-of-iran/27oct2018-the-idea-of-iranthe-safavid-era.html [accessed 1 February 2020]. On the second Safavid symposium, in May 2019, see https://www.soas.ac.uk/lmei-cis/events/idea-of-iran/11may2019the-idea-of-iran-the-second-safavid-century.html [accessed 1 February 2020].

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82. R. Kazemi, ‘Tobacco, Eurasian trade’, pp. 613–33. 83. A. Anzali, ‘The emergence of the Ẕahabiyya in Safavid Iran’, pp. 149–75; L. Ridgeon, ‘Short back and sides’, pp. 82–115. See also our ‘Sufism and the Safavids in Iran’, forthcoming.

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— ‘Anti-Akhbari sentiments among the Qajar ‘Ulama: The case of Muhammad Baqir al-Khwansari (d. 1313/1895)’, in Religion and Society in Qajar Iran, ed. R. Gleave (London: Routledge/Curzon, 2005), pp. 155–73. — Safavid Iran: Rebirth of a Persian Empire (London: I.B. Tauris, 2006). — ‘Bāqir al-Majlisī and Islamicate medicine II: al-Risāla al-dhahabiyya in Biḥār al-anwār’, in Le Shī‘isme Imāmite quarante ans après: hommage à Etan Kohlberg, ed. Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi et al. (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), pp. 349–61. — ‘The recovery of the past: Ibn Bābawayh, Bāqir al-Majlisī and Safawid medical discourse’, Iran 50 (2012), pp. 109–27. — Twelver Shiism, Unity and Diversity in the Life of Islam, 632 to 1722 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013). — ‘Glimpses into late-Safavid spiritual discourse: An ‘Akhbārī’ critique of Sufism and philosophy’, in Sufis and their Opponents in the Persianate World, ed. R. Tabandeh and L. Lewisohn (Irvine, CA: Jordan Center for Persian Studies, 2020), pp. 259–307 (forthcoming). — ‘Sufism and the Safavids in Iran: A further challenge to “decline”’, in Routledge Handbook of Sufism, ed. L. Ridgeon (forthcoming). Pampus, Karl-Heinz, ‘Die theologische Enzyklopädie Biḥār al-anwār des Muḥammad Bāqir al-Mağlisi (1037–1110 A.H. = 1627–1699 A.D.)’, doctoral dissertation (Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn, 1970). Perry, John R., ‘Ḥazin Lāhiji’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, online at http://www. iranicaonline.org/articles/hazin-lahiji [accessed 28 March 2020]. Pierce, Matthew, Twelve Infallible Men: The Imams and the Making of Shi’ism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016). al-Qommi, Mohammad Tāher, Opposition to Philosophy in Safavid Iran: Mulla Muḥammad-Ṭāhir Al-Qummī’s Ḥikmat al-ʻĀrifin, introduction and critical edition by A. Anzali and S.M. Hadi Gerami (Leiden: Brill, 2018). Quinn, Sholeh A., Historical Writing during the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas: Ideology, Imitation, and Legitimacy in Safavid Chronicles (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2000). Richard, Francis, ‘Carmelites in Persia’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, online at http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/carmelites-in-persia [accessed 28 March 2020]. Richard, Yann, Shiite Islam, Polity, Ideology, and Creed (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995). — ‘Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn Shīrwānī’, Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition, online at http://dx.doi.org.ezproxy.is.ed.ac.uk/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_SIM_ 8147> [accessed 28 March 2020]. Ridgeon, Lloyd, ‘Short back and sides: Were the Qalandars of late Safavid Iran domesticated?’, Journal of Sufi Studies 6 (2017), pp. 82–115.

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Savory, Roger M., Iran under the Safavids (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980). Sefatgol, Mansour, Sakhtār-e nehād va andisha-ye dini dar Irān dar ‘asr safavi (Tehran: Rasa Publications, 1381/2002). Streusand, Douglas E., Islamic Gunpowder Empires: Ottomans, Safavids, and Mughals (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2011). Tabandeh, R., ‘Mīrzā Muḥammad Maʿṣūm Shīrāzī: A sufi and a constitutionalist’, Studia Islamica 112, no. 1 (2017), pp. 99–130. Turner, Colin, Islam Without Allah? (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 2000). Walbridge, Linda S., The Thread of Mu‘awiya (Bloomington, IN: Ramsay Press, 2014).

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8 Practising Philosophy, Imagining Iran in the Safavid Period Sajjad Rizvi (University of Exeter) Introduction

I

ntellectuals in the Safavid period were self-consciously aware of living in a time of renaissance, of a classical revival of ancient wisdoms and heritage, be they from the early Shi‘i tradition, from the Hellenic Neoplatonism or from ancient Iranian wisdom. The major thinkers of the so-called ‘school of Esfahan’ self-consciously drew upon the wisdom of the Iranian sages, following, in particular, the previous example of Sohravardi (d. 587/1191) and his explicit evocation of the ancient wisdom of Persia in the garb of Platonism, and historians of philosophy as a universal endeavour located Iran within a certain trajectory of the transmission of philosophical learning and the art of living as a prophetic inheritance. In textual terms, this meant a return to the classics: to the Theology of Aristotle (or the paraphrase of Plotinus’ Enneads IV–VI); the Elements of Theology of Proclus; the Carmina Aurea (Golden verses of Pythagoras) and its commentaries by Proclus and Iamblichus; distinct echoes of the hermetica, the Neoplatonizing texts of the circles in Baghdad of Abu Eshaq al-Kendi (d. 259/873) and Abu Nasr Farabi (d. 339/950); and much more from the ‘Abbasid period. The excavating agenda of Mohammad Baqer Majlesi (d. 1110/1699) and his rediscovery of early Shi‘i texts culminated in Behar al-anwar.1 As we shall see, this began with philosophers in Shiraz in the early Safavid period. Alongside this double re-reading of the classics was an overarching sense of connecting the perennial and parallel lines of transmission of wisdom – philosophy – from its prophetic origins, and one of the most significant of these was an Iranian tradition. In this chapter, after a brief discussion of how philosophy was seen in Iran before the Safavid period, I will first discuss conceptions of the practice of philosophy followed by two sets of approaches to Iran as a space for philosophizing: the philosophical texts of Molla Sadra Shirazi (d. 1045/1636) that evoked the learning of the fahlaviyun (as his commentator Sabzavari would coin it in the Qajar period),2 and the histories of philosophy, such as the Beloved of the hearts of Qotb al-Din Eshkevari that placed Iran and the ancient Iranian sages in a particular stage in the transmission of learning. But to remark

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on the imagining of Iran as a space that was not contiguous with the Safavid realms, it is worth looking at works produced in Mughal India by Abu’l-Fazl and Maqsud ‘Ali Tabrizi at the court of Akbar, in which Iran was an arcadia of philosophers as well as the source of much cultural exchange.3 This will lead us to consider what sort of space for philosophy Iran was in these texts between the Safavid and Mughal contexts. Of course, the notion that Iran was a traditional space, privileged even, for philosophizing was not new to the Safavid period. The famous historian Ebn Khaldun (d. 808/1406) commented on the major role that Persians played in the articulation of knowledge and, in particular, ‘the intellectual sciences were the preserve of the Persians’.4 Many histories point to the fact that Avicenna’s contributions to philosophy and the sciences ought to be seen as a continuity of the ‘school of Gundišapūr’, as a space for intellectual inquiry bestowed upon the early Muslims.5 While most studies emphasize the Hellenic heritage through the translations from Syriac and Greek, one cannot overlook the importance of Persian patrons in the ‘Abbasid period who drew upon the heritage of the Neoplatonic and Babylonian space of the memory of Jondeshapur.6 The organization of the institutions of translation and learning in ‘Abbasid Baghdad were supposedly modelled on Jondeshapur. The historian Sa‘id al-Andalusi (d. 462/1070), in his enumeration of the nations and climes and their approach to the sciences, discusses the concept of the seven climes, that given its Persian provenance, unsurprisingly places the Persians at the centre of the cosmos, followed by the Babylonians and then the Greeks.7 After the Indians, the Persians were the most prominent in promoting and cultivating the sciences because they were people ‘of high glory and great nobility’, ‘closest to the centre of the world’ and had ‘the best climate and the ablest kings’.8 His contemporary, Abu’l-Fazl Beyhaqi (d. 470/1077), in his history of Sultan Mas‘ud of Ghazna, heaps praise on al-Biruni as peerless in philosophy and learning and representative of the elite nature of Persians.9 However, opinion was not uniformly in favour of Iranians. The famous belle-lettrist Abu Hayyan al-Towhidi (d. 414/1023) quoted Ebn al-Moqaffa‘ (d. 142/759) as stating the following differences between peoples: The Persians are masters of politics, civility, rules, and protocols. The Greeks have science and philosophy. The Indians have thought, reflection, discernment and magic, and the Turks have courage and audacity. The Africans have joy, endurance and labour. The Arabs have valour, hospitality, loyalty, heroism, generosity, humour and eloquence.10 Given Ebn al-Moqaffa‘’s reputation, this would appear to be a contrived citation. Similarly, around the same time, Abu Soleyman al-Sejestani (d. ca. 391/1000), in his recounting of the history of philosophy, produced a wholly Hellenic genealogy, starting with Thales.11 Ebn al-Qefti (d. 646/1248), in his

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history of philosophy, similarly produced a Hellenic genealogy, albeit with a prophetic incipience with Hermes/Edris that also ignores the Persians.12 Abu’lFazl (d. 1011/1602), for all his philo-Persianism, also places India in the first clime and Persia beyond, and in his enumeration of the sciences in Ayin-e Akbari focuses on Indic learning and leaves aside the Persian, although, as we shall see, the account in his Akbarnama is somewhat different.13. Nevertheless, the main tradition that identified Persia as a space for philosophy and connected its ancient wisdoms to the prophetic inheritance articulated in the early period of the Islamic history of philosophy and to the abiding significance of Iran in its practice was the Sohravardian one. This was exemplified in his own work and in that of his direct followers, such as Shams al-Din Shahrazuri (d. before 704/1305), not least in his own history of philosophy Nozhat al-arwah (to which we will return). Sohravardi consciously invoked the wisdom of the mystic orient and cited the authority of the ‘Persian sages’ (hokama’ al-fors, al-fahlaviyun, al-khosravaniyun) as examples of thinkers inclined to ta’alloh (theosis), like the late antique Neoplatonists. Later commentators, including the late Henry Corbin, saw in it a serious attempt at recovering the language of an angelology and cosmology of light and darkness of ancient Iran.14 Corbin’s own attachment to forms of spiritual phenomenology meant that he discerned in ‘Iranian Islam’ a core of philosophical and theological practices that essentialized a continuous history of attachment to light and dark, time and non-time, mysticism and philosophy, and angels, forms and eternal ideas in the mind of God, with his primary evidence base being the work of Sohravardi.15 This constituted for him a ‘théosophie orientale’.16 The one who explicitly took up Sohravardi’s ancient Persian wisdom – termed the philosophy of orientation – as a reason for his own famous doctrine of the modulation of existence was Molla Sadra Shirazi.17 The actual evidence was often lacking – the role of the controlling agents and the lords of the talismans who determined the particulars in the sub-lunary world sounded much like the Platonic forms and even the division of things in the cosmos into grades of light and darkness owed more to the light metaphors of the noetic world in the scheme of Plotinus. Nevertheless, the perception that the Sohravardian tradition revived ancient Iranian wisdom was more powerful as an idea of the continuity of philosophizing in Iran – with its neo-Pythagorean practices of self-mortification, spiritual exercises, veganism and the close communal following of a divinely realized sage – than any historically contingent argument. Philosophers and champions of cultural taste are often not the best historians; but the perceptions that they articulate are powerful and lasting in their influence.

Conceptions of Philosophy in the Safavid Period Consistent with some recent approaches to the study of late antique thought, I argue that, for thinkers in sixteenth and seventeenth-century Safavid Iran (and

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its cultural outposts further north and east in Central Asia and India), philosophy was a ‘way of life’.18 It was considered to be the pinnacle of human intellectual achievement and the most important discipline within the hierarchy of the sciences. This approach involves some key assumptions about the nature of philosophy, reasoning and ethical living in the world. First, thinkers assumed that reason defined the human and was the basic foundation for action. Inquiring into the nature of truth and reality was a psychological motivation for action. It did not mean that they were not aware of the possibility of committing errors or of discerning the discontinuity between knowledge and action that was so common in matters of ethics (the famous problem of akrasia). Sound reason was a good (indeed the ‘great good’ signalled in the Qur’an 2:269), and thinkers were optimistic about its potential to grasp reality. Second, the perfection of the rational faculty in humans is the goal of philosophy. This process involves not just the spiritual practices of contemplation and selfdiscipline but also ritual and religious acts that bind one to the divine. This ‘religious commitment’ within philosophy as a way of life echoed the Platonic ideal of the philosopher-sage as the one who becomes god-like. Third, and related to the previous point, knowledge as the ultimate good had the power to transform the self and provide a therapy for salvific ends. The philosophical life was one of ethical commitment to pursue the good in search of reality. For the thinkers discussed in this chapter, the truth would set you free. In this sense, the philosophy of the Safavid period constituted a distinct turn towards a neoPythagorean and Neoplatonic attitude to thinking and being, consciously evoking the ancients.19 All the philosophers of the Safavid period seemed to agree on these principles. However, one of the drawbacks of the notion of philosophy as a way of life is an elitist notion of reason and the sort of life that this might entail. Philosophy was never for everyone, and thinkers of this persuasion were keen to safeguard its elite status. Molla Sadra, the pre-eminent thinker of the period, consistently warned against the dissemination of philosophical teachings among the common people and, in his magnum opus, al-Hekma al-mota‘aliya fi’l-asfar al-‘aqliya al-arba‘a (The Transcendent philosophy of the four intellectual journeys), used juridical language to express the idea: ‘It is forbidden for most people to set out to acquire these complicated sciences and join the community because the worthy are rare and exceptional. Guidance to inquiry is an act of grace from God’.20 Philosophy was a vocation, a calling that led one to a master. An elite person of worth, like Molla Sadra, sought out another elite figure, such as Mir Damad (d. 1040/1631), a major courtier and boon companion of Shah ‘Abbas I (r. 1587–1629) and sheykh al-eslam of Esfahan during the last years of his life. This attitude may also have something to do with the opposition he faced in his home town of Shiraz from those opposed to the study of philosophy.21 The teaching of the philosophical sciences and the communities of philosophers

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were found in some locales and not in others. Some madrasas (‘colleges’ of religious learning) taught philosophy as a central part of the curriculum but others did not.22 We have plenty of evidence of philosophy being taught in madrasas prior to the Safavid period in Iran, whether in the Nezamiya colleges established across Iran under the Seljuqs, other circles of learning in Shiraz or, famously, at the observatory complex in Maragha.23 Two important thirteenth and fourteenth-century codices from Azerbaijan (the Safina-ye Tabriz and Majmu‘a-ye falsafi-ye Maragha) testify to the importance of philosophy in the curriculum and its relationships to other areas of intellectual inquiry, including speculative theology, literature, the belles-lettres and mysticism.24 Important historical witnesses like the ejazat literature (lit. ‘permissions’, records of master–student lineages) attest to the continuity of the study of philosophy in the period among major figures at court and in learned societies known for their mastery of hekma (philosophy). At the beginning of the Safavid period, the key philosophers were Mir Gheyas al-Din Mansur Dashtaki (866–949/1462–1542), the head religious functionary (sadr) under Shah Tahmasp (r. 1524–76), and his students Najm alDin Mahmud Neyrizi (d. after 943/1536) and the philosopher-scientist Shams al-Din Khafri (d. 942/1535), as well as Mir Fathollah Shirazi (d. 997/1589), who famously took the philosophical curriculum to India. He became a preeminent courtier of Akbar and seems to have been pivotal in establishing the study of Avicenna’s al-Shefa’ there. Later, the centre shifted from Shiraz to Mashhad with the logician-theologian ‘Abdollah Yazdi (d. 981/1573), a prominent teacher in the madrasa, and his colleague Mir Fakhr al-Din Sammaki (d. 984/1576), sheykh al-eslam of Mashhad. In the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I, philosophy reached an apogee with Mir Damad, student of Sammaki, Molla Sadra, favourite of the governors of Fars, and his students Mohsen Feyz Kashani (d. 1090/1680) and ‘Abd al-Razzaq Lahiji (d. 1072/1661), and their contemporary Rajab ‘Ali Tabrizi (d. 1080/1670). These latter scholars were patronized by Shah ‘Abbas II (r. 1642–66). Finally, at the end of the period leading to the fall of the empire, the court accommodated Molla Hoseyn Khvansari (d. 1098/1687) and his son Aqa Jamal Khvansari (d. 1121/1710), who was sheykh al-eslam of Esfahan under Shah Soltan-Hoseyn (r. 1694– 1722).25 In geographic terms, the study of philosophy at the beginning of the period was strong in Shiraz (which had been a centre of learning since the fourteenth century); then it waned and shifted to Mashhad and then to Esfahan, with a momentary return to Shiraz and Qom through Molla Sadra and his students. While invectives against philosophy were penned from the middle of the seventeenth century, there is a consistent history throughout the Safavid period of the prominence of philosophy and its study associated with the court of the shah or with various provincial courts.26

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Fundamentally, the philosophical traditions of the Safavid period drew upon a strand of early Arabic Neoplatonism, reviving the strong influence of the Theologia Aristotelis, and attempted to continue the theme of challenging the hegemony of Avicennian philosophy. The fact that they read the Theologia as an authentic work of Aristotle and saw in him a Platonist is an example of the sort of historical contingencies and leaps that Hadot argued were essential for the flourishing of philosophical inquiry.27 The Theologia defined philosophy for the Safavid period, so much so that one chronicler at the time of ‘Abbas II said in praise of a court philosopher, ‘any philosopher who would study with him would forget the Theologia!’.28 Philosophers in this period considered falsafa to be a rather basic form of ratiocinative endeavour and preferred the term hekma. In its style and in its goals, the hekma tradition was quite different from falsafa and deliberately involved insights from mysticism as from philosophy and rational theology. The boundaries between these different forms of intellectual inquiry were deliberately blurred and questions normally considered to be relevant to kalam or mysticism were discussed in hekma. It is worth bearing in mind these two critical points of methodology. First, the hekma tradition is much more than just ‘philosophy’; rather, it was a mixed discourse that attempted to understand the nature of reality using a variety of methods and instruments from falsafa, from the kalam traditions of rational theology among the Twelver Shi‘a, and modes of rationalizing the mysticism associated with the school of Ebn al-‘Arabi (d. 1240). It was a combination of demonstration, dialectic, rhetoric and intuition. It should therefore not surprise us if a thinker such as Molla Sadra discusses the nature of the soul by considering evidence and arguments from Avicenna, Sohravardi and Ebn al-‘Arabi alongside the Theologia Aristotelis, together with Qur’anic verses and Prophetic hadith and Imami sayings, as well as insights that Molla Sadra claims to have directly received from divine inspirations through meditation and spiritual practice. Wisdom comes from God and reverts the seeker to Him, initiating the soul into a practice that will transform and realize its potentiality as an immortal principle. Concomitantly, Molla Sadra’s thought signals a conscious attempt to revive features of late antique Neoplatonism, with its privileging of processes of becoming over substance mode metaphysics and, as such, needs to be read as an attempt to overthrow Avicennian philosophy in all areas of philosophical inquiry in favour of what I call the Iamblichean synthesis (setting aside for a moment the historical question of whether he had access to the texts of Iamblichus beyond the supposed commentary on the Pythagorean carmina aurea).29 This approach in late antique Neoplatonism recognized the limitations of Aristotelianism, and particularly of the language and epistemology of the Stagirite to know truly the nature of reality. The synthesis, therefore, insisted upon the performativity of textual study to transform the soul of the student, and integrated philosophy, theology and especially theurgy, the spiritual

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practice of invoking and inculcating the divinities in the magus and which in the Sufi context was expressed via the invocation of God’s names as a process of acquiring and internalizing them to achieve a deification of the self.30 Molla Sadra’s own approach to the pursuit of wisdom focused on the perfecting of the human soul through the Aristotelian methods of demonstrative and syllogistic reasoning alongside the Neoplatonic goal of becoming god-like (al-tashabboh be’l-bari’). The assumption here is that this process of ‘becoming’ requires divine grace, since the inception of the soul is itself an act, indeed an emanation, of divine providence.31 One does not need to demonstrate the continuity of a neo-Pythagoreanizing Neoplatonism in Molla Sadra’s time to discern the influence of texts and doxographical instances that clearly affected his work. Further, Molla Sadra’s work signals a shift in the conception and division of philosophy. Instead of the standard Avicennian divisions of logic, physics and metaphysics (the final section including oftentimes a discussion of ethics), his production exemplifies two models of organization. First, most of his works in philosophical theology are divided into two parts, the first concerning ontology and onto-theology (i.e. speculations on the nature of God, or metaphysica specialis) and the second, psychology and the afterlife. The former focuses on the ontology of a universe created by God, while the latter embraces the ontology of the human soul and its becoming. Second, his main work al-Asfar al-arba‘a is divided into ‘four journeys’ that broadly render four areas of philosophy: first philosophy or ontology, physics, onto-theology and noetics (i.e. theories of intellectual cognition): thus the topics discussed in the philosophical sciences and theology are mapped upon the mystic’s path towards the One and his return to the self and society. Accordingly, philosophy is prior to other inquiries because it studies a subject matter known innately by all humans, namely being. This claim builds upon the Avicennian conception of metaphysics, but it also follows from Molla Sadra’s reading of the Theologia.32 Given the significance of the ontology, Molla Sadra constantly returns to it in other sections of his corpus as well; the principles that he expounds in ontology play a critical role in solving problems in other areas, not least in noetics. The very fact that the soul is placed at the centre of philosophical inquiry is critical: philosophy, in the terms of a famous saying attributed to Emam ‘Ali, concerns the whence, the what, and the whither of that soul.33 Molla Sadra’s conception of philosophy built upon earlier articulations in Shiraz a couple of generations before him. Shiraz had been a major centre for the study of philosophy in the Ilkhanid and Timurid periods and was associated with the leading philosophertheologians ‘Adod al-Din al-Iji (d. 756/1356) and al-Sharif ‘Ali al-Jorjani (d. 816/1413), whose school was centred on the Madrasa-ye Dar al-Shefa’. But of more immediate importance for Molla Sadra were two figures associated with the Dashtaki family and their students connected with their Madrasa-ye Mansuriya founded in 1478, which specialized in the study of philosophy and

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theology. The first was Mir Gheyas al-Din Mansur Dashtaki, who was closely associated with Shah Esma‘il from the time of the conquest of Shiraz by the Safavids. For a short while in 1529–30 he was appointed sadr, the leading religious figure in the Safavid Empire.34 His tastes in philosophy were Avicennian with strong mystical leanings. In a short epitome of philosophy entitled Tajrid masa’el al-hekma (Summation of issues in philosophy), he offered two levels of philosophy: natural philosophy that culminates in the anthropology of the human soul, and divine philosophy or metaphysics (al-‘elm al-elahi) that also culminates in an account of the human soul. The former is deduced from the investigation of the cosmos and the latter from the very existence of God. In the short conclusion to the work, he makes his mystical proclivities clear: it is the light of God that draws the soul towards it and the greatest success is for the soul to ascend to the One, to understand and encounter reality and experience light, pleasure and bounty.35 It is through this ascent from the baseness of this world and its embodiment that humans attain salvation. The use of the term ‘elm elahi (divine science), common in the period but also before, to indicate theology in the Aristotelian sense, became associated with the process of ta’alloh and the philosopher’s pursuit of the divine attributes. The divine science is the means of becoming divine. In an epitome of philosophical theology entitled Dalil al-hoda (Indication of guidance), Dashtaki starts with a description of the light of guidance that allows one to understand reality which issues forth from the ‘city of knowledge’, to which the Prophet alluded through the famous hadith: ‘I am the city of knowledge and ‘Ali is its gate’. Philosophy is associated with the Prophetic inheritance and the teachings of the imams.36 This formulation makes his affiliations clear and also provides a Shi‘i flavour to most hekma works in the period. Dashtaki’s Mer’at al-haqa’eq wa mojli’l-daqa’eq (Mirror of realities and theophany of subtleties) is a short work on metaphysics, on the descent of being from God, whose language, especially the titles of sections, is indebted to the Illuminationist (eshraqi) tradition inaugurated by Shehab al-Din Yahya alSohravardi, as well as to the Sufi vocabulary of monism (in particular the terminology of vahdat al-vojud from the school of Ebn ‘Arabi). Philosophy in this text is the result of divine illumination acquired through inner disclosure and insight.37 Generally, his work exhibits Avicennian influence in its articulation of subjects of inquiry and their order of investigation. The second figure was the philosopher-scientist Shams al-Din Khafri, a student of Dashtaki, who wrote extensively on the nature of metaphysics and on the proof for God as the necessary existence.38 His position on philosophy as a mystical encounter with the One, drawing upon the Neoplatonic tradition, can be deduced from his writings. But the most important aspect of his work was a very short treatise outlining the nature of four journeys that the mystic (‘aref) embarks upon to understand reality and God, a work that had a profound influence on Molla Sadra.

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Know that mystics undertake four journeys. The first journey is from creation to God. When one contemplates creation, one finds oneself qualified by contingency that necessitates reliance upon another. Pure contingents do not possess in themselves anything that has subsistence in itself; rather, things that are purely contingents cannot by themselves participate in existence but depend upon an entity external to them to grant them existence, that is God the Necessary in Himself. So one who contemplates propels one from contingency to the Necessary in Himself … The second journey is the journey in God with God and is the motion through the attribute of the essentially Necessary to the other [divine] attributes such as knowledge, life, power, will, audition, sight and speech. The third journey is the journey from God to creation and the move from the attribute of the Merciful to the existentiation of creatures in a perfect form and hierarchy from intellects descending to souls and spheres down to the elements and then progressing through minerals, vegetables, animals, humans and then to angels and the reversion to God. The fourth journey is the journey in creation to God and is an expression for the disclosure and presence of being and the attributes of perfection in the Necessary Being. … The culmination of this journey results in the self-annihilation of contingents and their manifestation of real subsistence (in God).39 This short analysis considers the mystical path to be modelled upon the mystical union or beatific vision found in Plotinus (Enneads IV.8.1) and rehearsed in the Theologia: the mystic begins with self-reflection that leads him to God and after the ecstasy of union realizes the need to return to the sobriety of this-worldly existence, but ever seeking the final reversion to the One, in which presence lies his final abode.40 By the middle of the sixteenth century, with the death or emigration of Dashtaki’s son Sadr al-Din Mohammad (d. 962/1555) and his students, including Jamal al-Din Mahmud Shirazi (d. 953/1556) and Mohammad Dehdar (d. 1016/1607), who went to India, philosophy does not seem to have been taught in Shiraz and indeed seems to have shifted to Mashhad, where the next generation of students worked. This would explain why Molla Sadra, in the next generation, had to leave his home town to find suitable teachers.41 Molla Sadra was the most important thinker of the period, playing a leading role at the local court of Shiraz towards the end of his life, where he taught at the Madrasa-ye Khan and was associated with a number of major figures of the time, including the governor of Fars province Emam-Qoli Khan (d. 1633). His conception of philosophy became, and remains, the dominant one in Persianate lands. We must begin with definitions of hekma in various works to see the

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continuities with previous thinkers and the more explicit emphases that he had. Let us begin with his definitions of philosophical theology. In al-Mazaher alelahiya fi asrar al-‘olum al-kamaliya (Divine manifestations in the journeys of the perfected sciences), Molla Sadra defines ‘divine philosophy’ (hekma elahiya) in the introduction by clarifying that wisdom and philosophy are received as acts of grace from the Divine, who illuminates souls that are imprisoned in bodies of darkness, and that ultimate wisdom is encountering the Divine Essence.42 Acquisition of divine philosophy is the greatest felicity and the greatest good. Divine philosophy is a transformative process whereby the acquisition of knowledge of what is certain and real (which ultimately is the Divine) perfects the theoretical faculty of the intellect. Divine philosophy is conceived as an ancient wisdom, based on the notion that knowing one’s true self is embarking upon a mystical quest to know one’s Lord and become divine. The Platonic notion of theosis is therefore the goal of philosophy. To this end he cites the Theologia Aristotelis (Othulojiya), ‘whoever is incapable of knowing his self, it follows that he is incapable of knowing his creator’.43 Later in the text, Molla Sadra glosses the contents of philosophy and how it accords with an act of providence and grace from the divine announced in the Qur’an 2: 269. Whereas falsafa concerns base (and purely discursive) matters, hekma is concerned with three elements: the nature of God, i.e. His existence and His attributes, the reason why existents come about, and the nature of the human soul and its progression from the baseness of its material embodiment to the loftiness of its immaterial realization. Philosophy is actualized through the intellect, which in the language of religion is the Qur’an, in the language of mystics is light (nur), and in the language of philosophers is the simple intellect, all of which are synonyms for divine grace. Once again, Molla Sadra invokes the Theologia: encountering Reality is only possible through spiritual exercises, of both the body and the mind, until the human is capable of doffing his attachment to materiality and progressing to the higher intelligible realm where he enjoys the beatific vision of divine light.44 In al-Shawahed al-robubiya fi’l-manahej al-solukiya (Witnessing the Lord through the paths of wayfaring), the mystical language is more striking. Molla Sadra speaks of hekma as divine and as something that God bestows upon the hearts and souls of seekers as an act of grace. True understanding of the cosmos, God, the human and the Qur’an is only available to an elite, the best of philosophers (hokama’), the purest Sufis or the most majestic of mystics.45 Philosophy is a divine light that shines forth from the heavens of valaya (spiritual ‘authority’ and sainthood) and branches out from the function of prophecy. Here we have the notion that philosophy originated with Seth, the son and heir of Adam, and was then inherited by subsequent prophets and their heirs before emerging in the ancient philosophers. This prophetic genealogy for philosophy was already well known from the classical period and was reiterated in histories of philosophy in the Safavid period, such as Mahbub al-qolub (The

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Beloved of the hearts) of Qotb al-Din Eshkevari, another student of Mir Damad.46 Molla Sadra also expressed this lineage in various works, such as his treatise on the incipience of the cosmos (fi hoduth al-‘alam): Know that philosophy first issued from Adam, the chosen one of God and from his progeny Seth and Hermes—I mean Edris—and from Noah, because the world can never be free of a person who establishes knowledge of the unity of God and of the return [to God]. The great Hermes disseminated it [philosophy] in the climes and in the countries and explained it and benefited people through it. He is the father of philosophers and the most learned of the knowledgeable. For this we give thanks to God with the best of his supplications. As for Rome and Greece, philosophy is not ancient in those places as their original sciences were rhetoric, epistolary and poetry, and their pagans revered the stars and worshipped idols until Abraham became a prophet, and he taught them the science of divine unity. It is mentioned in history that the first to philosophize from among [the Greeks] was Thales of Miletus and he named it philosophy. He first philosophized in Egypt and then proceeded to Miletus when he was an old man and disseminated his philosophy. After him came Anaxagoras and Anaximenes of Miletus. After them emerged Empedocles, Pythagoras, Socrates and Plato.47 While this account of the course of philosophy is reflective of Platonic orientalism mingled with prophetic origins and seems to write Persians out of the story, elsewhere Molla Sadra often cites the ancient Persian sages (hokama’ al-fors, al-fahlaviyun, al-khosravaniyun) as authorities for his positions, for example, on his proofs for divine simplicity and the analogy of light for being in al-Asfar al-arba‘a.48 Clearly, in these cases, he is drawing on the language and precedent of Sohravardi. Molla Sadra’s exegetical works are also not free of meditation on the nature of philosophy as a mode of being. In the introduction to his commentary on surat al-waqi‘a (Qur’an Ch. 56), he defines the human and his goals in the following manner: Know that the human is the most noble of beings; he was at the beginning of his generation in the very limits of baseness and imperfection that arise out of the nature of the elements and components [that formed him] like all other species of animals … It does not behove divine providence to allow him (the human) to wallow in the grazing grounds of the passions like insects and worms … For it is known that everything has a perfection that is specific to it, for which it was created, and an act that completes it that is appropriate [to it]. The perfection of the human is through the perception of divine stations and partaking of divine intelligible knowledge by stripping away sensible

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material attachments and renouncing base worldly matters and being saved from the impulses of passion and freed from the bonds of carnal, concupiscent desires. All this is not made easy except through guidance and learning and disciplining and steadfastness (be’l-hedaya wa’l-ta‘lim wa’l-tahdhib waʾl-taqwim) … It is incumbent upon one who wishes to traverse the way of the people of reality and certainty, after purifying his soul from the vicious character traits, to set aside the company of the deniers (of God) and the astray because there is a seal set upon their hearts and their audition and their sight yet they do not understand … May God preserve you from the evil of these […] and not place you among them even for an instant […] We seek refuge from them in God … and in the light of the sound natural disposition (al-fetra al-salima) in the contented heart.49 It is in al-Asfar al-arba‘a that Molla Sadra provides his classic and well-known definition of philosophy: Know that hekma is the perfecting of the human soul (estekmal al-nafs al-ensaniya) through cognition of the realities of existents as they truly are, and through judgments about their being, ascertained through demonstrations (be’l-barahin), and not understood through conjecture or adherence to authority (be’l-zann wa’l-taqlid), to the measure of human capacity (hasab al-taqa al-bashariya). One might say that [philosophizing] ascribes to the world a rational order understood according to human capability so that one may attain resemblance to the Creator (al-tashabboh be’l-bari’). The human emerges as a mixture of two: a spiritual form from the world of command (‘alam al-amr, the intelligible world) and sensible matter from the world of creation (ʿalam al-khalq, the sensible world), and thus he possesses in his soul both attachment [to the body] and detachment [from it]. Hekma is sharpened through the honing of two faculties relating to two practices: one theoretical and abstract and the other practical and embedded in phenomena … The theoretical art … is the hekma sought by the Lord of the messengers – peace be with him – when he sought in his supplication to his Lord when he said: ‘O My Lord, show me things as they truly are’ (allahomma arina’l-ashya’ kama hiya), and also [sought] by the intimate of God [i.e. Abraham] when he asked: ‘My Lord bestow upon me judgment (hokman)’ [Qur’an 26:82]. Judgment is verifying the existence of things entailed by conceptions.50 In this extract, we find the conjunction of three approaches and elements of thinking about philosophy: the falsafa tradition’s perfection of the intellect and its optimism for the capacities of human reason, the tradition of theosis and mystical union or reversion to the One, and the reading of scripture to support

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and underlie philosophical inquiry as the highest expression of the teachings of the prophets who are friends of God. Another question that arises from al-Asfar al-arba‘a is why does Molla Sadra start with the human soul and then move towards the One? This structure seems already to have been the standard procedure among philosophers in Shiraz. Mansur Dashtaki in his gloss on his father’s treatise on the existence of God, entitled Kashf al-haqa’eq alMohammadiya (Disclosing the Mohammadan realities), starts with a discourse on the nature of the human soul before moving in the first chapter to prove God’s existence.51 This is because the path of the mystic begins with the introspection of the self, as commanded by the famous saying: man ‘arafa nafsahu fa-‘arafa rabbahu (whosoever knows himself knows his Lord). At the same time, the rational soul lies at the start of the inquiry because philosophy is defined as the perfecting of the rational faculty of the human soul insofar as is humanly possible. The focus on the soul demonstrates the need to undergo spiritual exercises and practices that are not just confined to the theoretical reflection of the rational soul.52 In later hekma works, the focus on noetics as the central aspect of the study remained and is clear well beyond the Safavid period.53 Thus far we have examined conceptions of philosophy and its development in the Safavid era, nodding in recognition to those Iranian origins that are considered worthy among the Hellenic roots of what is ultimately a prophetic pursuit. We now turn to Safavid-period conceptions of Iran within the wider conception of the history of philosophy and ideas articulated in Persian texts in Iran and India.

Histories of Philosophy Let us begin with Eshkevari’s Mahbub al-qolub. Qotb al-Din Mohammad b. ‘Ali Eshkevari, also known as Sharif-e Lahiji (to whom a famous Persian Qur’anic exegesis is attributed under this name), was from Lahijan, studied in Esfahan with Mir Damad and was a prominent student of his; later in life he returned to Lahijan and died there around 1090/1680. In various treatises, he takes up themes from the work of Mir Damad on the nature of creation, on the ontology of the imaginal realm and so forth. He also seemed to have been committed to Sufi thought, if not practice, evidenced by his entries on Sufis in his Mahbub as well as a partial set of glosses on the Masnavi of Mowlana. His interest in the occult – following his teacher Mir Damad – is evidenced through his work on lettrism and numerology entitled the Subtleties of arithmetic (Latayef al-hesab). The Mahbub al-qolub – in a mixture of Arabic and Persian that was rather common to the Safavid period, drawing upon the originals and mixing it with Persian to vernacularize it – was completed late in his life in 1088/1677. It comprises three sections: on the ancients, on the philosophers of the Islamic period and Sufis, and on the Shi‘i imams and prominent Shi‘i figures (of these,

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only the first two parts are edited and published). The third section culminates with a biography of Mir Damad.54 Eshkevari draws upon most of the early doxographies and histories of philosophy, but perhaps the two most important are al-Melal wa’l-nehal of Shahrastani and Nozhat al-arwah of Shahrazuri. The preface begins with an affirmation of the importance of philosophy as an ethical commitment and practice that raises the creature to God and connects him to the divine; it is only dogs who oppose philosophy and fail to cultivate it, leading to their moral abasement.55 In the preface he makes it clear that philosophy is a universal practice and art that is inherited from the Prophet, is entirely compatible with revelation and the law, and indeed its fulfilment nurtured through the niche of prophecy, that is the valaya of the Shi‘i imams.56 Philosophy issues from the tongues of prophets, divinely inspired and kindled in the niche of prophecy and further disseminated by the imams in their capacity of purifying and perfecting their followers.57 In this sense, philosophy finds its natural home in the Shi‘i context of Iran, which might explain why the third section culminates with entries on Iranian Shi‘i thinkers, not least the eminent Mir Damad. As we see with Shahrazuri – and no doubt inspired by him – the wisdom sayings of philosophers and their lives play a homiletic role in encouraging the learned to emulate them. The introduction proper that follows – again inspired by Shahrazuri – gives a broad history of the development of philosophy to the time of the Muslims. At the very outset of this discussion, he located philosophy within the gifts of the divine among the revelations of scriptures, law and moral values that the prophets brought to humanity in order to guide them to truth.58 The intimate link between prophecy and philosophy is indicated by the saying, ‘the first degrees of prophecy are the final degrees of philosophy’, and the need for the ethical life is articulated in the pursuit of asceticism and spiritual exercises as essential to the practice of philosophy.59 He stated that three peoples in particular embraced philosophy, the Greeks, the Romans and the Indians – and he began with the latter, partly one suspects due to his interest in the occult, astrology and pagan monotheism.60 The sections that follow on the Greeks are taken almost verbatim from Shahrazuri – and culminate in the sections on the Persians’ embrace of philosophy and its transmission to the Greeks that are cited by Abu Ma‘shar, suggesting also a revival of the Persian role in the recovery of philosophy in the early Islamic period.61 In the first section on the ancients, the only entry on an Iranian figure is Zoroaster and he is presented as a rather Sohravardian, Platonic and Shi‘i figure.62 Not only is he made into a defiant monotheist, espousing doctrines on angelology, but the cosmology of light and dark are taken directly from Sohravardi and from his commentator Qotb al-Din Shirazi (d. 710/1311). He stresses the important self-conscious influence of Zoroaster on Sohravardi. The entry on the whole seems to draw upon Shahrazuri mixed with references to the Zend-Avesta. Even the final part of the notice that links him to Shi‘i

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messianism, the expectation of the Parousia of the Imam and the conflict with the Dajjal is connected to messianism in the Zend-Avesta. Zoroaster is further incorporated into a Shi‘i prophetic pantheon by linking some of his teachings on light with the imams through a citation of Emam ‘Ali al-Reza on light. Zoroaster in that sense becomes not just a prophet-philosopher as one sees in Shahrazuri, but a Shi‘i as well. My second witness is an Iranian émigré to the Mughal court Maqsud ‘Ali Tabrizi, who is in some sources described as a Sufi and in others as a physician. Tabrizi was a leading Sufi, renowned for his asceticism, as well as his knowledge of mysticism (sufi-ye safi-nehad … dar tariq-e tahqiq o tazkir o tazkeya-ye nafs o kasb-e kamal o gusha-giri o seyr o soluk be-mesl o manda buda).63 As a soldier and a dervish who frequented the public sphere, he became a recipient of the favours and patronage of ‘Abd al-Rahim KhanKhanan (d. 1037/1627), was involved in the conquest of Ahmadnagar, and ended up as his mir-bakhshi (paymaster-general, often the deputy to the vizier of the empire), although, as Nehavandi says, he only used his office for the good of the people. One testimony to his Sufism may be a letter from Sheykh Ahmad Serhendi (d. 1034/1624) on the question of the spiritual pollution (and not the impurity per se) of the non-Muslim, addressed in the Hanafi mode to ‘Molla Maqsud ‘Ali Tabrizi’ whom he calls ‘makhdum’.64 He came to the attention of Akbar at court, but it was his son, prince Salim, who commissioned the translation of Nozhat al-arwah, probably in around 1010/1600, although it was completed for the new emperor Jahangir (the regnal title of Salim) in 1014/1603, shortly after his accession.65 Other sources suggest that he was a poet who came to India in search of patronage, which he received from prince Salim.66 There is even a suggestion that Jahangir assigned him as governor of Gujarat, a post that he could not take because of local opposition and mischief (shararat-e nafs-e yeki az shariran-e ruzgar); it is said he ended up in prison in the fort of Gwalior – this was the case in 1025/1616 when Nehavandi completed his Ma’aser-e rahimi, which is the main source for his biography. Thus, all we can say is that he died after this date. Numerous manuscripts of the original text of his translation of Shahrazuri survive, and it was later even abridged as Entekhab-e Tarikh al-hokama’ in 1105/1694, of which a number of exemplars are also extant.67 Tabrizi, of course, draws upon Shahrazuri and his holistic approach to the history of philosophy. Shahrazuri wrote his original work in 665/1266, based on the manuscript evidence, before his major work al-Shajara al-elahiya in 680/1282 and his commentary on Sohravardi’s Hekmat al-eshraq, which was probably completed in 694/1295.68 The text is divided into an introduction, a chapter on the course of philosophy, and then a long chapter in two parts on the lives and dicta of the ancient philosophers and then the philosophers in the world of Islam up to Sohravardi. The introduction discusses the importance of philosophy, of the Greeks and the Egyptians, the engagement with their thought

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and their lives (as moral exemplars), especially those engaged in philosophy as a way of life and a means to theosis (al-hokama’ al-mota’allehin), in order that a person may acquire happiness in this world and the next.69 His conception of philosophy is a metaphysical one, an ethical commitment and oriented towards an understanding of God and even a mystical experience of the ultimate reality. This endeavour is then further justified with recourse to various sayings of the Prophet, including the famous ‘philosophy is the lost property of the believer’, and ‘If someone has perfected himself, the people say of him that he is the Aristotle of the community’.70 He explicitly associated philosophy with the prophetic mission – all the prophets from Adam onwards were also philosophers and sages (hence, Adam was the first philosopher) and some even left works in philosophy (perhaps also linking scriptures to philosophy).71 The true heirs of the prophets in philosophy and wisdom are the Sufis (ahl alvalaya), which is very much the position of Sohravardi.72 Shahrazuri continued with the chapter on the course of philosophy beginning with the famous account of Thales of Miletus as the first philosopher and then going through the Presocratics. But he mentioned, drawing on al‘Ameri in Ketab al-amad, that philosophy was kindled from the niche of prophecy (meshkat al-nobovva) even in the case of the Presocratics, as Pythagoras himself learnt from Solomon and Empedocles was a student of the Qur’anic Loqman, who himself learnt from David.73 He also indicated the Persian origins of Greek philosophy – Thales was of the time of Darius and Ardashir who taught the Greeks, and Alexander in his conquests carried off the wisdom of the Persians.74 He also cited Abu Sahl ebn Nowbakht and others on the oriental origins of Greek philosophy taken from the Persians.75 It was the Persian kings who encouraged philosophy and patronized thinkers like Bozorgmehr and others at court, and the works of Aristotle in logic and philosophy were taken from those treasure chests seized by Alexander in Persia.76 Philosophy then finally found its home in the world of Islam, returning to the land of prophecy, nurtured by the Persians as much as the Greeks, from prophets back to the final prophet.77 Shahrazuri perpetuated the important myth of the origins of philosophy with Hermes – whom he said that the Persians identified with the first man, Gayumars, and the Hebrews with Enoch – and that this Hermes disseminated the knowledge of astrology, alchemy and metaphysics throughout the world, to the Egyptians, to the Chaldeans and Persians and to the Greeks.78 This notion of the Babylonian Hermes who ruled in Egypt and was the progenitor of the Persians was already known in Sasanian times and influenced early Arabic accounts of Mashallah and Ebn Nowbakht, both early ‘Abbasid astrological authorities, and ultimately Mobashsher b. Fatik, who completed his Mokhtar alhekam in 440/1048 at the Fatimid court, on whom Shahrazuri relied.79 Since Hermes is also associated with Edris, a Qur’anic prophet no less, and with the teaching of Seth, the prophetic comes together with the Persian and the Greek.

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Hermes also divided people into three classes: priests, kings and subjects, and this remained the case for the Persians as much as the Egyptians and others.80 But even more pertinent – given the later categorization of Zoroastrians as monotheists – Hermes was also the founder of monotheism, the faith of the honafa’.81 The entry on Zoroaster in Shahrazuri comes within the section on the later Greek sages, after the entry on ‘the Greek sage’ (al-sheykh al-yunani usually associated with Plotinus), and before Diogenes. Clearly, Zoroaster is being associated with Greek learning and Shahrazuri mentions that he journeyed to Harran in Northern Syria along with his father and learned astrology and philosophy (as well as the sciences of prophecy) there.82 Thus, Shahrazuri already had an account in which the Persians have a role in the dissemination of philosophy from its prophetic and hermetic roots and are consistently being cross-pollinated with the Hellenic inheritance as well. Tabrizi takes this up – and not without the odd mistake. For example, he locates Zoroaster – a person from Azerbaijan in the account – as studying in Najran, a pagan (although later Christian) Arab area and not in Harran, which would seem somewhat more likely.83 Tabrizi’s own confessional affiliation is not so clear; however, his introduction seems to take on a more Shi‘i manifestation with more explicit sayings on ‘Ali and in one quotation of a ‘mystic’ that is in Sohravardi, he identifies him with the Emam Ja‘far al-Sadeq in the saying about philosophy: ‘Its essence is light, its goal is God, its driver is inspiration, the heart is its abode, the intellect is its guide, God is its inspirer, and the tongue is that on which it issues’.84 He also emphasizes the Babylonian and Persian origins of philosophy further, while considering the point that Shahrazuri makes about the merits of the Greeks and the Romans as privileged in philosophy: the Greeks were pagan monotheists because they got philosophy from the son of Hermes/Edris but this was after the Babylonians and Persians received philosophy directly from Hermes.85 The seeds of the Persian preference, and the oriental origins of philosophy in Persia and Babylon alongside its divine and prophetic origins, lies at the heart of the account of Tabrizi. Even if the text of Tabrizi is a fairly faithful translation of the original, a work like Shahrazuri was of significance to the Mughal imperial conception of the self as well as the mixed legacies of its intellectual, cultural and spiritual heritage, of which Persia was significant as a space of origins of knowledge and philosophy. Abu’l-Fazl (d. 1011/1602), in his history of Akbar written a few years before Tabrizi, reflects the idea of the multiple intellectual legacies of the Mughals: the Greek, the Persian and the Turko-Mongol. Like Tabrizi, he drew upon the notion of philosophy possessing prophetic origins with Adam, and associated Hermes Trismegistus or Edris (Enoch) with Gayumars, the primordial man of the Persian tradition. Philosophy, the sciences and even the occult sciences passed through this lineage.86 The three lineages intersected – the progenitor of the Mongols was identified as Turk, the grandson of Noah,

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and he was considered to be a contemporary of Gayumars, thus making sense of both the origins of Iran and Turan and of those who populated the elites of the Mughal court.87 The privileging of Persians in the sciences and philosophy is also reflected in the respect and honour that he showed to Mir Fathollah Shirazi, citing his horoscope of Akbar that combined the best elements of ‘Persian and Greek’ methods and the role that he played in various reforms and developments, such as the calendar in 992/1584.88 Persianate thinkers in Mughal India thus concurred with Safavid notions of what philosophy and learning was, and the role of Persia and Persians in those processes.

Conclusion Philosophy in the Safavid period did not suddenly emerge ex nihilo but there is a sense that it was coming home, that Persia was the natural space for philosophizing nurtured by the wisdom of prophecy. The Safavids – and those Persianate thinkers who shared these assumptions about the nature of the world – revived and enacted a ‘late antique turn’, returning to the ancients, of which the Persians, in the form of Zoroaster, Jahmasp, Bozorgmehr and others, were part and, further, as part of their confessional turn, they made philosophy Shi‘i. Philosophy, even as a Greek science, was kindled from the niche of prophecy and so it was natural that one would engage the scriptures, including the sayings of the imams, as a metaphysical and ethical (spiritual) exercise. The association of Iran and philosophy (and wisdom oriented to the pursuit of an ethical life in pursuit of godlikeness) was not new to the Safavid period; that the popular perception in intellectual history and in more modern times made the connection between the idea of Iran and philosophizing essential and natural was due to the developments, writings and disseminations of the Safavid era. The idea of Iran as a Shi‘i intellectual space for philosophizing was very much a product of the Safavid era. In that sense, Corbin’s conceptualization of an Iranian Islam as philosophical, esoteric and Shi‘i was entirely fitting within that intellectual history of the Safavid encounter with philosophy.

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Notes: 1. On this point about the Shi‘i neo-classicist revival associated with Majlesi, see Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, ‘Le šīʿisme entre exercice du pouvoir et sauvegarde de la foi’. 2. The key insight of the Sadrian school on the modulation of existence is associated by Sabzavari with the ancient Iranian sages (fahlaviyun) – see Hādi Sabzavāri, Sharh ghorar al-farā’ed, pp. 44–45, 54–57; Toshihiko Izutsu, ‘The fundamental structure’, pp. 130–48. 3. On the trope of Iran (or Kashmir as ‘little Iran’) as arcadia, see Sunil Sharma, Mughal Arcadia, especially pp. 125–66. 4. Ebn Khaldun, Moqaddama, vol. III, pp. 271–74, trans. Franz Rosenthal, vol. III, pp. 311–15. 5. Richard Frye, The Golden Age of Persia, pp. 160–66; Dimitri Gutas, Greek Thought, Arabic Culture, pp. 133–37. 6. Majid Fakhry, A History of Islamic Philosophy, pp. 3–4. 7. Sa‘id al-Andalusi, Tabaqāt al-omam, p. 13, Science in the Medieval World, pp. 3–4. 8. al-Andalusi, Tabaqāt al-omam, pp. 26–27, Science in the Medieval World, p. 15. 9. Abu’l-Fazl Beyhaqi, History of Beyhaqi, vol. II, pp. 371–74. 10. Abu Hayyān al-Towhidi, al-Emta‘ wa’l-mo‘ānasa, vol. I, p. 74. 11. Abu Soleymān al-Sejestāni, Sevān al-hekma, p. 78. 12. Ebn al-Qefti, Ta’rikh al-hokamā’, p. 2. 13. Abu’l-Fazl, Āyin-e Akbari, vol. III, pp. 58–63, 140ff. 14. John Walbridge, The Wisdom of the Mystic East, pp. 57–64; Shehāb al-Din Sohravardi, Hekmat al-eshrāq [The Philosophy of Illumination], pp. 108, 128, 130; Shehāb al-Din Sohravardi, Mosannafāt-e Sheykh-e eshrāq, vol. I, pp. 502–4. 15. Henry Corbin, Philosophie iranienne, pp. 85–94. 16. Christian Jambet, La Logique des orientaux. 17. Mollā Sadrā Shirāzi, al-Hekma al-mota‘āliya, vol. I, p. 504. 18. See the volume edited by Michael Chase et al., Philosophy as a Way of Life. 19. Sajjad Rizvi, ‘Neoplatonism revised in the light of the Imams’; Sabine Schmidtke and Reza Pourjavady, ‘An Eastern Renaissance?’; Marco di Branco, ‘The perfect king and his philosophers’. 20. Mollā Sadrā, al-Hekma al-mota‘āliya, vol. III, p. 66. 21. Ibid., vol. I, p. 7. 22. Sajjad Rizvi, Mulla Sadra Shirazi, pp. 22–28, 137–76. 23. Ahmed al-Rahim, The Creation of Philosophical Tradition; Judith Pfeiffer, ‘Confessional ambiguity vs confessional polarization’. On the curriculum, see also Emily Cottrel, ‘Trivium and quadrivium’. 24. Abu’l-Majd Mas‘ud Tabrizi, Safina-ye Tabriz; Ghazāli et al., Majmu‘a-ye falsafi-ye Marāgha. 25. Sayyid Jalalodin Ashtiyani and Henry Corbin, Montakhabāti az āsār-e hokamā-ye elāhi-ye Irān; Corbin, La philosophie iranienne islamique; Reza Pourjavady, Philosophy in Early Safavid Iran; Ahab Bdaiwi, Late Antique Intellectualism. 26. On attacks on philosophy, see Ata Anzali and S. Hadi Gerami, Opposition to Philosophy in Safavid Iran.

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27. Pierre Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life, pp. 59–61; Pierre Hadot, Exercices spirituels et philosophie antique, pp. 270–74. The association of Aristotle with Platonism – that was taken for granted in late antiquity especially among those we call Neoplatonists – has been reassessed favourably in recent years by Lloyd Gerson in Aristotle and Other Platonists and From Plato to Platonism. 28. Vali-Qoli Shāmlu, Qesas al-khāqāni, vol. II, p. 34. 29. Sajjad Rizvi, Mulla Sadra and Metaphysics, pp. 33–37; Hans Daiber, Neoplatonische Pythagorica; see also Dominic O’Meara, Pythagoras Revived, pp. 23–31, 114. 30. Sara Rappe, Reading Neoplatonism; Gregory Shaw, Theurgy and the Soul. 31. Mollā Sadrā, al-Hekma al-mota‘āliya, vol. I, p. 23, vol. VIII, p. 5. 32. Ibid., vol. I, p. 31. 33. Ibid., vol. I, p. 25. 34. Pourjavady, Philosophy in Early Safavid Iran, pp. 24–32. 35. Mansur Dashtaki, Mosannafāt, vol. I, pp. 37–38. 36. Ibid., vol. I, p. 61. 37. Ibid., vol. I, p. 75. 38. Firouzeh Saatchian, Gottes Wesen – Gottes Werken; Pourjavady, Philosophy in Early Safavid Iran, pp. 37–40. 39. Shams al-Din Khafri, Resāla fi asfār arba‘a, Raza Library Rampur, Ms. 1027, fol. 49r. 40. ps-Aristotle, Othulujiya, p. 22. 41. The TV biopic of Mollā Sadrā produced by IRIB, Rowshantar az khāmoshi, suggests that he studied with Dehdar in Shiraz, but since the latter had left for India when Mollā Sadrā was a toddler, this is unlikely, to say the least. 42. Mollā Sadrā Shirāzi, al-Mazāher al-elāhiya, p. 3. 43. Ibid., p. 4; idem, al-Hekma al-mota‘āliya, vol. VIII, p. 360, citing ps-Aristotle, Othulujiya, pp. 22, 66. 44. Mollā Sadrā, al-Mazāher al-elāhiya, pp. 7–8, alluding to ps-Aristotle, Othulujiya, pp. 22–23; see also Sohravardi, Mosannafāt, vol. I, p. 503. 45. Mollā Sadrā Shirāzi, al-Shawāhed al-robubiya, p. 4. 46. Qotb al-Din Eshkevari, Mahbub al-qolub, vol. I, pp. 55–69. 47. Mollā Sadrā Shirāzi, Hoduth al-‘ālam, pp. 153–54. 48. Mollā Sadrā, al-Hekma al-mota‘āliya, vol. I, p. 128. 49. Mollā Sadrā Shirāzi, Tafsir al-Qor’ān al-karim, vol. I, pp. 2–3. 50. Mollā Sadrā, al-Hekma al-mota‘āliya, vol. I, pp. 23–24. 51. Dashtaki, Mosannafāt, vol. II, pp. 739–52. 52. Ibid., vol. II, p. 748. 53. Hamza Gilāni, Hekma Sādeqiya, in Ashtiyani and Corbin, Montakhabāti az āsār-e hokamā’, vol. IV, pp. 63–220. 54. Mathieu, who is the specialist on the text, is currently editing the third section. 55. Eshkevari, Mahbub al-qolub, vol. I, pp. 89–90. 56. Ibid., vol. I, pp. 100–2. 57. Ibid., vol. I, pp. 91–93. 58. Ibid., vol. I, p. 97. 59. Ibid., vol. I, p. 100. 60. Ibid., vol. I, pp. 107–14.

PRACTISING PHILOSOPHY, IMAGINING IRAN 61. 62. 63. 64. 65.

66. 67.

68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83.

84. 85. 86. 87.

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Ibid., vol. I, pp. 128–30. Ibid., vol. I, pp. 356–60. ‘Abd al-Bāqi Nehāvandi, Ma‘āser-e rahimi, pp. 48–49. This is letter number 434 in volume 3 of the Arabic translation – Serhendi, alMaktubāt al-rabbāniya, vol. III, p. 144. It is entirely possible that the Arabic text came to the attention of the Mughal court through a manuscript copied in Sialkot in 996/1587, which ended up in the Mughal royal library later bearing the seal of Shah Jahan (r. 1037–1068/1628–1657) – see British Library, Ms. Add 25738 with 192 folios of beautifully clear naskh. Munis Faruqui, The Princes of the Mughal Empire, p. 153. Two good early and complete copies are British Library, India Office Ms. Islamic 1579 dated 1019/1610, with 191 folios in two separate nasta‘liq hands, and British Library India Office Ms. Islamic 1762 dated 1039/1630, with 213 folios of nasta‘liq that claims to have been collated with the autograph in Akbarabad/Agra. A good example of the abridgement is British Library Ms. Or 13853, dated 1105/1694 with 106 folios in beautiful nasta‘liq for a Shi‘i patron. Another well-known abridgement is Montakhab Tārikh al-hokamā’ (also known as Aqwāl al- hokamā’) by Monshi Mir Sayyed Sadr al-Din b. Mohammad Sādeq Musavi, later prince of Bihar, who presented a copy to Richard Johnson, which is British Library, India Office Ms. Islamic 665 with 108 folios of nasta‘liq, and another copy of which is Khuda Bakhsh Oriental Library, Patna, Ms. 651. This later abridgement ends with the entry on Sohravardi and does not have the entry on Zoroaster. Emily Cottrell, ‘Šams al-Dīn Šahrazūrī et les manuscrits’, p. 227, citing Esad Efendi (Istanbul), Ms. 3804. Shams al-Din Shahrazuri, Nozhat al-arwāh, vol. I, pp. 2–3. Ibid., p. 5. Ibid., p. 8. Ibid., p. 9. Ibid., pp. 17–18, 24. Ibid., pp. 30–31. Ibid., pp. 34–38. Ibid., pp. 41–44. Ibid., pp. 46–47. Ibid., pp. 55–57. See also Mobashsher ebn Fātik, Mokhtār al-hekam, pp. 7–10. Kevin van Bladel, The Arabic Hermes, pp. 23–63. Shahrazuri, Nozhat al-arwāh, vol. I, p. 62. Ibid., p. 63. Ibid., pp. 310–11. Maqsud ‘Ali Tabrizi, Tārikh al-hokamā’, p. 314. The modern twentieth-century translation by Ziyā’ al-Din Dorri gives the correct place name of Harran – see Dorri, Kanz al-hekma, p. 190. Shahrazuri, Nozhat al-arwāh, vol. I, p. 9; Tabrizi, Tārikh al-hokamā’, p. 11. Shahrazuri, Nozhat al-arwāh, vol. I, pp. 11–12; Tabrizi, Tārikh al-hokamā’, pp. 13– 14. Abu’l-Fazl, The History of Akbar, vol. I, pp. 179, 185–89. Ibid., p. 197.

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88. Ibid., vol. I, pp. 106–19, vol. II, p. 33. The privileging of Persians is also reflected in the section where he wrote about those famous individuals who came to India, starting with Adam and then Hushang and other figures from the Shāhnāma, followed by famous Persian Sufis, poets and scholars closer to his time – see Abu’lFazl, Āyin-e Akbari, vol. III, pp. 325–39.

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Bibliography: Abu’l-Fazl, Akbarnāma, trans. Henry Beveridge, 3 vols (rpt., Calcutta: The Asiatic Society, 2000). — Āyin-e Akbari, trans. Henry S. Jarrett, ed. Henry Blochmann (rpt., New Delhi: Low Price Publications, 2006). — Akbarnāma, trans. Wheeler Thackston as The History of Akbar, 6 vols so far (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015–). Amir-Moezzi, Mohammad Ali, ‘Le šīʿisme entre exercice du pouvoir et sauvegarde de la foi. Le case d’al-Maǧlisī’, Studia Graeco-Arabica 8 (2018), pp. 387–96. al-Andalusi, Sa‘id b. Ahmad, Tabaqāt al-omam, ed. Hoseyn Mu’nis (Cairo: Dār al-ma‘āref, 1993); trans. Sema‘an I. Salem and Alok Kumar as Science in the Medieval World (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1991). Anzali, Ata and S. Hadi Gerami, Opposition to Philosophy in Safavid Iran: Mulla Muhammad-Tahir Qummi’s Hikmat al-‘arifin (Leiden: Brill, 2018). ps-Aristotle [Plotinus], Othulujiya, Aflutin ‘ind al-‘arab, ed. ‘Abd al-Rahman Badawi (Paris: Institut français, 1947). Ashtiyani, Sayyid Jalalodin and Henry Corbin, Montakhabāti az āsār-e hokamā’-ye elāhi-ye Irān, 4 vols (rpt., Qom: Daftar-e tablighāt-e eslāmi, 1378/1999). Bdaiwi, Ahab, Late Antique Intellectualism in Medieval Islam: The Case of Shiraz in the Ninth/Fifteenth Century (Leiden: Brill, 2020). Beyhaqi, Abu’l-Fazl Mohammad b. Hoseyn, The History of Beyhaqi (The History of Sultan Mas‘ud of Ghazna, 1030–1041), trans. Clifford E. Bosworth, ed. Mohsen Ashtiany, 3 vols (Boston: Ilex Foundation, 2011). di Branco, Marco, ‘The perfect king and his philosophers: Politics, religion, and Graeco-Arabic philosophy in Safavid Iran’, Studia Graeco-Arabica 4 (2014), pp. 191–218. Chase, Michael, Stephen Clark and Michael McGhee, eds, Philosophy as a Way of Life, Ancients and Moderns: Essays in Honor of Pierre Hadot (London: Wiley, 2013). Corbin, Henry, La philosophie iranienne islamique aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Paris: Buchet Chastel, 1981). — Philosophie iranienne et philosophie comparée (Paris: Chastel, 1985). Cottrell, Emily, ‘Šams al-Dīn Šahrazūrī et les manuscrits de “La promenade des âmes et le jardin des réjouissances: Histoire des philosophes”’, Bulletin d’études orientales 56 (2004–2005), pp. 225–60. — ‘Trivium and quadrivium: East of Baghdad’, in Universality of Reason: Plurality of Philosophies in the Middle Ages (Proceedings of the XIIth International Congress of SIEPM held in Palermo, 17–22 September 2007) (Palermo: Officina di studi medievali, 2012), vol. III, pp. 11–25.

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Daiber, Hans, Neuplatonische Pythagorica in arabischem Gewande: der kommentar des Iamblichus zu den Carmina aurea (Amsterdam: NorthHolland, 1995). Dashtaki, Mir Gheyās al-Din Mansur, Mosannafāt, ed. ‘Abdollāh Nurāni, 2 vols (Tehran: Anjoman-e āsār o mafākher-e farhangi, 1386/2007). Dorri, Ziyā’ al-Din, Kanz al-hekma (Tārikh al-hokamā’), tarjoma-ye Nozhat alarwāh wa-rowzat al-afrāh (Tehran: Bonyād-e hekmat-e eslāmi-ye Sadrā, 1389/2010). Ebn Fatik, Mobashsher, Mokhtār al-hekam, ed. ‘Abd al-Rahmān al-Badawi (Madrid: Instituto Egipcio de estudios islámicos, 1958). Ebn Khaldun, Moqaddama: al-joz’ al-awwal men ketāb al-‘ebar, 3 vols (Cairo: al-Matba‘a al-Amiriya, 1903); trans. Franz Rosenthal as The Muqaddimah: An Introduction to History, 3 vols (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1958). Ebn al-Qefti, ‘Ali b. Yusof, Ta’rikh al-hokamā’, ed. Julius Lippert (rpt., Cairo, n.d.). Eshkevari, Qotb al-Din, Mahbub al-qolub, ed. Ebrāhim Dibāji and Ahmad Sidqi, 2 vols (Tehran: Mirās-e Maktub, 1378–82/1999–2003). Fakhry, Majid, A History of Islamic Philosophy (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983). Faruqui, Munis, The Princes of the Mughal Empire 1504–1719 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). Frye, Richard N., The Golden Age of Persia (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1975). Gerson, Lloyd, Aristotle and Other Platonists (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006). — From Plato to Platonism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2013). Ghazāli, Abu Hamid and others, Majmuʿa-ye falsafi-ye Marāgha, gen. ed. Nasrollah Pourjavady (Tehran: Markaz-e nashr-e dāneshgāhi, 1380/2001). Gutas, Dimitri, Greek Thought, Arabic Culture: The Graeco-Arabic Translation Movement in Baghdad and Early ‘Abbasid Society (London: Routledge, 1999). Hadot, Pierre, Philosophy as a Way of Life, trans. Michael Chase (Oxford: Blackwells, 1995). — Exercices spirituels et philosophie antique (rpt. Paris: Albin Michel, 2001). Izutsu, Toshihiko, ‘The fundamental structure of Sabzawari’s Metaphysics’, in Sharh Ghorar al-farā’ed or Sharh-i Manzuma, ed. Mahdi Muhaqqiq (Tehran: McGill Institute of Islamic Studies, 1969), pp. 1–152. Jambet, Christian, La Logique des orientaux (Paris: Seuil, 1981). Mollā Sadrā Shirāzi, Tafsir al-Qor’ān al-karim, ed. Mohsen Bidārfar, 7 vols (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e ‘elmi o farhangi, 1366/1987).

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— al-Mazāher al-elāhiya fi asrār al-‘olum al-kamaliya, ed. Sayyed Mohammad Khamanei (Tehran: Bonyād-e hekmat-e eslāmi-ye Sadrā, 1378/1999). — Hoduth al-‘ālam, ed. Sayyed Hoseyn Musāveyān (Tehran: Bonyād-e hekmat-e eslāmi-ye Sadrā, 1378/1999). — al-Shawāhed al-robubiya fi’l-manāhej al-solukiya, ed. Sayyed Mostafā Mohaqqeq Dāmād (Tehran: Bonyād-e hekmat-e eslāmi-ye Sadrā, 1382/2003). — al-Hekma al-mota‘āliya fi’l-asfār al-‘aqliya al-arba‘a, gen. ed. Sayyed Mohammad Khamanei, 9 vols (Tehran: Bonyād-e hekmat-e eslāmi-ye Sadrā, 1383/2004). Nehāvandi, ‘Abd al-Bāqi, Ma’āser-e rahimi: bakhsh-e sevvom zendegināmahā, ed. ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Navā’i (Tehran: Anjoman-e āsār o mafākher-e farhangi, 1381/2002). O’Meara, Dominic, Pythagoras Revived: Mathematics and Philosophy in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989). Pfeiffer, Judith, ‘Confessional ambiguity vs confessional polarization: Politics and the negotiation of religious boundaries in the Ilkhanate’, in Politics, Patronage and the Transmission of Knowledge in Tabriz, 13th to 15th Century, ed. Judith Pfeiffer (Leiden: Brill, 2013), pp. 129–68. Pourjavady, Reza, Philosophy in Early Safavid Iran: Najm al-Dīn Maḥmūd Nayrīzī and his Writings (Leiden: Brill, 2011). Al-Rahim, Ahmed, The Creation of Philosophical Tradition: Biography and the Reception of Avicenna’s Philosophy from the Eleventh to the Fourteenth Centuries (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2019). Rappe, Sara, Reading Neoplatonism: Non-discursive Thinking in the Texts of Plotinus, Proclus, and Damascius (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). Rizvi, Sajjad, ‘Neoplatonism revised in the light of the Imams’, in Classical Arabic Philosophy: Sources and Reception, ed. Peter Adamson (London: The Warburg Institute, 2006), pp. 177–208. — Mulla Sadra Shirazi: His Life, Works, and Sources for Safavid Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007). — Mulla Sadra and Metaphysics: Modulation of Being (London: Routledge, 2009). Saatchian, Firouzeh, Gottes Wesen – Gottes Werken: Ontologie und Kosmologie im Denken von Šams al-Dīn Muḥammad al-Ḫafrī (gest. 942/1535) (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 2011). Sabzavāri, Hādi, Sharh ghorar al-farā’ed ma‘ruf beh Sharh-e manzuma-ye ḥekmat qesmat-e omur-e ‘āmma, ed. Mahdi Muhaqqiq (Tehran: McGill Institute of Islamic Studies, 1969).

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Schmidtke, Sabine and Reza Pourjavady, ‘An Eastern renaissance? Greek Philosophy under the Safavids’, Intellectual History of the Islamicate World 3 (2015), pp. 248–90. al-Sejestāni, Abu Soleymān, Sewān al-hekma, ed. ‘Abd al-Rahmān al-Badawi (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e bonyād-e farhang-e Irān, 1353/1974). Serhendi, Ahmad, al-Maktubāt al-rabbāniya, trans. into Arabic by Mostafā Hoseyn ‘Abd al-Hādi, 3 vols (Beirut: Dār al-kotub al-‘elmiya, 2004). Al-Shahrastāni, Mohammad b. ‘Abd al-Karim, al-Melal wa’l-nehal, ed. Ahmad Fahmi Mohammad, 2 vols (Beirut: Dār al-kotub al-‘elmiya, 1993). Shahrazuri, Shams al-Din, Nozhat al-arwāh wa-rowzat al-afrāh fi ta’rikh alhokamā’ wa’l-falāsefa, ed. Sayyed Khurshid Aḥmad, 2 vols (Hyderabad: Dā’erat al-ma‘āref al-‘Othmāniya, 1976). Shāmlu, Vali-Qoli, Qesas al-khāqāni, ed. Hasan Sādāt Nāseri, 2 vols (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e vezārat-e farhang o ershād-e eslāmi, 1371/1992). Sharma, Sunil, Mughal Arcadia: Persian Literature in an Indian Court (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2017). Shaw, Gregory, Theurgy and the Soul: The Neoplatonism of Iamblichus (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995). Sohravardi, Shehāb al-Din, Hekmat al-eshrāq [The Philosophy of Illumination], ed. and trans. Hossein Ziai and John Walbridge (Provo, UH: Brigham Young University Press, 1999). — Mosannafāt-e Sheykh-e eshrāq, ed. Henry Corbin, Seyyed Hossein Nasr et al., 4 vols (rpt., Tehran: Anjoman-e āsār o mafākher-e farhangi, 1380/2001). Tabrizi, Abu’l-Majd Mohammad b. Mas‘ud, Safina-ye Tabriz, gen. ed. Nasrollah Pourjavady (Tehran: Markaz-e nashr-e dāneshgāhi, 1381/2002). Tabrizi, Maqsud ‘Ali, Tārikh al-hokamā’ [trans. of Nozhat al-arwāḥ of Shams al-Din Shahrazuri], ed. Mohammad Taqi Dāneshpazhuh and Mohammad Sarvar Mowlāyi (Tehran: Anjoman-e ‘elmi o farhangi, 1366/1987). Terrier, Mathieu, Histoire de la sagesse et philosophie shi‘ite: l’aimé des coeurs’ de Quṭb al-Dīn Aškevarī (Paris: Cerf, 2016). al-Towhidi, Abu Hayyān, al-Emta‘ wa’l-mo‘ānasa, ed. Ahmad Amin and Ahmad Zeyn, 3 vols (Cairo: Lajnat al-ta’lif wa’l-tarjoma, 1944). Van Bladel, Kevin, The Arabic Hermes: From Pagan Sage to Prophet of Science (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009). Walbridge, John, The Wisdom of the Mystic East: Suhrawardi and Platonic Orientalism (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001).

9 Popular Religiosity and Vernacular Turkic: A Qezelbash Catechism from Safavid Iran Ferenc Csirkés (Sabancı University)

D

iscussing questions of confessionalization and vernacularization against the background of inter-imperial rivalry between Safavid Iran and the Ottoman Empire in the second half of the sixteenth century, this chapter focuses on a short, fragmentary treatise of religious polemics entitled Hekayat-e Yohanna takzib va mozammat-e monafeqan va tasdiq-e yaqin-i ahl-e iman, ‘The story of Yohanna, [or] the scorn and refutation of the hypocrites and the verification of the firm conviction of the people of belief’. It was written in Turkic by an otherwise little-known litterateur by the name of Gharibi, who probably lived in the first three-quarters of the sixteenth century and who dedicated his work to Shah Tahmasp I (r. 1524–76).1 I will contextualize the tract in contemporary religious polemics and along with its literary connections, there being multiple versions of the story in Persian and Arabic circulating in the Safavid era and beyond. I will argue that Gharibi’s work was the product of a highly versatile and multifaceted Safavid religio-political discourse, ranging from the explicitly messianic to the establishment-friendly scholarly, and to attempts at reformulating the messianic ethos. In a brief survey of Turkic literary practices in Safavid Iran, I draw attention to the presence of learned polemical religious prose literature in Turkic, produced in the Safavid context and sponsored by the Safavid elite. I will connect the disappearance, or at least fading, of such genres in Turkic from the Safavid literary horizon with the changing political and religious environment around the end of the sixteenth and beginning of the seventeenth century, which also had a profound impact on literary patronage and the position of popular messianic religiosity. As is well known, the Safavids’ military base came from the largely Turkophone nomadic tribal confederation called Qezelbash, who were also disciples in the Safavid Sufi tariqa, and whose Sufi-Shi‘i religious bent has often been characterized as a veritable religio-social revolution against establishment-friendly Sunni Islam and the increasingly centralized and bureaucratized Ottoman Empire. The Safavid period between ca. 1501 and 1722 was also a watershed moment in the history of the Islamic world in

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general. It resulted in the religious and political separation of Ottoman Anatolia and Central Asia from Iran, leading, in turn, to their social and cultural and, in a different way, also linguistic, separation. This process is part of a long-term trend in early modernity, during which the Safavid, Ottoman and Mughal empires, as well as the Ozbek khanates of Central Asia, all came from the same tribal matrix, but Iran became Shi‘i and Persophone on the one hand, while the Ottoman Empire and most of Central Asia became Sunni and Turkophone on the other. This chapter is an early step towards broaching the broader problem of how to contextualize such non-prestige literary idioms as Turkic in Iranian early modernity, an age when both religion and state, as well as language and state, but not necessarily language and society, became more closely associated with each other.2 Due to the compartmentalization of scholarship along modern nationalist lines, the study of Turkic literary culture in Iran has been almost entirely neglected in both Iran and the West, most scholars of Iran not going beyond the simplified account of vernacularization that the Iranian world turned to Persian in the ninth–tenth centuries for literary purposes and the centuries to come were the simple continuation of the development of the Persian language.3 At the same time, as if in a parallel reality, for a great segment of nationalist Soviet and post-Soviet Azerbaijani scholarship, the Turkic output of the Safavid period is far more significant than the Persian. As another form of nationalism, Republican Turkish scholarship, on the other hand, had for a long time been content to list a few Safavid authors as part of a purported pan-Turkic world; this started to change with the so-called Alevi revival from the late 1980s, when it became normalized to speak about Alevism, and, at the same time, scholarship also started to put Ottoman history in a broader early modern and Islamic context, stepping away from nationalist and orientalist frameworks. Understandably, however, these scholars put more emphasis on the history of the Ottoman Empire and modern Turkey, and less on what Turkic literacy meant in the broader Persianate or early modern Iranian context. The question of language is related to the question of confession. As revealed by more recent scholarship, Safavid religiosity and messianism should not be seen as a unique aberration but squarely in the context of sacral authority that characterized a vast swathe of Islamic Eurasia from the Ottoman Balkans to the subcontinent through Iran and Central Asia in the post-Mongol world throughout the seventeenth century.4 By the same token, inasmuch as Turkic literary practices can be witnessed in Muslim Eurasia from West China and Mughal India to the Adriatic, Safavid Turkic literacy was also part of a Turkic literary world that was parallel to and connected with the Persianate universe.

Turkic Literary Practices in Safavid Iran in the Sixteenth Century According to the doyen of Safavid history, Roger Savory, at the Safavid takeover, there was an acute shortage of Shi‘i books in Iran.5 While this

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statement awaits qualification and the numbers behind it are yet to be specified, there does seem to be a quantum leap in the production of Shi‘i religious texts, especially in the latter half of Safavid rule. An important consequence of this, as discussed by Said Arjomand, Rula Abisaab and Rasul Ja‘fariyan, was a veritable translation movement, rendering much of Shi‘i pious literature accessible in Persian to a broader populace and greatly facilitating the actual conversion of Iranian society to Shi‘ism, the majority of which had very probably only converted to Shi‘ism on a communal basis during the first part of the Safavid period and were thus in need of guidance in matters of theology and sacred law.6 While there was a proliferation of religious works in Persian against the background of this popularization of Shi‘ism in the urban segment of Safavid society, Turkic literary practices were taking place in a largely patrimonial context, mostly depending on individuals writing within smaller circles and on the on-and-off patronage of various Qezelbash amirs, and remaining at the level of popular culture. This state of affairs had been no different under the Safavids’ Timurid and Turkmen forebears, and thus it is safe to say that, in terms of patronage available for Turkic literature, there was a definite continuity between the Safavids and the regimes that had preceded them. In what Marshall Hodgson calls the amir-‘ayan system, the sociopolitical structure in most post-Mongol regimes in the Persianate world was based on a Turkic-speaking military and political elite on the one hand and a Persophone bureaucracy administrating an urban society, on the other.7 Interestingly, the abovementioned ‘translation movement’ was in many ways similar to what took place in the Ottoman context, resulting in the production of popular Sunni religious manuals in Turkish.8 Both processes were part of an increasingly coherent Ottoman Sunnism and Safavid Shi‘ism, in both cases connected with the state structure, but not entirely dominated by it. It is therefore significant that Gharibi composed his work, the story of Yohanna, in Turkic. As is well known, for example from Western travel accounts, not only were various Turkic dialects widely spoken in Safavid Iran by Turkic nomads, but also the court had a large number of Turkic speakers. Esfahan, the capital city from 1006/1598, had a quarter by the name of ‘Abbasabad, where Turkic speakers from Tabriz were settled, and the court, as well as the Safavid dynasty, conversed in Turkic on a daily basis.9 Of course, Turkic had also symbolic and, by extension, political functions aside from its communicational or utilitarian role. As part of the cultural makeup of the Safavids and the Turkmen Qezelbash elite, and also as part of the West Oghuz or Turkmen and the Chaghatay or Timurid Turkic literary traditions, Turkic poetry was an important element of everyday life in the households of Qezelbash notables and Safavid princes. This is best attested by three biographical anthologies of poets, Sam Mirza’s (1517–66) Tohfa-ye Sami and Sadeqi Beg’s (1533–1610?) Majma‘ al-khavass, both of which dedicated a special section to Turkophone poets in the Safavid realm, arguably indicating

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the social status of the Qezelbash elite and the language ideologies supporting Turkophone literary production. While Sam Mirza composed his anthology in Persian, Sadeqi Beg wrote his in Chaghatay Turkic. The latter’s language choice and the structure of both works expressly follow the Timurid literary tradition and its best-known and most paradigmatic proponent, Mir ‘Ali-Shir Nava’i (1441–1501).10 It is widely acknowledged that the Timurids served as models for the Safavids as well as the Ottomans and Mughals in multiple ways, including the formulation of charismatic messianic authority and the literary and artistic patronage given to Turkic literature. The Timurid Nava’i’s literary output in Turkic – although he was an accomplished litterateur in Persian, too – was particularly significant in its attempt to present a literary expression in Turkic of an establishment-friendly Islam of Sunnism along with Iranian notions of kingship as opposed to the Turko-Mongol political framework perpetuated by the tribal confederations that formed the military backbone of the Timurids. Needless to say, this pattern of having to deal with a nomadic Turkic aristocracy both politically and ideologically would continue under the Safavids. We should also mention the third biographical dictionary of poets, written by our very own hero, Gharibi, under the title Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘ara, which lists Turkophone poets in the land of Rum, i.e. the Ottoman Empire, whom the author characterizes in terms of confessional ambiguity as lovers of the House of ‘Ali, and in several cases as associates of the Safavids.11 However, while there was a significant amount of poetry written in Turkic in Safavid Iran throughout the tenure of the dynasty and, in fact, also afterwards down to the present, the Azeri Turkic tradition constituting a robust literary continuum, the production of Turkic prose in the Safavid period was relatively meagre, in stark contrast to the plethora of historical, biographical, philological, moralistic, religious, etc. works in Persian.12 Moreover, it seems that, in the period under discussion, even the number of genres available for literary prose in Turkic was limited, as was the number of Turkic works written in these genres. Aside from poetry, there was also the tradition of legendary story cycles, most prominently about such messianic figures as Abu Moslem, expressive of the antinomian, messianic spirit of the early Safavids and the Qezelbash, a religiosity that, from the mid-sixteenth century onwards, was subject to sporadic persecution in Iran, with the increasing military, social, political and religious centralization under the Safavids from Shah ‘Abbas I (r. 1587–1629) onwards.13 We can assume, despite the scarce scholarship regarding language practices and the politics of language in early modern Iran, that the paucity of learned religious prose in Turkic had to do with its social context. Theology and sacral law was chiefly connected to the madrasa curriculum and, by extension, to an urban environment, and was alien to the nomadic tribal milieu of the Qezelbash. As cities were predominantly Persianspeaking, the level of literary production in Turkic in the high genres of Islamic religious learning was low compared with the rich profusion of Persian literary

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works. This holds true even with the caveat that the field of Turkic literary culture in Iran is so neglected in scholarship, and so much of the pertinent source material is still lying in manuscripts – with many sources probably in private hands – that our knowledge of the subject is still evolving. It seems that, under the Safavids, a considerable segment of Turkic religious literature was intended for adherents of the Safavid tariqa. We can adduce hagiographical works, such as the Turkic translations of the Safvat al-safa’, the several times modified official history of the Safavid order, which was originally written in Persian by Tavakkoli b. Esma‘il b. Bazzaz in 759/1358. One of the Turkic translations was made in 949/1542 in Shiraz by a certain Mohammad al-Kateb Nashati under the patronage of Shahqulu Khalifa of the Qavurghalu oba of the Zolqadr Qezelbash tribe, and in 945/1538 he also translated, under the title Shohadaname, Kashefi’s Rowzat al-shohada’, an ‘Alid martyrology.14 This is not the only Turkic rendition of Kashefi’s work; Fozuli’s (d. 963/1556) version, entitled Hadikatü’s-Süʻeda, is much better known. Indeed, although Fozuli is usually mentioned in the Ottoman context, his Persian, Arabic and Turkish literary output had Safavid patrons, too.15 We know of two figures from Ardabil who both composed a work in Turkic on the tenets of Twelver Shi‘ism. One was Kamal al-Din Hoseyn al-Elahi alArdabili, who was first a protégé of Heydar Safavi (d. 893/1488), then studied with such luminary scholars of the age as Jalal al-Din Davani (1426/7–1502), Amir Gheyas al-Din al-Dashtaki and Amir Jamal al-Din ‘Ata’ollah b. Fazlollah (d. 1520), and was also patronized by Nava’i and prince Gharib Mirza b. Soltan-Hoseyn-e Bayqara in Timurid Herat. After the death of his Timurid patron, he returned to Iraq and Azerbaijan (902/1497), became an instructor in the Safavid order and died in 950/1543. He was a prolific author with poetry, religious treatises and commentaries in Persian and Arabic to his name; he is also said to have written a treatise on the Imamate in Turkic and then translated it into Persian.16 Another prose work we know to have come from the ranks of religious scholars from Ardabil who joined the Safavids is the ‘Aqa’ed al-eslam written by Ahmad b. Mohammad Mohaqqeq Ardabili, also known as alMoqaddas al-Ardabili (d. 993/1585), an influential Shi‘i scholar from the latter half of the sixteenth century.17 From the seventeenth century, one could mention the Esbat-e emamat by one Khodaverdi Tabrizi, who was commissioned sometime between 1614 and 1629 by Shah ‘Abbas to give a concise summary of the basic tenets of Shi‘ism in an attempt at converting one Shahin Giray, a Crimean prince, as part of the Safavids’ ongoing anti-Ottoman war effort. As per the Persian preface of the work, it was originally Sheykh Baha’i (1547–1621), the most prominent Safavid Shi‘i religious scholar of the time, who was first commissioned to undertake the task, but he passed it on to Khodaverdi. For the present discussion it is significant that such a theological celebrity as Sheykh Baha’i could have been involved at all in the composition

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of such a work in Turkic and that the know-how and personnel were available to carry out the task.18 Slightly overlapping with the abovementioned genres are texts that were intended more specifically for prozelytizing in Anatolia. Ayfer KarakayaStump demonstrates that the Safavids maintained their relationship with their adepts in Anatolia through khalifas, ‘deputies’, who transferred religious books and letters to them from Iran well into the reign of Shah Soleyman (r. 1666– 94), and whose activities were overseen by the khalifat al-kholafa’ or ‘chief deputy’, appointed by the Safavid shah until the demise of the dynasty. As analysed most recently by Karakaya-Stump and Ayşe Baltacıoğlu-Brammer, these works feature in collections called buyruq and include hagiographies referred to as velayetname or maqtalname; khelafetnames (documents conferring khalifa ‘Safavid deputy’ status); faziletnames or jangnames (the life stories of the ahl al-beyt or other heroes from Islamic history); fotovvetnames (ethical guides on the Shi‘i/Sufi path); kesvatnames or tajnames (accounts of the symbols of Qezelbash Islam); and divans (anthologies of poetry and sayings).19 The inter-imperial conflict notwithstanding, the term propaganda, often used in this context, might be misleading here. Karakaya-Stump convincingly warns us not to consider these khalifas as mere agents in the modern sense, carrying out the mission of a state; they were, as we will see in the case of Gharibi, also local Sufis with their own particular networks and agendas, who constituted a substructure of Sufi networks into which the Safavids tapped.20

Gharibi, the Author Aside from a PhD dissertation currently under preparation, there is no serious analytical study of Gharibi’s works. In addition to the abovementioned Turkish edition of his biographical anthology of poets, the Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘ara (Pers. Tazkerat al-sho‘ara), the same work, along with his poetry, has a modern Iranian Azeri edition, and there are a few papers dedicated to some of his poetry.21 We know relatively few details about Gharibi’s life, all of which come from the manuscript of his complete works, bearing the title Divan-e Gharibi-ye Mantesha (Turk. Menteşe). Its unique copy, executed in an elegant nasta‘liq hand in 998/1590 by one otherwise unknown Mokhtar b. Mirza Zaki Maraghi, can be found at the Majles Library in Tehran (no. 7012). This ‘divan’ has been misbound, and several folios are missing, including the ones that contained the end of the Yohanna story. It is likely that the manuscript has only been titled Divan by the cataloguer; in fact it is not a divan but one large composition, the constituent parts of which are loosely arranged according to the narrative framework of the four seasons, eulogizing the reign of Tahmasp, and also that of Shah Esma‘il I (r. 1501–24), whose messianic poetry Gharibi imitates on multiple occasions in the form of nazira (paraphrases or parallel poems) and

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mokhammes (extending individual single lines of a poem into five-line strophes). In her dissertation under preparation, Zeynep Altok makes the case that the fulsome descriptions of gardens and palaces at the end of the manuscript of Gharibi’s collected works are related to the palace complex Sa‘adatabad, which was under construction under Tahmasp in his new capital Qazvin.22 This would date Gharibi’s work between the early 1550s and Tahmasp’s death in 1576. However, in his story about Yohanna, Gharibi quotes a Shi‘i scholar or mojtahed, Zeyn al-Din ‘Ali b. ‘Abd al-‘Ali, who is probably identical with al-Shahid al-Thani (d. 966/1558), indicating that he has already died – this circumstance yields a slightly more approximate date for the completion of either the whole work, or at least parts thereof, between 1558 and 1576. As we shall see in what follows, the content of the manuscript powerfully and versatilely reflects both the messianic Sufi and the Shari‘a-based Imami ethos of the Safavids. As most of the works in it are in Turkic and only a handful in Persian, it is certainly dedicated to a Turkophone audience; moreover, it resonates with both Anatolian and Ottoman literature on the one hand and with high-brow Twelver Shi‘i theological literature, on the other hand. The broad geopolitical context of Gharibi’s works was the inter-imperial competition between the Safavids and the Ottomans, and the Amasya Peace Treaty of 1555, which provided peace and mutual recognition between these two powers until 1578. Regarding the immediate context for the execution of the manuscript in 998/1590, it is difficult not to think of the 1578–90 Ottoman– Safavid war, which ended with Shah ‘Abbas I signing a humiliating peace treaty with the Ottomans in order to be able to put his house in order and deal first with the Ozbeks on the eastern front. In an autobiographical prose piece, Gharibi informs us that his late father was Haji Mosleh al-Din Amir Khan from the mo’ayyad (‘appointee’) or deputies of Sheykh Safi al-Din in the Bozüyük district, which was his hereditary seat (mavtın-ı mevrusı), located approximately 100 kilometres east– south-east of Bursa. Haji Mosleh al-Din hailed from the tribe of Menteshe (Menteşe evladından), important elements of which were prominent supporters of the Safavids. According to Gharibi’s account, his father was a talib-i haqq-i derviş ve derdmend, ‘a poor and wretched seeker of the Truth/God’, i.e. a Sufi. He was learned and pious, and probably moderately wealthy and had a degree of social standing, as indicated by the pool and orchard he erected around his dwelling, accompanied by a library, ‘in order to be rid of greed and hypocrisy’. Gharibi received an early introduction to the mystical path from his father, a training that was cut short by the latter’s death, when Gharibi was ten years old, due to the persecution of the Qezelbash during the reign of Selim I (r. 1512– 20). Gharibi’s father was executed after a show trial conducted by Sunni ulema. After that, Gharibi joined the Safavid order or movement, becoming a maddah, ‘encomiast, court poet’, to Shah Esma‘il I.23 During these early years, Gharibi

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seems to have also been affiliated with the Mevlevis through Shahedi Dede, the well-known lexicographer, and with the Halvetis and Gülşenis through Ebrahim Gülşeni, whose hands he claims to have kissed when, in 934– 35/1528–29 the latter was brought to Sultan Süleyman’s (r. 1520–66) court in Istanbul.24 The fact that Gharibi was in Istanbul, or at least somewhere in Ottoman lands, in the late 1520s should also indicate to us that he probably followed in his father’s footsteps as an affiliate of the Safavids active in Ottoman territories, and that affiliations between the aforesaid tariqas and the Safavids continued well into the sixteenth century. Indeed, Gharibi’s works seem to have been intended as much for the Safavid court as for actual or potential devotees in Safavid and Ottoman territories.25

Literary Connections of Gharibi’s Yohanna Story Gharibi’s story has other variants in Arabic and Persian, but there are a number of problems in establishing its relationship with them. As I have had access to just a handful of the manuscript copies, the following will simply be preliminary remarks. First, both Gharibi’s Turkic version and the earliest copy of the Persian translation that I have consulted (Majles Ms. 1646/2, probably copied in 1084/1673) are incomplete, with the end missing in both cases. Second, the Turkic version is more of an adaptation in the premodern than a translation in the modern sense. And third, to my present knowledge, the manuscript that contains Gharibi’s Turkic version is actually much earlier than the other manuscripts containing the Persian or Arabic versions, the earliest extant copies of which, to my present knowledge, date from the middle and second half of the seventeenth century. As it is highly unlikely that Gharibi’s is the earliest rendition of the story ever written, it most likely goes back to a today non-extant Persian or (less likely) Arabic version, to which the extant Arabic and Persian adaptations are related; these go under such titles as Alzam al-navaseb, Resala-ye Yohanna or Menhaj al-manahej. Yohanna’s story was so well known that it was also included by al-Jazari in his major compendium of Shi‘i learning in Arabic, titled al-Anwar al-no‘maniya in the late seventeenth century.26 This latter encyclopaedia is especially interesting, as it features Yohanna as a real and not a fictional character, which definitely attests to the popularity of the story. Remarkably, the Persian versions were attributed to Abu’l-Fotuh alRazi (ca. 480/1087, d. after 552/1157), a prominent Shi‘i scholar, better known for his Qur’an commentary Rowd al-jenan wa rowh al-Janan fi tafsir alqor’an.27 This is all the more noteworthy, as the same two things happened to what could be called a twin-tale of the Yohanna story, the Resala-ye Hosniya: in addition to similar features in the narrative to be listed below, it also had its protagonist considered in popular literature as a real person and the author of the work, and it was also attributed to Abu’l-Fotuh al-Razi. Although both identifications were subjected to doubt already by ʻAbdollah b. ʻIsa Afandi’s

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(d. 1130/1718) Reyad al-ʻolama’ wa-heyad al-fodala’, a well-known Arabic biographical compendium of religious scholars, they have continued to be upheld to date.28 The Resala-ye Hosniya was produced in Persian by an otherwise unknown Ebrahim Astarabadi in 958/1551. In the preface to his work, he claims that he went on the hajj, and on his way back through Damascus he found the story of Hosniya, which he studied and then brought back to Iran, where he rendered it into Persian. The Arabic and Persian versions can be found in a great number of manuscripts, mostly nineteenth-century copies.29 Moreover, the Hosniya story was also translated into Urdu and Ottoman Turkish and was published and republished in these languages down to the modern era. The proliferation of the manuscript copies, printed editions and translations was concomitant to the context of the time, when Western and Russian colonizing efforts, Christian and Shi‘i missionary activities in Iran, the Ottoman Empire and India, as well as the entire new discourse of modernization and reform were met in the Islamic world with a project of reasserting religious identity and delineating the boundaries of the community.30 It would require a separate study to make a systematic comparison of all the versions of the Yohanna (and the Hosniya) story in manuscript material, a task that cannot be undertaken here due to both the lack of space and the sheer number of copies scattered in libraries around the world. Suffice it to say that there are significant differences in content; for example, the 1307/1889–90 lithographic edition, which probably appeared in Tehran, features sections on the question of predestination, a subject which is not included in a seventeenth-century copy housed at the Majles Library in Tehran. The latter version follows the Arabic, where the issue is presented through the doubts of Eblis, which address the question of the contradiction between God’s omnipotence and the origins of evil.31 The following schema is a rudimentary model for the mutual relationships between the individual versions based on just a handful of manuscripts and catalogue descriptions, but it will perhaps help us to demonstrate a number of conclusions with regard to Gharibi’s version.

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The chart posits that the versions go back to the same variant of the story or variants close to each other. The earliest version I know of is actually Gharibi’s, with a number of distinguishing features, a few of which will be listed below. The first Arabic versions date from the second half of the seventeenth century; they are followed just a couple of years later by copies of the Persian version, which follow the Arabic quite faithfully. It is the latter, i.e. the Arabic and Persian renditions, that became popular and served as the antecedents of the nineteenth- and twentieth-century deluge of manuscript copies and printed editions. As far as Gharibi’s Turkic variety is concerned, this schema suggests two basic conclusions: 1) his was the earliest version, and 2) it is textually separate from the later groups. Indeed, at this point it seems that the work was retranslated in the late seventeenth century into Persian, and that new translation was based on a different model. Therefore, I argue that Gharibi’s version of the Yohanna story can be connected to an earlier stage of the ‘translation movement’ or vernacularization of Shi‘i religious literature that I have alluded to before, which resulted in the Persian rendition of Shi‘i religious literature, known previously in Arabic, and the production of Shi‘i popular religious works and religious manuals in Persian. Gharibi’s version can perhaps be better contextualized in the religiously highly contested period of the greater part of the sixteenth century, characterized by religious polemics and the need to delineate the boundaries of the nascent Safavid religious community. The two stories – i.e. those about Yohanna and about Hosniya – are similar in many ways. Both have a simple frame story, not untypical of religious polemics. Both feature a socially vulnerable protagonist – a slave girl in the case of Hosniya and a dhimmi, i.e. a ‘legally protected monotheist’, in the case of Yohanna. In Gharibi, he is a Jew; in the Arabic and Persian versions, he is depicted as a dhimmi without further specification, who has just converted to Islam. They both encounter Sunni scholars and defeat them in religious polemics. There are a lot of Shi‘i talking points in which Ebrahim Astarabadi’s Hosniya narrative and the different versions of the Yohanna story overlap. These include the following: the espousal of the idea of free will (ekhteyar) over predestination (jabr); rational and scriptural (‘aqli and naqli) proofs of ‘Ali’s pre-eminence; the last will of the Prophet; the inheritance of his household, i.e. the incident of the orchard of Fadak, which Abu Bakr confiscated from Fatema, although it had been left to her by the Prophet, and how ‘Omar tore up Mohammad’s handwriting proving her ownership; the designation of ‘Ali by Mohammad at Ghadir Khomm and the succession after Mohammad; the follies of the first three caliphs; the idea that the opposing views about the succession cannot logically all be correct; the last military campaign led by Osama b. Zeyd during the time of the Prophet and the episode relating how Abu Bakr and ‘Omar did not want to participate in it, for they had received word from ‘Ayesha about Mohammad’s impending death; criticism of

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and contradictions between the four Sunni legal schools over various subjects, such as inheritance, criminal, marriage and ritual law, as well as the legal status of non-Muslims; temporary marriage (mot‘a) allowed in Twelver Shi‘ism and forbidden in Sunnism; the protagonist’s – i.e. Yohanna or Hosniya’s – eventual success in converting many of their opponents. It is without doubt that the style of these works, the narrative material they present, as well as their frame story were intended to make them entertaining. The tirades that the scholars direct against each other in the Yohanna story or the almost rhythmically recurring depiction of how Hosniya’s Sunni adversaries hang their heads each time the slave girl refutes an argument of theirs most certainly made the reader and listeners laugh. Both stories also serve didactic purposes as veritable enumerations of the main tenets of Shi‘ism, presented in an accessible, simple style. It is therefore certain that such works operated in both a literary and an oral context, lending themselves easily to purposes of religious debate in public. The frame story as well as the structure of the entire narrative makes it palatable for a lay audience and also enables them to relive the triumph of the Shi‘i cause over Sunnism. However, there are also significant differences between the Yohanna and Hosniya stories. The Hosniya narrative takes place in the distant ‘Abbasid past. For a sixteenth- or seventeenth-century audience, the time of Harun al-Rashid (r. 786–809) was probably more legendary than historical, which made the elements of Astarabadi’s Persian version more believable and powerful to them. The Hosniya’s frame story is about how the tyrannical power of a king – in this case, Harun al-Rashid, the ‘Abbasid caliph – can be overcome and corrected by right guidance and correct belief – in this case Twelver Shi‘ism. A slave girl, Hosniya, who had been trained in the household of Ja‘far al-Sadeq (d. 765), the Sixth Imam of the Twelver Shi‘i denomination, and who is the only property of her pious but impoverished master, enters Harun’s court as the result of a challenge posed by the caliph: if she manages to defeat the scholars at the court in religious polemics, they will both be greatly rewarded, but Hosniya’s owner will lose his head if she is defeated in the debate. The caliph presides over the dispute and is initially quite hostile to both Shi‘ism and the slave-girl, while a major representative of the Sunni Hanafi legal school, Ya‘qub b. Ebrahim al-Ansari, better known as Abu Yusof (d. 182/798) and – to a much lesser extent – Mohammad al-Shafe‘i (d. 204/820), the founder of the Sunni legal school named after him, address questions to the slave-girl, with courtiers and other Sunni scholars also in attendance. Predictably for a Shi‘i polemical work, Hosniya wins the debate, with the Sunni scholars shuffling off in disgrace, many at the court and in the land converting to Shi‘ism and even the caliph becoming friendly towards Shi‘is; Hosniya and her master then set out to Mecca and Medina on pilgrimage. We also see a complex political and religious dynamic unfold, as the caliph and his vizier Yahya b. Khaled Barmaki (d. 190/806) are trying to achieve a balance between preserving their public

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image in the face of Shi‘i arguments carrying the day and, at the same time, preserving the standing of the dynasty that snatched political power from the ‘Alids. While the Hosniya story celebrates how Imami Shi‘ism can guide political power, the Yohanna narrative in its Persian and Arabic renditions is fashioned as a religious dispute between scholars at a gathering in Baghdad. It opens with details of how Yohanna, a dhimmi, converts to Islam but finds a lot of contradictions in it. To solve his dilemmas, he goes to Baghdad, where he seeks out four qadis representing the four legal schools of Sunni Islam. He interviews them, and the rest of the story revolves around their discussion, the Sunni scholars getting so worked up at times in the heat of the debate that they start verbally abusing each other, inciting disgust in Yohanna and other listeners.32 The Yohanna narrative is a more systematic blueprint for refuting each of the four legal schools, while Hosniya is mainly fighting against a Hanafi qadi. At the same time, both the Yohanna and the Hosniya stories are conversion narratives. In addition to the theological and legal arguments they provide for religious polemics, they also serve as literary space for readers and listeners to relive the experience of conversion. The circumstances in which Gharibi’s Turkic Yohanna and Ebrahim Astarabadi’s Persian Hosniya were apparently written in such proximity to each other need further research. However, while Gharibi virtually disappeared from the literary horizon, Ebrahim Astarabadi’s story had a phenomenal career. It was the seventeenth-century Arabic and Persian copies of the Yohanna narrative that ensured the future success of the story. As we shall see later, this had to do with the changing political and religio-cultural profile of the Safavid venture from the seventeenth century onwards.

Gharibi’s Story of Yohanna And now let us look at Gharibi’s story of Yohanna, which has a structure similar to the Arabic and Persian versions.33 It is divided into four sections: in the first one, a Jew by the name of Yohanna from Egypt, having studied with Jewish and Greek scholars (the latter means philosophers), converts to Islam. He studies the teachings of the four Sunni legal schools, the Hanafi, Shafe‘i, Maleki and Hanbali. Because of the contradictions between them, and because he finds certain things in Sunnism unsettling, he goes to Baghdad, as mentioned, and interviews religious scholars representing each of these four schools. Instead of going through all their teaching, in the second section Yohanna asks each of them pertinent questions, which he can do thanks to his prior immersion in the study of their dogmas, and which is also probably a clever narrative strategy to make the story more focused on polemics. Each of them tries to convince Yohanna of the superiority of his own respective legal school, but they contradict each other and also reveal anomalies in their legal approach. Only in one thing are they united, the condemnation of Shi‘ism,

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which Yohanna elicits from them only to refute it. Predictably, he becomes convinced of the superiority of Twelver Shi‘ism. In the third part, we have three shorter sections, each dedicated to the folly of the first three caliphs, Abu Bakr, ‘Omar and ‘Othman, respectively, with details of their unbecoming features and sins against the Prophet and his family both before and after Mohammad’s death, as well as during their tenure as caliphs. The fourth and last section is dedicated to ‘Ali, emphasizing his bravery and dedication to fight for Islam. However, as indicated above, the volume has been misbound and some of the leaves are missing; the text of the Hekayat-e Yohanna is defective and the rest of its discussion of ‘Ali is lost, whereas the Arabic and Persian versions also extol his piety, generosity and familiarity with the teachings of Islam. Indeed, even from the truncated state of Gharibi’s Yohanna story as it has come down to us, it is apparent that Gharibi introduces new features, several of which were tailored to the Safavid context. For example, at a certain point in the story, a dervish by the name of Bu’l-Vafa cannot bear the Sunni arguments he hears any longer and joins Gharibi and the four qadis. He recites a lengthy tabarra (lit. ‘disassociation’) litany, cursing the first three caliphs, the Ottomans, the Companions of the Prophet, Khosrow Anushirvan, the Omayyads, Abu Horeyra the Prophet’s companion and a hadith transmitter, ‘Abbasid caliphs like Harun al-Rashid, Ma’mun, Mo‘tased, Mo‘tazed, etc. This is very interesting if we recall that during the reign of Tahmasp, with the promotion and control of Shi‘i public piety in view, the tabarra, or public cursing, was institutionalized in the form of a separate group funded by the treasury.34 The presence of a tabarra text in Gharibi might also be taken as indicative of the social and ritual context of such Turkic texts under the Safavids, and their highly performative character, similar to, for example, Kashefi’s aforementioned ‘Alid martyrology, the Rowzat al-shohada’, or Shah Esma‘il’s poetry, as illustrated by Gharibi in his entry on Shah Esmā‘il in his biographical compendium, or his imitations of Shah Esma‘il’s poetry, discussed below.35 In another instance, Gharibi tries to appeal to a Safavid royal, or rather Sufi, audience by quoting the eponymous founder of the Safavid order, Safi al-Din Ardabili (d. 735/1334) ‘a sound report (naql-e sahih) taken from the noble majles of Sheykh Safi al-Din, may God Most High perpetuate the guidance of his progeny over the heads of the two worlds!’ In it, Sheykh Safi reports that, before his death, the Prophet left instructions that he be interred at night lest Abu Bakr should find out about it and participate in the ceremony, whereas this otherwise well-known report is not associated with Sheykh Safi in the other known renditions of the story.36 As noted earlier, Gharibi also quotes a report from the prominent Shi‘i scholar Zeyn al-Din ‘Ali, known as al-Shahid alThani, on how ‘Omar prevented Mohammad from registering ‘Ali’s succession (vasy) in writing, by not allowing writing accessories to be brought to him,

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asserting, Hasbona ketabo’llah, ‘God’s Book is enough for us’. The attribution of this report to the Safavid theologian and Twelver Shi‘i martyr is also missing from the other versions of the story. Various further subjects are discussed, over which the four Sunni qadis clash intensely, and all of these can be found in the Persian and Arabic versions consulted here. These issues include the ritual of ablution, inheritance, the legal status of children born of illicit relationships, the Hanafi and Shafe‘i use of qeyas ‘analogy’ in legal reasoning, prayer rituals and purity regulations, some of which, particularly succession, formed a focal point of Shi‘i polemical writings along with issues of religious orthopraxy. There are also things that are missing from Gharibi’s Turkic version. For example, in the Arabic and Persian renditions of the story, the Maleki qadi makes fun of Hanbali literalism in interpreting the holy script and the resulting anthropomorphist (mojassem) notions of God, an accusation often levelled against Hanbalism. In Gharibi’s version, the Maleki says the Hanbalis think that God is physically embodied and is sitting on a throne in heaven, busying himself with qada and qadar ‘divine decrees and predestination’. Every Friday night He descends in the form of a young boy and rides around on the back of a donkey, like Jesus, checking on the ritual activities of people. In the Persian and Arabic versions, on the other hand, an anecdote is added, according to which, on a Friday night, a pious Hanbali climbed onto the roof of a mosque and saw a young oil-seller with curly hair. Thinking the youth was God, the Hanbali approached him and kissed his feet, asking for mercy and salvation. The youth thought the old man had lascivious intentions and cried out for help. People nearby gathered and took the Hanbali before the governor, who locked him up for the night. The next day other Hanbalis came along and implored the governor to release him, for he had had no ill intentions.37 It is unlikely that Gharibi would not have included the story if the model he consulted had contained it. Also excluded from his version are the handful of Arabic verses contained in the Arabic and Persian versions. Aside from his audience having been less likely to be able to properly appreciate Arabic poetry, Gharibi was appealing to the Qezelbash Sufis, who were most probably more receptive to antinomian ecstasy in poetic language than, for example, to a quotation from poetry attributed to Walid I, the Omayyad caliph (r. 705–15).38

Imamism and Antinomianism in Gharibi The most obvious difference between Gharibi and the Arabic and Persian versions of the Yohanna story is the former’s insertion of Turkic poetry into the narrative, just as much as the fact that the narrative itself is part of a manuscript the majority of which is made up of Turkic verse. As has been indicated above, this poetry has a messianic, proselytizing ethos, which is connected to a performative, public, homiletic and possibly ecstatic oral context. This can be seen in the poem that Gharibi inserts as illustrative of ‘Ali’s bravery during the

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Battle of Ohod. Made up of quatrains, the poem is a morabba‘, and is the elaboration of a theme well-known from popular Turkic poetry, the most famous rendition of which was written by the fourteenth-century Horufi poet Nasimi (d. 870/1417). The poem was also misattributed to Shah Esma‘il, misattribution being a phenomenon of the part literary, part oral homiletic context in which this kind of poetry was performed.39 Here is the first quatrain: Ol zamān kim yoh idi levh ü kalem leyl ü nehar dest-i kudret birle yazmışdı bunı perverdigar besdürür orada Ahmed’den bize bu yadigar La feta illa ʿAli la seyfe illa zu’l-fikar At the time there was no (well-preserved) tablet and pen, no night, no day, The Lord wrote the following with the hand of power. This memento from the Prophet is enough for us: There is no man (like) ‘Ali, no sword (like his) Zu’l-feqar. With its connection to Shah Esma‘il and Nasimi, the poem evokes the popular Sufi messianism that characterized the post-Mongol Islamic world from the late fourteenth to the early seventeenth century. In particular, the practice of writing Shah Esma‘il-like poetry was widespread among the devotees of the Safavids, and several pieces are still part of Qezelbash/AleviBektashi rituals today. This poetic corpus belonged to the same West Oghuz or Turkmen literary idiom from which the Ottoman tradition had split sometime in the fifteenth century. It is not surprising, therefore, that there are extensive literary connections between Ottoman and Safavid Turkic poetry. This will be demonstrated through a short analysis of a Gharibi poem, which is a paraphrase of the following Shah Esma‘il piece: 1. Biz ezelden ta ebed meydana gelmişlerdenüz şah-i merdan ‘ışkına merdane gelmişlerdenüz 2. yazmağa hakkdan kelamu’llah natık şerhini rūh-i kudsi suret-i insana gelmişlerdenüz 3. kayinatı suret-i rahmana tefsir etmeğe kim beyan-ı ‘ilm ilen kur’ana gelmişlerdenüz 4. bir mu‘anber turranung küfrine amenna diyüp hakka teslim olmışuz imana gelmişlerdenüz 5. saki-yi baki elinden mest olub içmekdeyüz nergis-i mestüng kimi mestane gelmişlerdenüz 6. gayb-i mutlakdan temaşa-yı ruh-i ziba içün bu şehadet mülkine seyrana gelmişlerdenüz

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SAFAVID PERSIA IN THE AGE OF EMPIRES 7. ey Hatayi ‘ıyd-i ekberdür cemalı dilberüng biz bu ‘ıyd-ı ekbere kurbana gelmişlerdenüz40 1. We are one of those who came to existence from eternity without beginning to eternity without end, We are one of those who came forth bravely (or: to mankind) for the sake of the love of the King of Mankind. 2. The spirit of the holy spirit, we are one of those who came to mankind To write commentary on the eloquent word of God with [inspiration from] the Truth. 3. In order to interpret beings as the form of [God] the Compassionate, With the discourse of [religious] knowledge we are one of those who came to the Qur’an. 4. Saying yea to the unbelief of this ambergris-scented tress, We have submitted to (God) the Truth and are one of those who believed. 5. We are drinking, getting drunk at the hand of the eternal cupbearer, We are one of those who, like a drunk hyacinth, came inebriated. 6. In order to behold the beautiful face, we are one of those who came forth walking from the Absolute Unseen to the realm of martyrdom. 7. O, Hatayi, the beauty of the beloved is the greatest [holy] feast, We are one of those who have come to this feast as a sacrifice.

Let us now turn to Gharibi’s imitation of the poem, one of his several explicit paraphrases of Hatayi ghazals: 1. rah-i ‘ışk-ı şaha biz merdane gelmişlerdenüz başımuz tub eyleyüb meydana gelmişlerdenüz 2. hakkı tahkik etmişüz ba himmet-i hayru’l-beşer hamdu li’llah ‘ilm ile kur’ana gelmişlerdenüz 3. rūh-i kuds-i ‘alemüz hakkdur bizüm tefsirümüz kudret ile sūret-i insana gelmişlerdenüz 4. kimseye kalmaz cihan baki hudadur la yezal bir iki gün bunda’iz seyrana gelmişlerdenüz 5. biz ezel cam-i ebedden mest olan üsrüklerüz bezm-i ‘ışka sakiya mestane gelmişlerdenüz 6. ‘ışkına şahing feda kūn u mekan etmiş duruz yolına evvel kadem kurbana gelmişlerdenüz

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7. din-i hakk içre Garibi mezheb-i Ca‘fer dutub şükr-i yezdan eyleyüb imana gelmişlerdenüz41 1. We are one of those who set out bravely on the path of the shah, Making our head into a ball, we are one of those who entered the field. 2. We have ascertained the Truth through the zeal of the Best of Mankind (‘Ali), Praise be to God that we are one of those who have come upon the Qur’an with knowledge. 3. We are the holy spirit of the world, our exegesis is the Truth; We are one of those who have assumed human form through his power. 4. For no one in the world is eternal, only God does not perish; We are one of those who spend here a day or two and then move on. 5. We have been drunk forever from the goblet of eternity without beginning, O, cup-bearer, we are one of those who have come drunk to the feast of love. 6. We have sacrificed the whole world for the love of the shah, As the first step on his path, we are one of those who have come as sacrifice. 7. Within the faith of the Truth, I, Gharibi have chosen the Ja‘farid path, Having thanked God, I am one of those who have come over to the True Faith. Hatayi’s pose in the poem is ambiguous: the first person plural can refer to a Shi‘i believer, or it can mean that the speaker is, in fact, a vali, ‘saint’. Gharibi’s pose in his poem, by contrast, is that of the disciple. However, while the rest of the verse in Shah Esma‘il’s poem is about the primordial existence of the speaker, in the second hemistich Gharibi elaborates on the theme of the first hemistich, the speaker comparing himself to a ball in the polo field – a well-known pose of the Lover in the ghazal, here used for emphasizing the speaker’s devotion to the King of Mankind, i.e. ‘Ali. Gharibi removes the primordiality of the speaker to verse 5. Verse 2 in Gharibi corresponds to verse 3 in Hatayi. The latter presents himself as one of the imams, possessed of ‘ilm, ‘authoritative knowledge’, with which he approaches the Qur’an; Gharibi only says that he has acknowledged God through the aspiration or help of ‘Ali. Gharibi’s verse 3 emulates verse 2 in Hatayi. Interestingly, by claiming to be ‘the holy spirit of the world’, here Gharibi seems to shed for a moment his hitherto carefully observed avoidance of gholovv, ‘exaggeration’, bursting out in an ecstatic utterance (shath). In the

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rest of the ghazal, Gharibi maintains his pose as a devout Shi‘i and follower of the Safavids, similar to his conduct in the beginning of the poem. While Gharibi’s verse 4 is the acknowledgement of the transitory nature of human life, in verse 6 of his model, the speaker suggests that he comes from the gayb-i mutlak, the Absolute Unseen, the realm of the divine, into the world, which is the scene of martyrdom fulfilling the divine purpose. In Gharibi’s verse 5, the cup-bearer can either be the sheykh with whom the disciple seeks mystical union through the ecstasy obtained with the help of wine, or he can also be ‘Ali, who distributes water from the pool of the Kowthar in heaven. Gharibi’s verse 6 rephrases verse 7 in Hatayi. Hatayi’s phrase ‘we have come for a sacrifice’, i.e. to sacrifice a lamb at the feast, in Gharibi becomes an adverbial, kurbane, ‘for a sacrifice.’ Although grammatically this is incorrect, this reading is still possible as a parallel to the adverbial rhyme of the previous verse, mestane, ‘in a drunken way’, rendering the verse as ‘As the first step on his path, we are one of those who have come as sacrifice’. Finally, Gharibi’s last verse paraphrases Shah Esma‘il’s fourth. However, while the model maintains the conventional playfulness of mixing the image of the ambergris-scented tresses of the Beloved and the seemingly pagan acts of the antinomian sheykh who converts the believer, Gharibi remains content in asserting his conversion to Twelver Shi‘ism. The comparison of these few verses is perhaps sufficient to illustrate Gharibi’s careful attempt at retaining his model’s ecstatic tone, balancing it with the distinctly Imami message of his last verse. The fact that the poem is an imitation, or parallel poem, nazira, is also important, in that by virtue of imitating his model, the poet also displays his own poetic virtuosity, as well as difference and distance from the model. The differences in the messianic tone in Gharibi’s poem can therefore be interpreted not as mere poetic playfulness but as an important expression of a religious and ideological position, one that should be seen in the context of a gradually crystallizing Safavid Imami Shi‘i identity, distancing itself from the overt saint cult of the Shah Esma‘il poem. Both the Shah Esma‘il and the Gharibi poems were in conversation with contemporary Ottoman poetry. I am aware of seven Ottoman ghazals from the sixteenth century with the same metric pattern (ramal-e mosaddas-e mahzuf) and radif (gelmişlerdenüz, the word ending the second hemistich of every verse in a ghazal), written by Mihri Khatun (d. 1506) and Khayali Beg (d. 964/1557) as well as by poets included in Edirneli Nazmi’s (d. after 997/1559) voluminous collection of naziras, such as Medhi (d. 1006/1598), Ferruhi Akhisari (d. 1050/1640), Saqi, ‛Işki and Gedayi.42 Even though only the Shah Esma‘il and Gharibi pieces are of an expressly ‘Alid, messianic purport, this correspondence illustrates well the resonance and connection between the two traditions, which were splitting from each other in this period.

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Conclusion Inasmuch as it was worked into the grand panegyric framework holding together Gharibi’s entire Divan, his story of Yohanna was the product of a court culture perpetuated under Shah Esma‘il I and Tahmasp I, characterized as it was by the Sufi intellectual outlook of the early Safavids and the heated antiSunni religious polemics of the time. As I have hypothesized above, his version remained isolated from the other renditions of the story, including the lateseventeenth-century ones in Arabic and Persian, which probably followed different models. As can be seen in both the Turkic Yohanna story and his paraphrase of a Shah Esma‘il poem, Gharibi’s work was the product of a highly versatile and multifaceted Safavid religious discourse, ranging from the explicitly messianic to the establishment-friendly scholarly, to attempts at reformulating the messianic ethos; it successfully combined an Imami Shi‘i theological and legalistic discourse with messianic Sufism. To the same extent as Gharibi’s poetry was in conversation with the literary practices and messianic Sufi expectations of the Safavids’ adherents in Ottoman Anatolia, his version of the Yohanna story was also tuned to the Imami Shi‘i project pursued by the Safavid court during the time of Shah Tahmasp I. As is well known, by the early seventeenth century, the Safavid venture had shifted orientation significantly: ‘Abbas’s reforms meant fiscal, economic, administrative and military centralization. An increasingly crystallizing Twelver Shi‘ism was taking over from the popular religiosity perpetuated by the Qezelbash. To the present state of our knowledge, few religious treatises were produced in Turkic during the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, i.e. the rest of the Safavids’ tenure. In the same way that the urban culture of the Iranian city notables and bureaucrats was enshrined in Persian literary and bureaucratic traditions, so the nascent orthodoxy and orthopraxy was targeting the urban populace. The Qezelbash military elite and their popular version of Shi‘ism, with a heavily Sufi bent, were quickly losing ground. Arguably, this brought about the diminishing of Turkic literacy, not in terms of its use in everyday life or popular literary entertainment contexts, but in terms of its symbolic power. We can draw the conclusion that the position of litterateurs like Gharibi, who maintained the literary traditions of the Qezelbash, was negotiated against the background of such processes as the ascendance of scholarly Shi‘ism and the perseverance of popular messianism. We can also read his works as part of the process of the integration of the Qezelbash elite into the nascent Safavid confessional and imperial identity. Ironically, while popular messianic Shi‘i Sufi religiosity was in direct opposition to the establishment Islam perpetuated by Imami theological doctors, who lent the Safavid venture ideological legitimacy and legal coherence, this messianic Sufism was also at the heart of the Safavid centre until around the first half of the seventeenth century. While the incipient Shi‘i orthodoxy seemed to have the upper hand towards the end of

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the Safavid period, a historic moment not unparalleled by what was happening under the Ottomans during the Qadizadeli movement and its introduction of an Ottoman ‘puritanism’ in the late seventeenth century, nevertheless, religiopolitical alternatives did stage a come-back in the eighteenth century, once the Safavids had gone. At the time, Nader Shah (r. 1737–46) made an attempt to establish his Turko-Mongol credentials while also doing away with the power of both the Shi‘i scholars and the Safavid charismatic legacy, when he tried to have Shi‘ism accepted as the fifth Sunni legal school. As we have seen, Turkic as a literary idiom under the Safavids represented continuity with the previous Turkmen and Timurid periods, as well as with the periods that followed. Similar to the Safavids, the Qajars, who came to power in Iran at the end of the eighteenth century, were also a Turkophone tribal confederation that espoused Iranian notions of kingship, sponsoring both Persian and Turkic literary endeavours, though lacking the religious charisma of the Safavids. The Turkic literary output under the Safavids, too, constituted a connection with Ottoman literature, in the sense that both were heir to the Oghuz or Turkmen literary tradition, which the Safavids used to communicate with their Qezelbash adherents in Anatolia. As a spoken language, Turkic has, to date, continued to be in a complementary and competitive relationship with both Persian and other vernaculars in Iran; as a literary language, it has retained its function as a language of local culture and local elites. While its significance continues to be downplayed in ethno-nationalist discourse, its contribution to the idea of Iran would be difficult to refute.

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Notes: 1. In English parlance, the word Turkish is usually used to refer to the dialect used in the Ottoman space, while other forms of the Turkic language family are alluded to as Turkic. The fact that linguistically speaking, Gharibi’s language is close to Ottoman Turkish and that he wrote chiefly for Turkophone adherents of the Safavids residing in or coming from Anatolia, would warrant the use of the word Turkish regarding his language. However, as contemporary sources would invariably use the word Torki and as there were also other dialects used for literary purposes in the broader Turko-Iranian world in general and Safavid Iran in particular, for the sake of simplicity and inclusivity, I will use the word Turkic in this chapter. 2. For a succinct presentation of the problem in the European context, see Peter Burke, Language and Communities in Early Modern Europe, pp. 63–65. 3. Exceptions in this regard include, most prominently, John Perry and his works on Persian historical sociolinguistics, such as ‘Ethno-linguistic markers’ and idem, ‘Persian language during the Safavid period’, or two excellent recent edited volumes on the Persianate world that straddle literary and cultural history and historical sociolinguistics: Brian Spooner and William L. Hanaway, Literacy in the Persianate World; Nile Green, The Persianate World. 4. The discussion of the early modern period as a global phenomenon, which also included the Islamic world and which was connected through trade and religion, as well as intellectual exchange, has made a big leap forward in recent years. See, notably, Sanjay Subrahmanyam’s works, e.g. ‘Turning the stones over’; Azfar Moin, The Millennial Sovereign; and Cornell Fleischer’s ‘A Mediterranean apocalypse’ and other articles in this special issue of the Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient. On how Islamic Eurasia was interconnected by a geographically expansive but socially shallow ‘Persographia’, see, most recently, ‘Introduction: The Frontiers of the Persianate World (ca. 800–1900)’, in Green, The Persianate World, pp. 1–71. 5. Roger M. Savory, Iran under the Safavids, p. 30. 6. Said Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam, pp. 163–70; Rula Abisaab, Converting Persia, pp. 27–29, 156–73; Rasul Ja‘fariyān, Seyāsat o farhang-e ruzgār-e safavi, vol. II, pp. 1348–88. 7. Marshall G.S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. II, pp. 64–69, 91–94, 131–35. 8. Derin Terzioğlu, ‘Where ʻİlm-i Ḥāl meets catechism’; Tijana Krstić, Contested Conversions. 9. Willem Floor and Hasan Javadi, ‘The Role of Azerbaijani Turkish in Safavid Iran’; Tourkhan Gandjei, ‘Turkish in the Safawid Court of Iran’. 10. Sām Mirzā Safavi, Tazkera-ye Tohfa-Sāmi; Sādeqi Ketābdār, Tazkera-ye majma‘ alkhavāss; Oğuzhan M. Kuşoğlu, Sâdıkî-i Kitâbdâr’ın Mecma‘-ü’l-havâs Adlı Eseri (İnceleme-Metin-Dizin). 11. Gharibi-ye Mantashe, Divān, fols 135b–162b; İsrafil Babacan, Tezkire-i Mecâlis-i Şu‘arâ-yı Rum; Gharibi-ye Torki, Divān-e ash‘ār-e torki va tazkera-ye sho‘arā-ye rum, pp. 238–75. 12. Ferenc Csirkés, ‘“Chaghatay Oration, Ottoman Eloquence, Qizilbash Rhetoric”’, pp. 296–351.

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13. On the Abu Moslemnāma tradition and its religio-political context, see Kathryn Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs, pp. 121–60; Jean Calmard, ‘Popular literature under the Safavids’; idem, ‘Shi‘i rituals and power II’; Rıza Yıldırım, ‘In the name of Hosayn’s blood’. 14. Azərbaycan Milli Elmlər Akademiyası Məhəmməd Füzuli adına Əlyazmalar İnstitutu, M-259/13659 (M.S. Sultanov, Alyazmalary katalogu, vol. 1, pp. 277–278, no. 775); Möhsün Nağısyolu, XVI asr Azərbaycan tərcümə abidəsi «Şühədanamə». 15. Fuzulî (Fozuli), Hadikatü’s-Süʻeda. It seems that Shiraz, an important centre for manuscript production and illustration, was a locale where there was demand for Turkic literature. Aside from Nashāti’s works, we know of seven illustrated copies of Ahmadi’s Eskandarnāma from between 1519 and 1561, and of two copies of Navā’i’s Divān from 932/1525 and 972/1564, respectively. Furthermore, it is probably the same Nashāti who, in ca. 932/1526 in Shiraz at the āstāna, ‘shrine’, of a saint by the name of Mowlānā Hosām al-Molk va’l-Din Ebrāhim, copied the Ottoman poet Shaykhi’s Khosraw va Shirin for one Amir Sheykh Dānesh al-Din Mowsillu; and the same shrine produced another copy of Ahmadi’s Eskandarnāma. Cf. Lâle Uluç, Turkmen Governors, Shiraz Artisans and Ottoman Collectors, pp. 98–99, 505, n. 125. As she argues, since several of these manuscripts found their way to Istanbul, there is reason to think that some of them may well have been produced with the Ottoman market in mind. 16. Reza Pourjavady, Philosophy in Early Safavid Iran, pp. 41–44; I thank Dr Pourjavady for this reference. Āqā Bozorg al-Tehrāni, al-Dhari‘a ilā tasānif alshi‘a, vol. II, p. 324, no. 1286; Mohammed Tarbiyat, Dāneshmandān-e Āzarbayjān, pp. 47–49; ‘Aqiqi Bakhshāyeshi, Mafākher-e Āzarbayjān, pp. 690–93. 17. There has been some controversy over the authorship of the work. It was attributed by some to another Ahmad Ardabili from the beginning of the sixteenth century. Cf. Āqā Bozorg, al-Dhari‘a, vol. XV, p. 281, no. 1834. For a modern edition, see Moqaddas Ardabili, Aqā’ed al-eslām, cited in Babek Cavanşir and Ekber N. Necef, Şah İsmail Hatâ’î Külliyatı, p. 117. For the unique manuscript of the work, copied in 1037/1628 and now preserved in the library of the Fayziya madrasa in Qom, see http://www.aghabozorg.ir/showbookdetail.aspx?bookid=157278 [accessed 19 March 2016.] On Moqaddas Ardabili, see Said Amir Arjomand, ‘The clerical estate and the emergence of a Shiite hierocracy in Safavid Iran’, p. 192; Wilfred Madelung, ‘Ardabīlī’; Bakhshāyeshi, Mafākher-e Āzarbayjān, pp. 75–82. Another theological work in Turkic attributed to him but not extant bears the title Resālat al-akhlāq, see Namıq Musalı, ‘XVI əsr Azərbəycan alimi Əhmad İbn Məhəmməd Ərdəbili və onun “Əkaidül-İslam” adlı risaləsi’. 18. Āhari Tabrizi, Esbāt-e emamat. 19. Willem Floor, ‘The Khalifeh al-kholafa of the Safavid Sufi Order’; Ayfer KarakayaStump, ‘Documents and “Buyruk” manuscripts in the private archives of Alevi Dede families’; idem, The Kizilbash-Alevis in Ottoman Anatolia, pp. 229–43; Ayşe Baltacıoğlu-Brammer, ‘“Those Heretics Gathering Secretly…: ”’. 20. Karakaya-Stump, The Kizilbash-Alevis, pp. 243–44. 21. Gharibi, Divān; İsrafil Babacan, ‘16. Asırda Osmanlı Sahası Şâirleri Hakkında Yazılmış Tezkire-i Mecâlis-i Şu‘arâ-yı Rum Adlı Tanınmayan Bir Tezkire’; idem, ‘Garîbî’nin Şîa Mirâciyesini Esas Aldığı Hazret-i Ali Övgüsü’.

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22. I am very grateful to Zeynep Altok of Boğaziçi University for giving me access to a chapter in her dissertation under preparation. 23. Gharibi, Divān, ff. 52b–55a. 24. Ibid., fol. 156a; Babacan, İsrafil, Tezkire-i Mecâlis-i Şu‘arâ-yı Rum, p. 87; Gharibi, Divān, pp. 264–65. About the episode, see Side Emre, Ibrahim-i Gulshani and the Khalwati-Gulshani Order, pp. 322–39. 25. We know far less about Safavid proselytizing activities in Ozbek Central Asia. 26. Ne‘matollāh b. Mohammad al-Jazāri, al-Anwār al-no‘māniya, vol. II, pp. 236–40. 27. Farzin Negahban, ‘Abū al-Futūḥ al-Rāzī’. 28. ʻAbdollāh b. ʻIsā Afandi, Reyād al-ʻolamā’ wa-heyād al-fodalā’, vol. II, pp. 158–59. The Persian version has several editions, including that by Hasan Sa‘id (Tehran: Madrasa-ye Chehel Sotun-e Masjed-e Jāme‘, 1393/1972); Defā‘ az harim-e tashayyo‘, ed. Mohammad Mohammadi Eshtehārdi (Qom: Kitābkhāna-ye Qur’ān va ‘Etrat, 1354/1975), pp. 166–239 (the latter is a modernized Persian edition). 29. For a good survey of the Persian copies of the Yohanna story housed in Iranian collections, see Mostafā Derāyati, Fehrestvāra-ye Dastnevesht-hā-ye Irān (Dinā), vol. II, p. 148. See also British Library, Ms. Or. 11979, copied 1054/1644, cf. G.M. Meredith-Owens, Handlist of Persian Manuscripts, p. 8. See https:// www.fihrist.org.uk/catalog/manuscript_5443 [accessed 4 June 2020]; Ketābkhānaye Melli-ye Malek, Ms. 5216/2, ff. 190–320, copied in 1089/1678, http://www.aghabozorg.ir/showbookdetail.aspx?bookid=141828 [accessed 4 June 2020); Ketābkhāna-ye Majles-e Shurā-ye Eslāmi, Ms. 1646/2, 351b–369a, preceded by Vā‘ez-e Qazvini’s Abvāb al-jenān, copied in 1084/1673. For the Arabic version, see Resālat Yohannā al-Bani Isrā’ili, in al-Majmūʻa, Princeton Firestone Library, Oversize Islamic Manuscripts, New Series no. 654q/6, ff. 7b–11a, https:// catalog.princeton.edu/catalog/6391429 [accessed 5 June 2020], copied 1104/1693; Majles, Ms. 267/3, ff. 61b – 82a, copied in 1067/1657; Majles Ms. 202, copied in 1298/1881. 30. Yusuf Ünal, ‘More than Mere Polemic’. 31. See the Arabic Yohanna story included in Yusof Bahrāni, al-Kashkul, vol. II, pp. 29–30. For the Persian, see note 27 above; the end and the colophon of the Majles Ms. are missing, but the work preceding it, probably executed by the same hand, bears the date 1084/1673. 32. This incident might bring to mind a distant relative of the Johanna story, that of the conversion of the Ilkhanid Mongol sultan Öljeytü (r. 1304–16) to Twelver Shi‘ism, as related by Abu’l-Qasem Qāshāni, Tārikh-e Oljāyetu, pp. 96–101. According to his account, Öljeytü’s conversion followed his disgust with the squabbles between the Shafe‘is and Hanafis at his court, which even made a Mongol amir doubt whether it was a good idea to have abandoned the Yasa of Chinggis Khan in favour of a religion, Islam, divided into so many sects. Interestingly, the same subject of doubt, resulting from the multiplicity of Islamic sects and the contradictions among them, can also be found in the Yohanna stories. Also shared by the Qashani account and the Yohanna story is the invective levelled by the Hanafi jurist against the Shafe‘i that the latter’s legal school allows marriage with one’s sisters or daughters from adultery (Gharibi, Divān, ff. 19a–b; Bahrāni, Kashkul, vol. II, pp. 37–38; Majles Ms. 1646/2, ff. 355b–356a). However, it is difficult to say whether these overlaps are the result of some distant literary connection or if they were just

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33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

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weapons in the Twelver Shi‘i polemical armoury against Sunnism. The latter is more likely, the more so as it was under the Ilkhans that Twelver Shi‘i theology was crystalized, thanks to paradigmatic scholars like Nasir al-Din Tusi (d. 672/1274) and his student ‘Allama Helli (d. 726/1326). See also Alessandro Bausani, ‘Religion under the Mongols’, p. 544; Jean Calmard, ‘Le chiisme imamite sous les Ilkhans’, pp. 278–79; Judith Pfeiffer, ‘Conversion versions’. I thank Charles Melville for mentioning this connection and providing the references. Gharibi, Divān, ff. 13b–35b. Ibid., ff. 26a–27b; Rosemary Stanfield-Johnson, ‘The Tabarra’iyan and the early Safavids’. Babak Rahimi, Theater State and the Formation of Early Modern Public Sphere in Iran, p. 215. Gharibi, Divān, fol. 31a; Bahrāni, Kashkul, pp. 30–31; Resāla-ye Yohannā, Majles Ms. 1646/2, fol. 352b. Bahrāni, Kashkul, vol. II, p. 39; Resāla-ye Yohannā, Majles Ms. 1646/2, ff. 357b– 358a. Bahrāni, Kashkul, vol. II p. 34; Resāla-ye Yohannā, Majles Ms. 1646/2, fol. 357a. Ferenc Csirkés, ‘Messianic oeuvres in interaction’. Muhsin Macit, Hatâyî Dîvânı, p. 380. Esma‘il’s nom de plume (takhallos) was Hatayi (Pers. Khatā’i). Gharibi, Divān, fol. 16b. For Mihri Khātun’s Divān, see http://courses.washington.edu/otap/archive/data/ arch_txt/texts/mihri_work/mihri_gazels.html [accessed 10 May 2016]. I am indebted to Benedek Péri for drawing my attention to the relevant Ottoman paraphrases. See also Hayâlî, Hayâlî Bey Dîvânı, p. 209; Edirneli Nazmî, Mecma‘u’n-nezâ’ir (İnceleme – Tenkitli Metin), nos. 1034, 1234, 1362, 2713, 3109, 3324, 3541, 4256, 4336, 4875. See also Muhsin Macit, ‘Şah İsmail Ahmet Paşa Divanı’nı Okudu mu?’; Ferenc Csirkés, ‘A Messiah untamed’, p. 344.

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Bibliography: Abisaab, Rula Jurdi, Converting Persia: Religion and Power in the Safavid Empire (London: I.B. Tauris, 2004). Afandi, ʻAbdollāh b. ʻIsā, Reyād al-ʻolamā’ wa-heyād al-fodalā’, ed. Mahmud Marʻashi and Ahmad Hoseyni, 7 vols (Beirut: Moʼassasat al-tārikh alʻarabi, 2010). Āhari Tabrizi, Esbāt-e emamat, Tehran University Central Library, Ms. no. 4442. Āqā Bozorg al-Tehrāni, al-Dhari‘a ilā tasānif al-shi‘a (Beirut: Dār al-adwā’, 1403/1983). Ardabili, Moqaddas, Aqā’ed al-eslām, ed. Mirzā Rasul Esma‘ilzāda (Qom: Kārkhāna-ye Āstāna-ye Moqaddas-e Hazrat-e Fātema Ma‘suma, 1380/2001). Arjomand, Said Amir, ‘The clerical estate and the emergence of a Shiite hierocracy in Safavid Iran: A study in historical sociology’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 28 (1985), pp. 169–219. — The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam: Religion, Political Order and Societal Change in Shi‘ite Iran from the Beginning to 1890 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987). Babacan, İsrafil, ‘16. Asırda Osmanlı Sahası Şâirleri Hakkında Yazılmış Tezkire-i Mecâlis-i Şu‘arâ-yı Rum Adlı Tanınmayan Bir Tezkire’, Bilig 40 (2007), pp. 1–16. — Tezkire-i Mecâlis-i Şu‘arâ-yı Rum: Garîbî tezkiresi (Ankara: Vizyon Yayınevi, 2010). — ‘Garîbî’nin Şîa Mirâciyesini Esas Aldığı Hazret-i Ali Övgüsü’, Alevilik Araştırmaları Dergisi 5 (2013), pp. 91–102. Babayan, Kathryn, Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs: Cultural Landscapes of Early Modern Iran (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002). Bahrāni, Yusof, al-Kashkul, 3 vols (Karbala: Moʼassasat al-Aʻlami le’lmatbuʻāt al-haditha, 1961). Bakhshāyeshi, ‘Aqiqi, Mafākher-e Āzarbayjān (Tabriz: Nashr-i Āzarbayjān, 1375/1996). Baltacıoğlu-Brammer, Ayşe, ‘“Those heretics gathering secretly …: ” Qizilbash rituals and ceremonies according to early modern Ottoman sources’, Journal of Ottoman and Turkish Studies Association 6, no. 1 (2019), pp. 39–60. Bausani, Alessandro, ‘Religion under the Mongols’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 5, The Saljuq and Mongol periods, ed. John Andrew Boyle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), pp. 538–49. Burke, Peter, Language and Communities in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004).

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Calmard, Jean, ‘Shi‘i rituals and power II. The consolidation of Safavid Shi‘ism: Folklore and popular religion’, in Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society, ed. Charles Melville (London: I.B. Tauris, 1996), pp. 139–90. — ‘Le chiisme imamite sous les Ilkhans’, in L‘Iran face à la domination mongole, ed. Denise Aigle (Paris and Tehran: IFRI, 1997), pp. 216–92. — ‘Popular literature under the Safavids’, in Society and Culture in the Early Modern Middle East: Studies on Iran in the Safavid period, ed. Andrew J. Newman (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 315–39. Cavanşir, Babek and Ekber N. Necef, Şah İsmail Hatâ’î Külliyat: Türkçe Divanı, Nasihat-name, Tuyuğlar, Koşmalar, Geraylılar, Varsağılar ve Bayatılar (Istanbul: Kaknüs Yayınları, 2006). Csirkés, Ferenc, ‘Messianic oeuvres in interaction: Misattributed poems by Shah Esmā‘il and Nesimi’, Journal of Persianate Studies 8, no. 2 (2015), pp. 155–94. — ‘“Chaghatay Oration, Ottoman Eloquence, Qizilbash Rhetoric”: Turkic Literature in Ṣafavid Persia’, doctoral dissertation (University of Chicago, 2016). — ‘A Messiah untamed: Notes on the philology of Shah Ismā‘īl’s Divan’, Iranian Studies 52, no. 3–4 (2019), pp. 339–95. Derāyati, Mostafā, Fehrestvāra-ye Dastnevesht-hā-ye Irān (Dinā), 12 vols (Tehran: Ketābkhāna, muza va markaz-e asnād-e majles-e shurā-ye eslāmi, 1389/2010). Edirneli Nazmî, Mecma‘u’n-nezâ’ir (İnceleme – Tenkitli Metin), ed. Fatih Köksal (Ankara: T.C. Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı, 2012). Emre, Side, Ibrahim-i Gulshani and the Khalwati-Gulshani Order: Power Brokers in Ottoman Egypt (Leiden: Brill, 2017). Fleischer, Cornell, ‘A Mediterranean apocalypse: Prophecies of empire in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries’, special issue, ed. Mayte Green-Mercado, JESHO 61 (2018), pp. 18–90. Floor, Willem, ‘The Khalifeh al-kholafa of the Safavid Sufi Order’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 153, no. 1 (2003), pp. 51– 86. Floor, Willem and Hasan Javadi, ‘The Role of Azerbaijani Turkish in Safavid Iran’, Iranian Studies 46, no. 4 (2013), 569–81. Fuzulî, Hadikatü’s-Süʻeda, ed. Şeyma Güngör (Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı, 1987). Gandjei, Tourkhan, ‘Turkish in the Safawid Court of Iran’, Turcica 21–23 (1991), pp. 311–18. Gharibi-ye Mantashe, Divān, Ketābkhāne-ye Majles-e Shurā-ye Jomhuri-ye Eslāmi, Ms. 7012, http://aghabozorg.ir/showbookdetail.aspx?bookid= 106462 [accessed 29 May 2020].

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Gharibi-ye Torki, Divān-e ash‘ār-e torki va tazkera-ye sho‘arā-ye rum, ed. Hoseyn Mohammadzāda Seddiq (Tabriz: Akhtar, 1388/2009). Green, Nile, ed., The Persianate World: The Frontiers of a Eurasian Lingua Franca (Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2019). Hayâlî, Hayâlî Bey Dîvânı, ed. Ali Nihad Tarlan (Istanbul: B. Erenler Matbaası, 1945). Hodgson, Marshall G.S., The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization, 3 vols (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974). Ja‘fariyān, Rasul, Seyāsat o farhang-e ruzgār-e safavi, 2 vols (Tehran: ‘Elm, 1392/2013). al-Jazāri, Ne‘matollāh b. Mohammad, al-Anwār al-no‘māniya, ed. Mohammad ‘Ali al-Qadi al-Tabātabā’i, 4 vols (Muʼassasat al-A‘lamī le’l-matbūʻāt, 1431/2010). Karakaya-Stump, Ayfer, ‘Documents and “Buyruk” manuscripts in the private archives of Alevi Dede families: An overview’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 37, no. 3 (2010), pp. 273–86. — The Kizilbash-Alevis in Ottoman Anatolia: Sufism, Politics and Community (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2020). Krstić, Tijana, Contested Conversions: Narratives of Religious Change in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 2011). Kuşoğlu, M. Oğuzhan, ‘Sâdıkî-i Kitâbdâr’ın Mecma‘-ü’l-havâs Adlı Eseri (İnceleme-Metin-Dizin)’, doctoral dissertation (Istanbul: Marmara Üniversitesi, 2012). Macit, Muhsin, Hatâyî Dîvânı: (inceleme-tenkitli metin-tıpkıbasım) (Istanbul: Türkiye Yazma Eserler Kurumu Başkanlığı, 2017). — ‘Şah İsmail Ahmet Paşa Divanı’nı Okudu mu?’, Bilig 80 (2017), pp. 265– 78. Madelung, Wilfred, ‘Ardabīlī’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. II, pp. 368–70, online at http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/ardabili-ahmad-b [accessed 4 June 2020]. Meredith-Owens, G.M., Handlist of Persian Manuscripts 1895–1966 (London: British Library, 1968). Moin, Azfar A. The Millennial Sovereign: Sacred Kingship and Sainthood in Islam (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012). Musalı, Namıq, ‘XVI əsr Azərbəycan alimi Əhmad İbn Məhəmməd Ərdəbili və onun «Əkaidül-İslam» adlı risaləsi’, Tarix və Onun Problemləri 3 (2013), pp. 297–305. Nağısyolu, Möhsün, XVI asr Azərbaycan tərcümə abidəsi «Şühədanamə» (paleografiya, ortografiya va tərcümə məsələləri (Baku: Nurlan, 2003). Negahban, Farzin, ‘Abū al-Futūḥ al-Rāzī’, in Encyclopaedia Islamica, ed. Wilferd Madelung and Farhad Daftary, online at http://dx.doi.org/ 10.1163/1875-9831_isla_COM_0067 [accessed 4 June 2020].

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Uluç, Lâle, Turkmen Governors, Shiraz Artisans and Ottoman Collectors (Istanbul: Türkiye İş Bankası Kültür Yayınları, 2006). Ünal, Yusuf, ‘More than Mere Polemic: The Adventure of the Risalah-i Husniyah in the Safavid, Ottoman and Indian Lands’, MA dissertation (Istanbul: Boğaziçi University, 2016). Yıldırım, Rıza, ‘In the name of Hosayn’s blood: The memory of Karbala as ideological stimulus to the Safavid revolution’, Journal of Persianate Studies 8, no. 2 (2015), pp. 127–54.

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10 ‘O Muhibbi! You’ve Lit Your Lamp with Khosrow’s Burning Passion’: Persian Poetry as Perceived by Sixteenth-Century Ottoman Authors Benedek Péri (Eötvös Loránd University)

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he past few years have seen a renewed scholarly interest in mapping the substantial role that Persian language and literature played in the Ottoman Empire. While earlier scholarly works, such as Mohammad Amin Reyahi’s Zaban o adab-e Farsi dar qalam-row-ye ‘Osmani,1 Tahsin Yaziji’s Parsi-nevisan-e Asya-ye saghir2 and Veyis Değirmençay’s voluminous modern tazkera (literary anthology), Farsça Şiir Söyleyen Osmanlı Şairleri,3 aimed at giving a general picture of the topic and simply listed the important authors who wrote in Persian on Ottoman soil, the latest contributions to the field, essays by Murat Inan and Hamid Algar, had different perspectives.4 They either endeavoured to put the subject into a broader historical and literary context or focused on a detail, like Jami’s reception by Ottoman litterateurs. Though both authors used sources written in Turkish as well, they approached the topic from an outsider’s view and from a Persian perspective. They treated their sources as databases and endeavoured to select those pieces of information that would form an overall picture of Persian authors’ influence on the Ottoman literary scene. The present chapter, however, tries to look at the topic from the other way around and through the eyes of Ottoman poets and critics who authored and judged classical poetic texts; it wishes to observe the situation from the perspective of poetic creation. Focusing on two major genres of Ottoman poetry, the qasida and the ghazal, and using a plethora of diverse texts, including tazkeras, poetic texts composed in Turkish and Persian poems written by Ottoman poets,5 it aims to show how Ottoman authors perceived the Persian poetic system and the Persian poetical canon. Before turning our attention to analysing the data provided by Ottoman sources, a few preliminary introductory remarks should be made on the relationship of the Persian and the Ottoman literary systems and the profound changes in the history of Ottoman literature that took place in the second half of the fifteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth century.

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One and a half centuries after its establishment in the late thirteenth century, the Ottoman frontier principality, one of the many Oghuz Turkish states struggling for power and survival in Anatolia, skyrocketed to becoming an empire ruling over vast lands in Anatolia and the Balkans. The occupation of Constantinople in 1453, the establishment of a new capital and the seemingly inexhaustible sources of royal patronage gave enormous impetus to an ambitious project of creating a cultural semiotic system that suited the Ottoman state’s profoundly changed political status and, at the same time, facilitated the forging of an Ottoman or, as contemporary sources often refer to it, Rumi cultural identity. Culture is a complex system of signs that are able to convey all the notions constituting the concept of ‘imperial’ and thus the project covered a wide circle of the most diverse aspects of culture, extending from architecture through decorative art, portrait painting and book illustrations to language and literature. All these projects, which aimed to create new imperial cultural canons, can best be described as processes of ‘imitation’ and ‘adaptation’. Ottomans selected and collected cultural models that they judged to be worth copying and, by amalgamating and slowly modifying them, they adapted them to their tastes until, finally, they created their own mixture of cultural elements that constituted the distinctly Ottoman cultural paradigms. A long list of examples could be mentioned here but let it suffice to mention two from the field of visual arts. Early Ottoman portrait paintings, for example, imitated ruler portraits painted by Italian painters6 and Ottoman aesthetics in the early sixteenth century were heavily influenced by Timurid and Turkoman models.7 The choice of a model for a classical Ottoman literary paradigm was evident from the beginning. The Persian classical literary system had a long and wellestablished tradition backed by a huge corpus of texts written by acknowledged authors, some of whom, like Mowlana Jalal al-Din Rumi (d. 1273) and his son Soltan Valad (d. 1312), played an important role in the cultural and religious life of Anatolia. Moreover, Persian literacy formed an essential part of the imperial culture of earlier empires, those of the Seljuks and the Timurids, whose cultural legacy was in many respects inherited and imitated by the Ottomans. Although the literary model was thus given, the decision regarding whether to adopt the Persian system as a whole, together with its original language, or replace Persian with Turkish, was not easily made. It is true that, from the late thirteenth century onwards, classical Turkish literary texts were being produced and these texts tried to imitate Persian models, used Persianate literary forms and relied on the rich mundus significans, signifying universe, of the Persian tradition;8 but still, they didn’t seem to win the approval of contemporary literary critics. ‘Aşık Çelebi (d. 1571), author of a voluminous sixteenthcentury poetic anthology, echoed a widespread and unfavourable opinion of literary works written before the fifteenth century when he wrote:

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However, as far as the poetry of the land of Rum is concerned poets preceding Şeyhi in masnawi, Ahmet Paşa in qaside and Necati in ghazal count as nothing.9 The early period of Turkish classical literature in Anatolia could be described as one of reflection and experimentation and the first Turkish texts are truly quite rudimentary and crude from a poetic point of view. However, it should be noted here that authors wishing to produce good quality poetry in Turkish within the framework of a Persianate literary system had to overcome substantial technical difficulties. Just to mention a basic problem, it is not easy to compose quantitative verse in a language like Turkish, that lacks long vowels. Fuzuli (d. 1556), one of the eminent proponents of Ottoman poetry in the sixteenth century, composed a full divan both in Persian and in Turkish; still, he complained in a qet‘a that Turkish is unsuitable for poetry: There are more poems in Persian, I do not bluff ’Cause composing elegant poetry in Turkish is tough. Turkish language is unsuitable for metre and composition Most of its words are incoherent and rough. What’s difficult I’ll make easy with God’s help, When spring comes roses blossom from thorny stuff.10 Lami‘i Çelebi (d. 1532), one of the most prolific authors of the early sixteenth century, relates the story of how he was asked by an unnamed friend to translate Fattahi Nishapuri’s (d. 1443) Hosn o del and how much he was troubled by the task because ‘Turkish language is very far from being elegant and lacks charm and grace’. Then with wordplay he compares Persian (fārsi) to a horseman (fāresi) and Turkish to a pedestrian who – however fast he walks – cannot catch up with a rider. Later he adds that: Turkish is a weird and heartless language. Since it doesn’t possess charm and grace and it doesn’t wear a dress of lace, it’s avoided by perfect men who preach and distinguished masters of the human speech. Thus, there are only a few books good and fine and prose works that do shine.11 ‘Aşık Çelebi’s critical remark quoted earlier shows that the project of creating an imperial Ottoman literary tradition faced a formidable challenge: Ottomans initially simply did not have qualified and talented professionals who could have produced texts in Turkish that would meet the strict metrical and poetical requirements of a Persianate system. The solution was either to contract acknowledged authors from abroad, the same way Mehmed II did in the case of distinguished scientists of his time, or train a new cadre. The sultan took steps in both directions. He tried to lure eminent poets, such as Jami

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(d. 1492), with generous gifts12 and at the same time he established a scholarship of thousand aqčes per month to educate talented beginners, a tradition adopted by his successors.13 Among his protégés there were both poets who composed poetry in Turkish and authors who used Persian, like Ahmet Paşa and Le’ali (fl. fifteenth c.). Ahmet Paşa, an Ottoman statesman who, later in his career, was honoured with the title ‘the Sultan of poets’ (Soltan al-šo‘ara), will be mentioned later.14 Le’ali was a native of Tokat and travelled far and wide in Iran. During his long stay there he met Jami, whose greetings he conveyed to Mehmed II. According to Latifi (d. 1582), the writer of the second Ottoman poetic anthology, he became Persianized to such an extent that, after his return to Ottoman lands as a qalandari dervish, he was considered one of the immigrant Persian professionals who, according to Le’ali’s poem preserved in the tazkera, were welcomed and treated with great honours: If you wish for the favours of many friends You should either come from Iran or the Arab lands. Everyone who comes from Iran to the lands of Rum Will be appointed a minister or governor, I assume.15 The sultan himself took an active interest in the project both as a patron and as a poet and composed poetry in Turkish under the pen name ‘Avni. His participation as part of the learned audience both in Turkish and in Persian poetry would suggest that he didn’t have a linguistic preference. His aim was to establish an imperial literary paradigm regardless of the language used and, for him, both Le’ali and Ahmet Paşa belonged to the very same classical tradition. It seems that other poets were thinking in a similar way and at this point the choice of language was simply a matter of personal taste. Ahmet Paşa and the way in which he developed his Turkish poetry appears to confirm this theory as, according to Latifi: He carefully copied and scrupulously studied all the books and divans that were available in Persian. He imitated Persian lyrical pieces; he adapted their useful elements and applied their rhetorical figures A poetic idea (ma‘na) is like a nice bodied beauty, To dress her in a shiny garment is a poet’s duty. In line with these verses he exchanged the Persian garb of the beauty of poetic idea for an elegant dress weaved from Rumi (Ottoman) expressions and thus he adorned and decorated her with a new attire and with an ornate costume.16 Some scholars think that the decision to turn to Turkish was finally made as a response to the rise of the Safavid dynasty.17 Contemporary sources, however, suggest that it was the influence of Mir ‘Ali-Shir Nava’i (d. 1501) that helped

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to resolve the question and tilted the scale towards Turkish. Nava’i was the founder of the classical Persianate Central Asian literary tradition termed Chaghatay in modern scholarly literature. He authored ‘sample’ texts in Turkish modelled on a wide range of famous Persian works, proving that it is possible to compose classical poetical and prose texts in Turkish that are on a par with texts written in Persian by the most eminent and acknowledged authors of the Persian tradition. According to a famous anecdote preserved in many Ottoman sources, Nava’i sent 33 of his Turkic ghazals as a gift to Sultan Bayezid II (r. 1481– 1512), himself a poet, who liked the poems so much that he gave orders to Ahmet Paşa to compose pieces in Nava’i’s style. According to Kınalı-zade Hasan Çelebi (d. 1604), author of a mid-sixteenth-century poetic anthology, Ahmet Paşa’s earlier poems lacked artistic fervour and elegance but, through studying and imitating Nava’i’s ghazals, his style became refined and his way of expression polished.18 It is not yet clear whether the story is true but still it shows that Nava’i’s example really did play an important role in shaping the Ottomans’ views on the suitability of Turkish for literary purposes and helped to resolve the question of language use. Nava’i’s popularity in Ottoman culture throughout the sixteenth century and his impact on Ottoman poets’ works also points in this direction.19 In any case, the period that falls roughly between the last two decades of the fifteenth and the first decade of the sixteenth century, and thus coincides with the rule of Bayezid II, witnessed a sudden boom in Turkish literary text production and a blossoming literary scene evolved with outstanding poets like Hamdullah Hamdi (d. 1503), the first poet in Anatolia to composed a khamse (‘quintet’), Necati, an early master of the Ottoman Turkish ghazal, and Sultan Selim I’s favoured poet, Revani (d. 1523). The freshly established Ottoman literary system was a derived literature, that is a literary system which ‘consciously took account of the tradition of another people which they recognized as superior’.20 The definition of the term ‘derived literature’, originally coined by Michael von Albrecht to characterize Roman literature and its relationship to Greek, fits the description of the freshly established imperial Ottoman literary tradition, called the ‘literature of Rum’ by Selim S. Kuru in his seminal essay on the evolution of Ottoman literature.21 By the middle of the sixteenth century, Ottoman authors found their own voice and developed special features that led to the evolution of a distinct Ottoman style within the classical tradition. Contemporary literary anthologies tend to remark on the difference between the Iranian (Tur. ‘ajemane) and the Ottoman style. Habibi arrived from Iran during the reign of Bayezid II and, although he learnt to compose poetry in Turkish, ‘Aşık Çelebi still judged his poems to be ‘ajemane and remarked that they didn’t fit contemporary poetic trends (hilaf-i üslub-i şu‘ara-yi zemanedür).22

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Through imitating the poems of a wide range of predecessor poets (selef), Keşfi became a master of Persian and mastered the science of metrics (‘elm-e ‘aruz). He compiled two divans, one in Turkish and one in Persian. Latifi praised his qasidas written in both languages but criticized his ghazals because ‘they were bound by the shackles of Persian rhetoric … and fell far from [the style] of the poets of Rum’.23 It is not clear yet what Ottoman critics had in mind when they spoke of the Ottoman style and how it differed from the Persian. Latifi’s judgement of Keşfi’s poetry would suggest that Ottoman critics condemned the type of artificiality that Gibb described as ‘an over-ardent pursuit of rhetoric’.24 Though scholarly research in the field has just begun in earnest, it seems certain that Ottoman poetry widened the mundus significans of the classical tradition by adding novel rhetorical devices, like Turkish proverbs and sayings,25 the semantic field of esrar ‘cannabis’ in the early sixteenth century,26 wordplays built on the double meaning of Turkish words,27 or elements that were rarely used in Persian poetry.28 It is interesting to note here that certain innovations of Ottoman poetry made their way into poems composed by Ottoman poets in Persian as well. The semantic field of ‘cannabis’, often occurring in sixteenth-century Ottoman Turkish ghazals, is represented by a semantic bonding (tenasüb) formed between the words ghobar ‘powder/cannabis powder’ and heyran ‘dumbfounded/cannabis intoxication’ in a Persian poem written by Beyani (d. 1665) in the seventeenth century.

ज़ ϊॹ র Δࡣ  ΧϪ ‫࢑ࢌ دل ﻣﺎ‬  ହ ߮ α ΍΋ ά໇ ‫واز‬

৤ ළ ു ঝ ૛ ϟ ΋ Ϧ  ϡ΋ άඵ [଒ ] Ϋ߮ βࣺ Ϋ πआ Ϋ߮ ΐࣆ ‫از‬

I became intoxicated by the powder of the peach fuzz of your face My heart got drunk from the wine of the cup of your ruby lips.29 In spite of the differences evident in language and style, Ottoman critics considered the Ottoman literary system an inseparable part of the classical Persianate tradition. Latifi, summarizing his critical opinion of the Ottoman poetic scene, makes it clear that, in his eyes, his contemporaries and the classics of Persian literature belong to the same tradition and thus they should be judged accordingly: Though in our times there are [poets] who are deservedly famous for bearing the signs of eminence, they are few in number and are rare to find. As far as originality and creativity is concerned, the capabilities and talent of those who pass themselves off as unique and exceptional are well-known to everyone. Their highest accomplishments are translations or a few ghazals and qasidas they managed to sweat out. Still they claim that they belong to the same class as Jami and Nezami and the champions of the field of Persian can’t ride together with them. Moreover, they imagine that they can overtake them on the field of eloquence. How many mistaken ideas, how many false imaginings!30

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Truly, eminent poets who were aware of the strict critical criteria set for judging poetic excellence and saw the inferior quality of early Ottoman poetry could do nothing else but turn for inspiration to distinguished authors of the classical tradition who composed poetry in Persian. Necati makes it clear in several of his lines that when it comes to composing good quality poetry, he prefers to reproduce the style of Salman Savaji (d. 1376) instead of following in the footsteps of Şeyhi:31 Kuluŋ Nejati’ye edeli şahum iltifat Şeyhi’yi kodı şive-yi Selmana kasd eder My Shah, since you granted him favours Necati left Şeyhi and aims at [imitating] Salman’s style. In a few elaborately worded lines of a qasida, Hayali (d. 1556), a favourite of Sultan Süleyman, praised the ruler’s poetic abilities by putting Süleyman’s poetry into a historical context. Hayali’s couplets suggest that there was a straight line of tradition connecting the Persian panegyrists, Khaqani (d. 1190), Zahir Faryabi (d. 1201), Salman Savaji (d. 1376) and Kamal-e Esfahani (d. ca. 1237), to Süleyman and within the framework of this unbroken and continuous tradition the sultan’s poetic accomplishments surpassed his predecessors: Çalındı nevbet-i hakani çünkim namına anuŋ Ma‘ani mülkinüŋ sultanları dagıttı divanı Zahirüŋ arkasından müste‘ari camesin almaz Tıraş etmez o gayrilar gibi divan-i Selmanı Kemal-ı İsfahani gerçi hallak-i ma‘anidür Kelamın ruh-ı mahz etmekte anuŋ canı yok canı.32 The imperial age/The age of Khaqani has arrived because to his name Have the sultans of poetic ideas dedicated their divans. He doesn’t need to borrow Zahir’s cloak And he doesn’t collect [his lines] like others do from the divan of Salman. Though Kamal-e Esfahan is called a creator of intricate meanings He [Süleyman] doesn’t wish to make his [Kamal’s] spirit the essence of his soul. A short poem by a late sixteenth-century poet, Safi, makes this Ottoman view all the more evident. The qet‘a starts with a few introductory couplets that speak about eminent poets, regardless of their origins, as belonging to the same distinguished group of the human race, the people of poetry (ahl-e nazm). Safi then lists all the important poets of the imperial Ottoman tradition from the late fifteenth to the late sixteenth century, Ahmet Paşa, Zati (d. 1547), Necati, Hayali, Baki (d. 1600) and Gelibolulu Mustafa ‘Ali (d. 1600), and on the basis of various criteria he finds matching pairs for them in the Persian branch of the classical tradition. Though Safi names only two criteria of the classification

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system he used – elegant, elaborate style (nazük eda) and the ability to compose poetry in three languages – these references make it evident that he used the same critical system to evaluate Ottoman and Persian poets, suggesting that, in his opinion, representatives of Ottoman and Persian poetry belonged to the same tradition: Şaʿir cihanda çokdur feyz-i Hudaya mazhar Anları zinde kılmış nehr-i hüner-i zülali Meşhur-ı ehl-i ʿirfan ashab-i resm-i divan Bir kaç suhanver olmış ser-defter-i ehali Rum u ‘Acemde kopmış a‘yanı ehl-i nazmuŋ Eşrafı yaʿni olmış bir birinüŋ misalı Selman aŋıldı Ahmed Hvacu yazıldı Zati Husrevlenür Necati Hafızlanur Hayali Nazük edalardan Şahi sayıldı Baki Her dilde kudretinden Cami tutıldı ‘Ali Safi bu penc beyitde yazıldı şeş cihetden Altı güzide zatuŋ evsaf-ı pür-kemalı33 There are many poets in the world receiving the grace of God They are nourished by the pure water of art They are famous people, well-versed in gnostic knowledge, authors of divans A few masters of eloquence, they are mentioned first in the book of the human race Distinguished representatives of poetry appeared both in Rum and in Iran And the most eminent ones make matches Ahmet [Paşa] evoked Salman, Zati was called Khvaju Necati became Khosrow and Hayali was named Hafez Baki was compared with Shahi because of his intricate style And ‘Ali’s skill was compared to Jami’s in every language he used Safi in his five couplets used six criteria To describe six distinguished and perfect personalities. Ottoman poetic anthologies contain many pieces of data confirming the idea that contemporary Ottoman poets viewed Persian and Ottoman poetry as being two closely related branches of the same tradition and Persian was considered an inseparable part of the Ottoman past. Ottoman literary critics quite often compared their contemporaries’ achievements with the literary accomplishments of Persian classics and they did not cease to do so even after the establishment and solidification of an ever-growing Ottoman Turkish canon, which suggests that Ottoman poets never lost contact and stayed in constant discourse with the Persian past of their tradition. Anthologies also contain valuable information on the range of Persian models that Ottomans

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used to imitate either in Persian or in Turkish. Success was often measured in terms of Persian models34 and tazkera writers’ critical remarks suggest that most literary genres had their special cadre of classics whose oeuvre served as reference points for Ottoman critics and authors alike. While the genre of qasida was almost non-existent in the Central Asian Turkish classical literary tradition, panegyrics written in qasida form became one of the major genres of Ottoman literature. Ottoman poets trying to secure the support of well-to-do and powerful patrons composed elaborately structured and elegant panegyric poems embellished with intricate rhetorical devices. Data provided by contemporary anthologies indicate that Ottoman poets composing panegyrics either in Turkish or in Persian had their preferences when it came to finding inspiration in their Persian predecessors’ works. They seem to have favoured a small group of panegyrists and a few famous works. According to Latifi, most of Ahmet Paşa’s qasidas were translations from the works of twelfth-century panegyrists Zahir Faryabi (d. 1201) and a later master of the qasida genre, Salman Savaji; the style of Mesihi’s (d. 1512) and Zati’s panegyrics resembled the poems of these poets as well.35 Latifi also writes about his own works and mentions his hundred couplet-long qasida that was inspired in part by four poems of three well-known Persian authors: Khaqani’s (d. 1190) Mer’at-e safa, Amir Khosrow’s Darya-ye abrar and Jami’s two qasidas titled Jela-ye ruh and Lojja-ye asrar.36 ‘Ahdi (d. 1593) compared Ahmet Efendi’s qasidas to the ‘heart enlightening’ twelfth-century Seljuq poet Anvari’s panegyrics and Baki’s panegyrical poems with the qasidas of a near contemporary Safavid poet, Omidi Tehrani (d. 1523).37 In the fakhriya (‘self-appraisal’) part of qasidas, poets often call on the prestige of acknowledged Persian panegyrists to boast about their own poetical talent and skills, which shows that they considered themselves heirs of the poetic legacy of the Persian poets whom they evoked. Baki, who was one of the masters of the Ottoman qasida in the sixteenth century, in a poem composed on the occasion of Selim II’s accession to the throne, praised his own poem by claiming that it contained the secret of Zahir and the soul of Salman. In another couplet he evoked Amir Khosrow as ‘the drummer of rhetoric excellence’ and Khaqani as one whose signature (toghra) guaranteed the authenticity of the ferman of eloquence: Zuhur etdi Zahirüŋ sırrı tab‘-ı nükte-danumda Akıtdı kendüye şi‘rüm revan-ı pak-ı Selman Belagat kusın urduŋ Husrevane heft kişverde Suhan menşurına çekdüm bu gün tugra-yı Hakani38 Zahir’s secret manifested itself in my witty talent And my poem absorbed Salman’s pure soul. I have beaten the drum of rhetorical excellence in Khosrow’s style in all the seven climes

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And I have written the toghra of Khaqani on the royal edict of eloquence. Nev’i (d. 1599), a contemporary of Baki, in one of his qasidas shows himself an heir of the poetic legacy of Anvari: Egerçi peyrev-i şem‘-i kelam-ı Enveriyem Sözüm çiragı benüm şimdi gül gibi meşhur39 Though I follow the candle of Anvari’s words The lamp of my words became famous for its rosiness. Although not many poets seem to have undertaken to compose panegyrics in Persian, Tacizade Ca‘fer Çelebi (d. 1515), one of the leading intellectuals during the reign of Bayezid II, composed a Persian qasida celebrating Selim I’s ascension to the throne in 1512. He not only modelled his poem on a panegyric by Salman, he went as far as including two of Salman’s couplets in his own poem.40 Latifi reported that a poet from Edirne using the pen name Sabayi ‘imitated the words of the most eminent poets of Iran and he composed acknowledged replies to the well-known qasida Darya-ye abrar, the qasida Mer’at-e safa and Katebi’s Shotur o hojra’.41 As an early illustrated copy of his collected works (kolliyat) copied during the reign of Mehmed II suggests,42 Katebi (d. 1435) became popular in the Ottoman Empire quite rapidly. He was best known, however, not for his qasidas but for his narrative poem titled Dah Bab (‘Ten Chapters’), also known as Tajnisat (‘Homonyms’), which inspired an Ottoman poet, Üsküplü ‘Ata (d. 1523), to compose a Turkish version of it entitled Tuhfet al-‘Uşşak (‘Gift of Lovers’).43 Müslim Çelebi, a poet from Bayezid II’s reign, was also inspired by Amir Khosrow’s Darya-ye abrar and he also composed a poetic reply to a nuniya of Zahir Faryabi.44 Sun‘i, a mediocre poet from Kastamonu, also composed imitation poems in qasida form; his models were panegyrics written by Salman Savaji and Zahir Faryabi.45 Poets whom tazkeras mention most frequently as models in ghazal poetry are Amir Khosrow Dehlavi (d. 1325), Salman Savaji, Hafez (d. 1393), Kamal-e Khojandi (d. 1401) and Jami (d. 1492). Latifi describes the poet Ahi (d. 1517) in the following words: ‘He is a contemporary ghazal writer, one of the excellent and exceptional poets of the land of Rum. His sweet poems are in the style of Hasan and possess the burning passion (suz) of Khosrow. They abound with Salman’s rhetorical figures and Kamal’s ideas’.46 The choice of Persian poets treated as reference points for poetic excellence is reflected in poetic texts as well. Closing couplets (maqta‘) in ghazals often served as fakhriya, verses boastingly advertising a poet’s skills, talent and

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poetic accomplishments. Such lines often evoke the characters of famous ghazal poets, most of whom compose in Persian, who tend to be depicted as congratulating the poet on his success or envying him for his achievements. Süleyman the Magnificent (d. 1566) was one of the most prolific ghazal poets of his age, composing more than 4,000 ghazals in Turkish under the pen name ‘Muhibbi’. Still, he considered himself an heir of the poetic legacy of Amir Khosrow, Salman Savaji, Kamal-e Khojandi and Hafez as the maqta‘s of some of his ghazals indicate: Eyle Muhibbi nazmuŋı Husrev gibi hasen Ersün kemale san‘atı ister isen şirin edada ol O Muhibbi, make your verse nice like Khosrow Compose it in a sweet tone if you want its art to reach perfection/if you want it to reach the level of Kamal’s.47 Şi‘r-i dil-suzuŋ ederse taŋ mıdur Hasana ta‘n Şi‘rüŋi şimdengrü üslub-ı Selmana eyle gel Do you wonder if your heart-burning verses are perceived by Hasan as a scolding? From now on follow the style of Salman in poetry.48 Ger lisan-ı gaybdan gelse Muhibbi’ye gazel Ruh-ı Hafızdan bir istimdaddur derler baŋa If the tongue of the great beyond reveals a ghazal to Muhibbi It’s help from the spirit of Hafez, they say.49 Perhaps due to their potential for a word play (iham or tevriye), the names of Khosrow and Kamal are mentioned most frequently, closely followed by references to Salman, Jami and Hafez. Occasionally other Persian ghazal poets also make an appearance in the closing couplets of Ottoman ghazals. Hayali (d. 1556) arrived in Istanbul in his youth as a Heydari dervish sometime during the reign of Selim I and later became a close companion of Sultan Süleyman. In one of his maqta‘s, besides writing about the influence that Khosrow exerted on his poetry, he praised the Timurid ghazal poet Shahi (d. 1453): Biz ey Hayali suhte-i suz-ı Husrevüz Hüsn-i edada ilk sena-guy-ı Şahiyüz Oh, Hayali, we have been burnt by the burning passion of Khosrow With the beauty of our expressions we praise Shahi.50 It is interesting to see that some of the Persian litterateurs whose names appear in the closing couplets of Ottoman poems, were not acknowledged for

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their ghazals, which shows how quickly and deeply various notions attached to certain Persian authors became conventionalized in Ottoman thought. In a closing couplet of Hayali the poet refers to Vassaf (d. 1329), an eminent historian, who is usually invoked for his elegant and ornamental prose style in Ottoman works: ‘Aşkda kan aglamak şerhin Hayaliden işit Bezm-i Cem evsafın ögrenmege Vassafa gel You should listen to Hayali and hear the explanation of weeping blood from love If you want to learn how to describe a feast of Jam, you should come to Vassaf.51 Sehi Bey (d. 1548), author of the first Ottoman poetic anthology, called on the prestige of Rashid al-Din Vatvat (d. 1182) as a literary critic and author of a handbook, Hadayeq al-sehr fi daqayeq al-shi‘r (Gardens of magic in the subtleties of poetry), on poetics in order to praise his own poetry: Bahr-ı gamda vere evrak-ı Hadayiqi yele Görse eş‘ar-ı sihr-sazumı Vatvat-i Reşid52 He’ll be submerged in the ocean of sorrow and let the wind scatter the pages of Hadayeq, If Rashid-e Vatvat sees my magical lines. In order to demonstrate the excellence of his own lines, a poet using the pen name Feyzi evoked Khaqani Sharvani, better known for his panegyrics than his lyric poetry: Tura Hakani mezarından diye sad aferin Feyziya eş‘arumuz ger vara Şirvandan yana Khaqani rises from his grave and says ‘Bravo!’ a hundred times When our poems arrive from Sharvan.53 The field of Persian–Turkish translations or, more correctly, cross-linguistic imitations, has not yet been mapped even superficially and the circle of Persian poets whose Persian lines inspired Ottoman poets, either to translate and include them in their Turkish ghazals or to compose poetic replies to them in Persian or in Turkish, has not yet been determined. But it is certain that Hafez was one of them. The first ghazal of Hafez inspired quite a few replies in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and in the cohort of those who composed a paraphrase of it in Persian we find several Ottoman poets as well. Sultan Sülyeman’s two imitation poems, however, count as rarities because they are written in Turkish. It was not an easy task, but Muhibbi very successfully tackled the difficulties posed by the radif, the Persian plural suffix, ha. He recognized the poetic

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potential of the Turkish interjection, ha ‘verily, truly’ and used it as the radif of his Turkish poems, as the matla‘s of the two ghazals show: Demiş ‘ışk evveli asan okınur söylenür dil ha Veli ben görmedüm andan cihan içinde muşkil ha54 S/he said: Verily, hearts easily recite and sing the beginnings of love, And truly, I haven’t seen a more difficult thing in the world. İşitdüm ben civan ü pir dedi bu söz mücmil ha Görinür gerçi ‘ışk asan velik[in] soŋı müşkil ha55 I’ve heard young and old saying that this utterance summarizes all: Though love seems easy, verily it ends in hardship. Behişti (d. 1572) also composed a reply to the first ghazal of Hafez, very much on the same lines as Muhibbi. He gave his poem an additional Turkish flavour by replacing three of the Arabic and Persian rhyming words with imperative forms of Turkish verbs (kıl ‘do!’; bil ‘know!’; sil ‘wipe!’): Ela ya eyyühe’s-saki ezir ke’sen ve navilha Bizi öldürmedin gafil olma çaremiz kıl ha56 Oh, saqi, pass around the goblet and offer it, Don’t be negligent! Before you kill us, find a solution [to our problem]! An anecdote preserved in ‘Aşık Çelebi’s anthology indicates that it was a customary, though quite denigrated, practice among Ottoman poets to translate lines of Persian poems and include them in their own poetic pieces. Zati was considered an authority on the art of poetry and his contemporaries, asking for his critical judgement on their poems, flocked to his shop. He had the ability to tell if a line was translated from Persian: Nevertheless, he [also] translated lines. When he recited these lines and he was told it was a translation he said: ‘You know well that I don’t know Persian’. But he never denied that he translated and [slightly] modified the [following] famous opening couplet by Salman:

ए ঈ ও ন ‫ ﺟﺎودان دارد‬ Γ ߮ ϰ  ࢌশ Ϫ Δࢸ ̵ ΋ Ϫ

ࡼ બ ࢓ ̳ Γ ߮ બ બ ‫ دارد‬ϡ߮ Ζീ ϒ ࢌশ ϩ Ϋ Γ Ϫ  ̵ ߮ ϒ

His translation is: Safa-yi safvet-i ruyuŋ sifat-i gulsitan ancak Hava-yi cennet-i kuyuŋ hayat-i cavidan ancak57 The happiness caused by [watching] the purity of your face resembles a rose garden The air in your heavenly street gives eternal life.

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Latifi, writing about Rahmi Çelebi, the author of two narrative poems (masnawis) meant as poetic replies to works by Persian poets, deems it important to mention that ‘the cause of his becoming famous is the following matla‘ that was translated from Persian’ and gives the original couplet composed by Anisi, a calligrapher and poet from the court of the Aq Qoyunlu ruler Ya‘qub (r. 1478–1490) and Rahmi’s Turkish version:58 Anisi: 59

࣌ প ࡛ য ࣥ ಪ ‫ را‬ϡϪ ‫ ﺧﺎﺷﺎک ره‬ ଘ Δࡣ  ϡ΋ Ϫ

ख़ ම ࡭ ি ໑ ‫ را‬ϡϩ ල Ϣૼ  ໚ ΋ ΧϪ ψ৑ ߮ Ϡ ϥ ඤ

Rahmi: Mani‘ olmaz müjeler yaşına ben mahzunuŋ Har u haslar yolunı baglaya mı Ceyhunuŋ Eyelashes cannot stop the tears of my sorrowful person How could thorns and hay stand in the way of the Amu Darya. Kami, a mid-sixteenth-century poet from Edirne, composed imitation poems in Turkish and he chose his models from among poems he found in the divans of Persian poets. Latifi recorded one of his couplets that was, as Latifi writes, translated. However, he doesn’t name the poet of the model, who was in truth a contemporary of Kami and Latifi, a Central Asian poet of Turkish origin, Helali (d. 1529):60 Helali: 61

ඩ য थ ࢂ ϣ Ϣૼ  Ύࢹ Ϋ̵ Χඟ ଒‫ آن‬ οά ‫اﻣﺎ‬

ൺ ন ऒ ‫ را‬ ૞ শ ো Ϣૼ ࢋඇ ΧϪ  Ϧ Ϳ  భϢ૽  ϥ Ϋ߮ φ

You should watch yourself in the mirror, my beloved, Provided you won’t become my rival. Kami: Cemalı ayını ayinede görince habib Özine ‘aşık olup ‘aşıkına oldı rakib When the beloved sees their beauty in the mirror They fall in love with their own self and become a rival to their lovers. Helali Istanbuli’s model for his following matla‘ was, according to Latifi, a couplet by Asafi (d. 1515), a well-known poet from the Herat court of SoltanHoseyn-e Bayqara and close companion of Nava’i:62 Hilali: Benem ol sayd fitrakinde yaruŋ garḳ-ı hun olmış Ser-i sümm-i semendin öpmek içün ser-nigun olmış63 I am a game soaked in blood [hanging from] the saddle of the beloved Who has been hanged upside down in order to make him kiss the hoof of his/her horse.

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A few poems, like Hafez’s poem starting with the words Agar an tork-e shirazi … (‘If that Shirazi Turk …’), made their influence felt in a more subtle way, as three couplets from Turkish poems of Fehmi, Baki and Nazmi illustrate very well. The names of the two Central Asian cities, an emblematic feature of the opening couplet of Hafez’s ghazal, appear together in a ghazal by Fehmi and a short qasida by Baki. It should be noted here that Baki’s qasida is written in the same metre as the poem of Hafez and relies on the rhyme –ā and the radif –i, which is the Turkish translation of the accusative ending (-ra) that Hafez chose as a ‘refrain’. The closing couplet of Nazmi’s ghazal, composed in the same metre and using the same rhyme as Hafez’s poem, also contains an allusion to the ghazal of Hafez but in this case to its maqta‘. The presence of the nouns dorr ‘pearl’ (Turk. dür) and nazm ‘verse’ in a couplet where the rhyming word is sorayya ‘the Pleiades’ (Turk. süreyya), undoubtedly reminds the reader of the couplet the author intended to refer to. All these examples show how deeply poems composed in Persian could become embedded in sixteenth-century Ottoman poetic thinking: Fehmi: Fehmiya şi‘r-i şeker-bahşuŋla toldı Mısr u Şam Taŋ mıdur gitse Semerkand u Buharadan yana64 Fehmi, your sugar-providing poem made Egypt and Syria full, It’s no wonder if it travels far beyond Samarkand and Bukhara. Baki: Zemane hal-i Hindu-yi benefşe zinetin görsün Nisar etsün Sitanbula Semerkand u Buharayı65 Time should acknowledge the beauty of the viola’s Hendu-like mole, And it should give Samarqand and Bukhara in exchange for Istanbul. Nazmi: Ne dem kim yad ede ey mah-ru dür dişlerüŋ Nazmi Bu hasretden erer ahi seradan ta süreyyaya66 O, moon-faced [beauty]! There isn’t a moment for Nazmi to remember the pearls of your teeth, His sorrowful sighs fly up from the ground to the Pleiades. The establishment of an imperial Ottoman Turkish linguistic and literary paradigm and the development of a bustling Turkish literary scene created wide opportunities for poetic success for those who chose Turkish as a literary medium. It was therefore quite natural that the volume of poetic production in Persian dwindled in the sixteenth century and only a handful of poets tried their hand at composing poetry in Persian, which became a sort of poetic game, an opportunity to show off one’s poetic talent and skills. A rare exception was Sultan Selim I (r. 1512–20) who composed his poems almost exclusively in

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Persian and chose Persian perhaps for political reasons.67 His Iranian contemporaries considered his style close to the ghazal poetry of Shahi. Although there are two volumes of his divan that contain Shahi’s ghazals as well,68 and a takhmis inspired by a ghazal of Shahi, and he knew and used elements from Shahi’s poetry,69 he seems to have chosen his models mainly from the oeuvre of other Persian poets. Almost a third of his 550-odd ghazals are poetic replies showing the influence of a relatively wide range of Persian poets. Some of them – Amir Khosrow, Salman Savaji, Hafez, Kamal-e Khojandi and Jami – belong to the group of poets who have been already mentioned as sources of inspiration in Ottoman ghazal poetry. Selim’s imitation poems, however, contain intertextual allusions also to ghazals composed by well-known poets like Anvari, Sa‘di (d. 1292), Khvaju-ye Kermani (d. 1352), by a lesser known poet from the court of the Aq Qoyunlu ruler Ya‘qub, Homayun Esfara’ini (d. 1503), and poets from the Timurid period, Katebi and Nava’i. He also appears to have been familiar with the Persian poetry of the famous Turkish follower of the Horufi creed, Seyyid Nesimi (d. 1417).70 The Persian ghazals of the last two poets inspired some of the Persian imitation poems of Selim’s son and successor Süleyman, who also has a small collection of Persian poems.71 Besides Nesimi’s and Nava’i’s poems, Muhibbi’s imitations were influenced by ghazals composed by Salman Savaji, Hafez, Jami and a further poet from the Timurid period, Qasem-e Anvar (d. 1433).72 It was mentioned earlier that, in the sixteenth century, poets only occasionally composed poetry in Persian. Baki composed only a meagre number of poems in Persian.73 His three takhmises were inspired by Hafez and according to scattered intertextual allusions some of his eight ghazals – one of them composed perhaps as a poetic reply to a Persian ghazal by Süleyman – were mainly influenced by ghazals of Jami. Kınalı-zade Hasan Çelebi (d. 1604) mentions that Fazli (d. 1563), the son of Edris Betlisi (d. 1520) composed a poetic reply to every ghazal of Hafez,74 and Latifi writes that a poet named Hizri ‘imitated (tetebbu‘ ederdi) the divan of Hafez most of the time and occasionally composed poetic replies (nazire)’.75 Nisari, a legal expert by profession, turned to composing poetry in Persian because he got fed up with the Turkish literary scene and also started composing a poetic reply to all the poems included in the divan of Hafez.76 According to his contemporary, ‘Ahdi, his poems were bad and ‘he shouldn’t have composed poetry in any language’.77 While these imitations haven’t surfaced yet, a small collection of imitation poems composed by Mustafa ‘Ali as poetic replies to select ghazals of Hafez is known to exist in several manuscripts.78 In the preface to his work ‘Ali lists ghazal poets whom he thinks deserve acknowledgement (gazal-sarayan-i layiq al-istihsan), Sana’i, ‘Attar, Jami, Hafez and Qasem-e Anvar. Later he adds further names to the list of excellent representatives of the classical poetic tradition and also mentions Amir Khosrow and Sa‘di.79

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Jami’s poetry, as has been mentioned earlier, was held in high esteem by Ottoman authors. Sehi Beg (d. 1548), author of the first Ottoman poetic anthology, recorded that Muhyi al-Din Çelebi al-Fenari (d. 1548) composed quite good poetic replies in Persian to poems by Jami and Salman.80 It is interesting to note here that the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences has a sixteenth-century undated Ottoman copy of Jami’s divan that contains the poems of Jami systematically collected and copied from various manuscripts by a person named Muhyi in the colophon. It is not unreasonable to believe that the two Muhyis are identical.81 Regarding contemporary authors in Persian, not much is said in Ottoman sources. A rare instance can be found in ‘Ahdi Baghdadi’s (d. 1593) anthology, where it is mentioned that a certain Nevali Çelebi was accused by people who envied him of borrowing a few couplets from one of Lesani’s (d. 1534) poems.82 Mentioning Lesani as a source of inspiration for an early sixteenthcentury Ottoman poet is interesting because Lesani didn’t belong to the group of classics that Ottomans usually considered models. He was a major character of a new poetic trend termed the ‘incidentalist style’ (voqu‘-guyi) that greatly influenced the literary taste in early Safavid Iran and opened up new horizons for Persian poetry in the centuries that followed. The poetic programme of the representatives of the incidentalist style, who were mainly ghazal poets, was to break with the artificiality and conventionality of the Timurid ghazal and ‘to draw poetry close to the experiences of daily life’.83 As is clear from what has been said so far of Ottoman ghazal poetry in the early sixteenth century, it remained seemingly untouched by the changes that shaped the literary scene in Safavid Iran. On the surface, the works of Persian poets from the classical period continued to serve as reference points for literary critics and authors alike. However, a closer look at early sixteenthcentury Ottoman ghazal production can reveal a more colourful picture, as there are many poems addressed to everyday beloveds, barbers, tailors, pastemakers or young males met in the bath or somewhere else in the city, that show the main characteristics of the incidentalist style.84 All this would suggest that Ottoman authors were very well aware of the current trends prevalent in Safavid Iran and, though they seem to have tried to avoid admitting it openly, they didn’t refrain from adapting the innovations of Safavid poetry to an Ottoman context. As a summary of what has been said so far, the following points should be stressed. Ottoman poets in the sixteenth century, especially as far as ghazal poetry is concerned, had a complex relationship with Persian poetry. On the surface, the classical period, which ended with the death of Jami, served as the one and only literary model for them and, as new converts tend to be traditionalists, Ottoman poets tried their best not to deviate from the traditional system. Both Ottoman critics and authors in the sixteenth century stridently voiced their views that the classical Persian literary system was part of their

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own literary heritage and Persian authors were their intellectual predecessors. The works of Persian authors of the past embodied their literary ideals and represented distant goals that they wished to reach, or even surpass. These texts also served as ultimate reference points representing literary quality and Ottoman poets constantly returned to them in order to evaluate their own and their contemporaries’ literary accomplishments. It seems that in each and every genre of sixteenth-century Ottoman literature a special set of models developed, representing only a small part of the Persian corpus of texts available. In qasida literature, Seljuk panegyrists Zahir Faryabi, Khaqani, Anvari and a fourteenthcentury master of panegyrics, Salman Savaji, were considered models to be followed, while in ghazal poetry mainly thirteenth and fourteenth-century classics of the genre Sa‘di, Amir Khosrow, Salman, Hafez and the Timurid poets, Nesimi, Kamal-e Khojandi, Nava’i and Jami were imitated. However, while they very seldom voiced their interest in the works of their Persian contemporaries openly, Ottoman poets seem to have stayed in constant discourse with the literary life in Safavid Iran. They seem to have been aware of the new trends that reshaped the Safavid literary scene and adopted many of their innovations. Iranian intellectuals, craftsmen and artisans seeking asylum or work in the Ottoman Empire could have played an important role in making the current Iranian literary trends known in Ottoman literary circles. Little is known of how Safavid poetry influenced the development of the Ottoman ghazal in the sixteenth century but it seems to be certain that this influence was constant and deeper than was earlier thought.

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Notes: 1. Mohammad Amin Reyāhi, Zabān o adab-e Fārsi dar qalam-row-ye ‘Osmāni. 2. Tahsin Yaziji, Pārsi-nevisān-e Āsyā-ye saghir. An online English list of authors prepared by Osman G. Özgüdenli is available at http://www.iranicaonline.org/ articles/persian-authors-1; http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/persian-authors-2 [accessed 1 July 2020]. 3. Veyis Değirmençay, Farsça Şiir Söyleyen Osmanlı Şairleri. 4. Murat Inan, ‘Osmanlı Edebî Hafızasında İran Şiirinin İzdüşümleri’; idem, ‘Imperial ambitions, mystical aspirations’; Hamid Algar, ‘Jāmī and the Ottomans’, pp. 63– 135. 5. An article by Hakan Yekbaş, ‘Divan Şairinin Penceresinden Acem Sairleri’, approached the topic from more or less the same angle when the author surveyed data from the divans of select fifteenth to eighteenth-century poets. 6. Serpil Bağcı et al., Ottoman Painting, pp. 38–39. 7. Nurhan Atasoy et al., Iznik: The Pottery of Ottoman Turkey, p. 76; Gülru Necipoğlu, ‘From International Timurid to Ottoman’, p. 138; idem, ‘A ḳânûn for the state’, p. 197. 8. István Vásáry, ‘The beginnings of Western Turkic literacy’, p. 253. See also Lars Johanson, ‘Rūmī and the birth of Turkish poetry’. 9. Şeyhi (d. after 1429), Ahmet Paşa (d. 1496), Necati (d. 1509); ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi, Meşā‘irü’ş-şu‘arā, p. 1575. 10. Fuzulî, Türkçe Divan, p. 387. 11. Lāmi‘i Çelebi, Hüsn ü dil, pp. 35–36. 12. Franz Babinger, Mehmed der Eroberer und seine Zeit, p. 508. For a more detailed account of the relationship between Mehmed II and Jāmi see Algar, ‘Jāmī and the Ottomans’, pp. 68–72. 13. ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi, Meşā‘irü’ş-şu‘arā, p. 193. 14. Mine Mengi, Eski Türk Edebiyatı Tarihi, p. 114. 15. Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, p. 474. 16. Ibid., pp. 155–56. 17. Pál Fodor, ‘The formation of Ottoman Turkish identity’, p. 43. 18. Kınalı-zade Hasan Çelebi, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, p. 135. 19. For a detailed treatment of the topic, see Yusuf Çetindağ, Ali Şîr Nevâî'nin Osmanlı şiirine etkisi. 20. Michael von Albrecht, A History of Roman Literature, p. 12. 21. See Selim S. Kuru, ‘The literature of Rum’. 22. ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi, Meşā‘irü’ş-şu‘arā, p. 612. 23. Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, p. 766. 24. Elias John Wilkins Gibb, A History of Ottoman Poetry, vol. II, p. 13. 25. For a detailed analysis of the topic and for further scholarly literature on the subject, see Bayram Ali Kaya, ‘Atasözleri ve Deyimlerin Dîvân Şiirinde Kullanımı’. 26. Benedek Péri, ‘Cannabis (esrār)’. 27. E.g. the use of the homophone pairs ayaq ‘foot’ and ayaq ‘goblet, a vessel used for drinking wine’. Bir ayakda iki ‘alem mülkini seyran eden/Sagar-i badeyle anlar kim ayakdaş oldılar (Those who [are able to] travel through both worlds with the help of one cup [of wine]/Are people who became travelmates with the goblet of wine). Necati Sungur, Âhî Divânı, p. 96.

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28. Benedek Péri, ‘David and the chain mail’. 29. Fatih Başpınar, 17. Yüzyıl Şairlerinden Beyânî’nin Divanı, p. 674. As a parallel to these terms, the second hemistich has şarāb ‘wine’ and mast ‘intoxication caused by wine’. It should be added here that the version of the text published by Başpınar contains a metrical mistake in the third foot of the first hemistich. 30. Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, p. 580. 31. Ali Nihat Tarlan, Necati Beg Divanı, p. 238. 32. Ali Nihat Tarlan, Hayâlî Divanı, p. 61. 33. Mustafa İsen, Künhü’l-ahbār’ın Tezkire Kısmı, pp. 166–67. 34. Talat S. Halman, ‘Rev. to Andrews, W.G.’, p. 78. 35. Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, pp. 165, 266, 499. 36. Ibid., p. 487. 37. Ahdî Bağdatlı, Gülşen-e şu‘arâ, pp. 128, 160. 38. Sabahattin Küçük, Bâkî Dîvânı, p. 19. 39. Nev’î, Divan, p. 75. 40. İsmail Erünsal, The Life and Works of Tācī-zāde Ca’fer Çelebi, p. 561. 41. Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, p. 351. 42. Serpil Bağcı et al., Ottoman Painting, p. 27. 43. İsmail Hakki Aksoyak, Ahmed Yesevi’nin Rumelili bir Takipçisi Üsküplü Atâ. 44. ʿĀşıḳ Çelebī, Meşāʿirü’ş-şu‘arā, p. 806; Zahir al-Din Faryābi, Divān, pp. 146–48. 45. Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, p. 359. 46. Ibid., p. 182. 47. Coşkun Ak, Muhibbî Dîvânı, p. 507. 48. Ak, Muhibbî, p. 508. 49. Ibid., p. 46. 50. Tarlan, Hayâlî Divanı, p. 159. 51. Ibid., p. 197. 52. Hakan Yekbaş, Sehî Bey Dîvânı, p. 201. 53. Kamil Ali Gıynaş, Pervāne Bey Mecmuası, p. 245. 54. Ak, Muhibbî, p. 58. 55. Kemal Yavuz and Orhan Yavuz, Muhibbî Dîvânı, p. 156. 56. For the whole poem see Yaşar Aydemir, Behiştî Dîvânı, pp. 229–30. For references to further poems composed as replies to the first ghazal of Hafez in Turkish see İsmail Hakki Aksoyak, ‘Hafız Divanındaki İlk Beytin Osmanlı Edebiyatına Etkisi’. 57. ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi, Meşā‘irü’ş-şu‘arā, p. 1574. 58. Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, p. 270. 59. The couplet is also included in the Safavid tazkera by Sām Mirzā, Tazkera-ye Tohfaye Sāmi, p. 134. 60. Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, p. 460. 61. Helāli Chaghatā’i, Divān, p. 144. 62. On Āsafi, see Maria Eva Subtelny, The Poetic Circle, pp. 122–24. I was unable to find the lines in the Āsafi manuscripts available to me. 63. Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, p. 572; Yağmur’s reading of the couplet is much better, still it is not without mistakes. Bahri Yağmur, Hilâlî Dîvânı, p. 113. 64. Edirneli Nazmî, Mecma‘u’n-nezâ’ir, p. 193. 65. Sabahattin Küçük, Bâkî Dîvânı, p. 36. 66. Sibel Üst, Edirneli Nazmî Dîvânı, p. 2902.

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67. Benedek Péri, ‘From Istāmbōl’s throne’. 68. Divan-i Selim, Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Ms. Esad Efendi 3422; Divān-e Selimi, Ketabkhane, Muza va Markaz-e Asnad-e Majles-e Sho’ra-ye Eslami, Ms. 21093. Shāhi’s divan is on the margin in the Esad Efendi manuscript and it preceeds Selim’s divan in the Majles volume. 69. Benedek Péri, ‘Yavuz Sultan Selīm (1512–1520) and his imitation strategies’. 70. On Selim’s models see Benedek Péri, ‘Szelim szultán perzsa gazaljai I’; idem, ‘Milyen költő volt első Szelim oszmán szultán?’; idem, ‘Szelim szultán kiadatlan perzsa versei I’; idem, ‘Szelim szultán kiadatlan perzsa versei II’; idem, ‘The influence of Mīr ʿAlī-šīr Navāyī’s Persian poetry’; idem, ‘Yavuz Sultan Selīm’. 71. Kasim Gelen, Kânûnî Sultan Süleyman’ın Farsça Dîvanı; Coşkun Ak, Muhibbî: Farsça Divan. 72. On Süleyman’s models, see Benedek Péri, ‘The Persian imitation gazels (naẓīres) of Ḳānūnī Sulṭān Süleymān “Muḥibbī” (1520–1566)’. 73. Mehmet Kanar, ‘Baki Divanındaki Farsça Şiirler’. 74. Kınalı-zade Hasan Çelebi, Tezkiretü’ ş-şu‘arâ, p. 753. 75. Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ, p. 246. 76. ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi, Meşāʿirü’ş-şu‘arā, p. 847. 77. Ahdî, Gülşen-i ş-şu‘arâ, p. 556. 78. Abdülkadir Karahan, ‘Âlî’nin Bilinmeyen Bir Eseri’; Mustafa ‘Ali, Mejma‘ alBahreyn’. 79. Mustafa ʿAli, Mejma‘ al-Bahreyn, fols 2v–3r, 5r. 80. Sehî Beg, Heşt Bihişt, p. 42. 81. Benedek Péri et al., Catalogue of the Persian Manuscripts, pp. 243–45. 82. Ahdî, Gülşen-i ş-şu‘arâ, p. 164. 83. Shafīʿī Kadkanī, ‘Persian literature (Belles Lettres) from the time of Jāmī to the present day’, p. 147. 84. Benedek Péri, Places Full of Secrets in 16th-century Istanbul.

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The inconsistencies in the transcription of Turkish titles are due to the various systems of transcription used by Turkish scholars.

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Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-şu‘arâ ve Tabsiratü’n-Nuzamâ, ed. Rıdvan Canım (Ankara: Atatürk Kültür Merkezi Başkanlığı, 2000). Mengi, Mine, Eski Türk Edebiyatı Tarihi: Edebiyat Tarihi–Metinler (Ankara: Akçağ, 2000). Musṭafa ʿĀlī, Mejma‘ al-Baḥreyn, Ankara Milli Kütüphane Yz A 136. Necipoğlu, Gülru, ‘From International Timurid to Ottoman: A change of taste in sixteenth century ceramic tiles’, Muqarnas 7 (1990), pp. 136–70. — ‘A ḳânûn for the state, a canon for the arts: Conceptualizing the classical synthesis of Ottoman art’, in Soliman le magnifique et son temps, ed. Gilles Veinstein (Paris: La Documentation Française 1992), pp. 195–216. Nev’î, Divan, Haz. Mertol Tulum–Ali Tanyeri (İstanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi, 1977). Péri, Benedek, ‘Szelim szultán perzsa gazaljai I. Az első megközelítés’, in Kinga Dévényi, Varietas delectat: Tanulmányok Kégl Sándor emlékére (Budapest: MTAK, 2010), pp. 21–46. — ‘Milyen költő volt első Szelim oszmán szultán? A 114. gazel tanúsága’, Keletkutatás (2011 tavasz), pp. 73–84. — ‘Szelim szultán kiadatlan perzsa versei I’, Keletkutatás (2015 tavasz), pp. 115–38. — ‘Szelim szultán kiadatlan perzsa versei II’, Keletkutatás (2015 ősz), pp. 113–30. — ‘Cannabis (esrār): A unique semantic field in classical Ottoman lyric poetry’, Turcica 48 (2017), pp. 9–36. — ‘From Istāmbōl’s throne a mighty host to Irān guided I;/Sunken deep in blood of shame I made the Golden Heads to lie’: Yavuz Sultan Selim’s Persian poetry in the light of the Ottoman-Safavid propaganda war’, Archivum Ottomanicum 34 (2017), pp. 183–92. — ‘The influence of Mīr ʿAlī-šīr Navāyī’s Persian poetry on the ghazals of the Ottoman sultan Selim I (1512–1520)’, in «Alisher Navoiy va XXI asr» mavzudagi Respublika ilmiy-nazariy anjumani materiallari (Tashkent: Tamaddun, 2017), pp. 74–80. — ‘David and the chain mail. A traditional telmîh (‘allusion’) in Ottoman poetry’, in Şerefe: Studies in Honour of Prof. Géza Dávid on his Seventieth Birthday, ed. Pál Fodor, Nándor E. Kovács and Benedek Péri (Budapest: HAS Research Centre for the Humanities, 2019), pp. 39–56. — ‘The Persian imitation gazels (naẓīres) of Ḳānūnī Sulṭān Süleymān “Muḥibbī” (1520–1566) as they are preserved in a hitherto unnoticed early copy of his Dīvān’, Amasya Üniversitesi Sosyal Bilimler Dergisi 5 (2019), pp. 95–120. — ‘Yavuz Sultan Selīm (1512–1520) and his imitation strategies: A case study of four Ḥāfiẓ ghazals’, Acta Orientalia Hungarica 73, no. 2 (2020), pp. 231–50.

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— Places Full of Secrets in 16th-century Istanbul: The Shops of the maʿcūncıs (forthcoming). Péri, Benedek, Mojdeh Muhammadi and Miklós Sárközy, Catalogue of the Persian Manuscripts in the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (Budapest–Leiden: MTAK–Brill, 2018). Reyāhi, Mohammad Amin, Zabān o adab-e Fārsi dar qalam-row-e ‘Osmāni (Tehran, 1369/1990). Sām Mirzā Safavi, Tazkera-ye Tohfa-ye Sāmi, ed. Rokn al-Din HomāyunFarrokh (Tehran: ‘Elmi, 1347/1969). Sehî Beg, Heşt Bihişt, ed. Haluk İpekten and Günay Kut (Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı, 2017). Subtelny, Maria Eva, ‘The Poetic Circle at the Court of the Timurid Sultan Husain Baiqara’, doctoral dissertation (Harvard University, 1979). Sungur, Necati, Âhî Divânı: İnceleme–Metin (Ankara: Kültür Bakanlığı, 1994). Tarlan, Ali Nihat, ed., Hayâlî Divanı (Ankara: Akçağ, 1992). — ed., Necati Beg Divanı (İstanbul: Milli Eğitim Basımevi, 1997). Üst, Sibel, Edirneli Nazmî Dîvânı (Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı, 2018). Vásáry, István, ‘The beginnings of Western Turkic literacy in Anatolia and Iran (13th–14th centuries)’, in Irano-Turkic Cultural Contacts in the 11th–17th Centuries, ed. Éva M. Jeremiás (Piliscsaba: Avicenna Institute of Middle Eastern Studies, 2003), pp. 245–53. Yağmur, Bahri, ‘Hilâlî Dîvânı: İnceleme-Metin’, MA dissertation (Ankara, Hacettepe Üniversitesi, 1998). Yavuz, Kemal and Orhan Yavuz, Muhibbî Dîvânı (Bütün Şiirleri) (İstanbul: Türkiye Yazma Eserler Kurumu Başkanlığı, 2016). Yaziji, Tahsin, Pārsi-nevisān-e Āsyā-ye saghir (Tehran, 1371/1992). Yekbaş, Hakan, ‘Divan Şairinin Penceresinden Acem Sairleri’, Turkish Studies 4, no. 2 (2009), pp. 1158–87. — Sehî Bey Dîvânı (İstanbul: Kitabevi, 2010). Zahir al-Din Faryābi, Divān, ed. and commentary by Amir Hasan Yazdegerdi (Tehran: Nasr-e Qatra, 1381/2002).

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11 Commercial Relations between Safavid Persia and Western Europe Willem Floor (Independent scholar)

T

here were only three Western European countries which may be said to have had substantial commercial contact with Safavid Iran: these were – in ascending order of arrival and importance – Portugal, Great Britain and the Netherlands. It is fair to say that all three nations had no idea, no pun intended, at all about Iran; their knowledge about that part of the world was almost non-existent. Given this fact, (i) why then did they come to Iran; what had Iran to offer that drew them there? Also, (ii) what was the nature, composition and significance of these commercial contacts once they finally arrived there? And (iii) did the content and substance of their relations allow them to form an Idea about Iran? But first we need some facts about the economy of Safavid Persia to allow us to gain an insight into why Europeans might be interested in having commercial relations with that country. There are no statistics for the population of Safavid Persia, but it probably ranged between 6 and 9 million during the period 1500 to 1700. Around 20 per cent of the population lived in urban areas (with fewer than 5,000 inhabitants), the largest being Esfahan (with more than 250,000 around 1690). Some 55 to 60 per cent lived in villages and another 20 to 25 per cent was nomadic or semi-nomadic. The economy was agricultural in nature. It consisted mostly of subsistence agriculture, i.e. production was primarily for personal consumption and any small surplus was for payment of taxes and sale. In some areas there was production for the market, such as in Gilan and Sharvan (Shirvan), where raw silk production was important. There were also off-farm productive activities in villages, such as carpet production near major textile centres. Some 90 per cent of the population was employed in agriculture and related activities. More than 95 per cent of the population was illiterate and in many rural areas the barter system prevailed. Safavid Persia did not constitute a national economy but was rather a conglomeration of mainly self-sufficient provincial economies, with little integration due to the region’s expensive and underdeveloped transportation infrastructure. The textile industry was the most important industrial activity. Persia did not have gold or silver, which was imported, but did have plentiful reserves of copper; however, these were

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difficult to mine and process. In short, Safavid Persia was a relatively poor, backward and pre-capitalist country. The pre-capitalist nature of the country is reflected in the composition of its trade. Very few imports were of a productive nature, with practically all being consumption goods. The main imports were textiles, sugar, pepper, spices, coffee, dyes and metals, most of which were for re-sale in the Ottoman Empire and Russia. The composition of exports underwent little change and mainly consisted of raw silk, Kerman goat hair and pearls, in addition to minor items, such as madder, leather, nuts, preserves, dried fruits, gums, rosewater and wine. The level of silk exports fluctuated, of course, with agricultural conditions (i.e. good or bad crops), market demand and the political situation. In a good year, total silk output was 4,000 bales, of which 60–75 per cent was available for export. After 1720, output declined, probably due to war and disease. There are no data on the average annual output of Kerman goat wool, but the Dutch and English exported between a low of 5,000 lb and a high of 228,000 lb per year between 1659 and 1769 – the first and last year of export by European companies. Horses formed a minor export article (300 horses per year) for Fars. Although Persia produced high quality velvets and brocades as well as carpets, these were rarely exported, because they were very costly and not as highly regarded in Europe. The major trading partners were India and the Ottoman Empire. Trade with Russia slowly gained in importance. Persia had a structural deficit in its balance of payments, which was offset by the export of specie, which made up the greater part of its visible trade. Whereas Persia had a structural deficit on its current account with India, the reverse was the case in its trade with Ottoman Turkey and Russia.1 Safavid Iran was ‘a most miserable poore Countrey of money, little Comerce and trade within itselfe’.2 As early as the reign of Shah Esma‘il (r. 1501–24), Persia suffered from an empty royal treasury.3 Usually, there was no money to pay the soldiers. The shahs often paid their soldiers in goods at inflated prices rather than in cash. The soldiers sold them at below market prices, thus hurting normal trade.4 Also, goods were distributed among the population as an imposed tax (tarh). It took a long time for the shah to get his money, because coin was very scarce and parts of the country were destitute.5 Towards the end of his reign, Tahmasp I (r. 1524–76) allowed his soldiers and officials, whom he had not paid for years, to fleece the population.6 In 1581–82, ‘Abbas I’s self-styled protector, Morteza-Qoli Khan, robbed the Emam Reza shrine treasury to pay his troops.7 In 1586, Hamza Mirza, Shah Khodabanda’s son, had to break up ‘all the gold and silver vessels belonging to his establishment and distributed them among the Qezelbash’.8 In 1598, when short of funds, ‘Abbas I (r. 1587–1629) ordered his entire service of plate to be melted down to pay his troops.9 During the Baghdad campaign, in 1623, ‘Abbas paid his troops with leather tokens to be exchanged for copper coins on their return to Esfahan.10 In 1644, Shah ‘Abbas II (r. 1642–66) reduced the

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standard of the tuman from 2,000 to 1,925 nokhud to pay his troops, a measure repeated by his successors.11 These many instances of the government’s lack of ready cash indicate the impoverished nature of the country. Each of the three European trading partners was organized to realize the objective of their presence in Asia most effectively, which necessarily had consequences for the manner in which each one conducted its business. As a result, their focus on trade and interaction with Safavid Iran differed, sometimes significantly. The Estado da India, established in 1504, was an extension of the Portuguese state under a viceroy based in Goa. Its objective was political, not commercial. The Estado’s revenues and trade were under the control of the king, who might sell parts of these, in which case the purchased ‘rent’, ‘office’ or ‘right’ could be treated as a feudal fief. The Estado itself did not engage in commercial activities within its territory. Having failed to establish a Portuguese spice and pepper monopoly it transformed into a redistributional enterprise based on passes (cartazes) and tributes. These passes were issued and customs collected at strategically located forts and became a source of income for many enterprising private traders, Portuguese officials and the Portuguese Crown. The pass system aimed to control the flow of monopoly (spices and drugs) and strategic goods (iron, mercenaries, horses, timber, coir, arms). Thus, within Asia, the Estado did not redirect trade. Within the controlling limits set, it allowed participants to make money. Therefore, the Estado rarely engaged in a war to protect trade, and, if it did, this was mainly to protect its assets and/or its revenues, such as when Hormuz was threatened. The use of force for purely commercial purposes was left to private merchants.12 In 1600, a group of English merchants formed an enterprise to finance a voyage to the East Indies, which succeeded in gaining a royal charter granting the newly formed company a 15-year monopoly on English trade with all countries east of the Cape of Good Hope. Merchants who did not respect the charter were liable to loss of their ships and cargo and further punishment. Nevertheless, the East India Company (EIC) did not have the same absolute monopoly of trade in Asia that its Dutch counterpart had enjoyed. For example, in 1635, the Courteen Association was given the right to trade in Asia and, in 1698, Parliament issued a debenture which conferred the right to trade with Asia; the EIC was allowed to subscribe, but so too was a rival (the New Company), as a result of which there was ‘war’ between the two. Because of the non-restrictive character of the EIC’s charter, interloping was not illegal by law, which caused the company many problems. Thus, the EIC was originally a purely commercial entity, whose business was ‘trade’. Because its financing was per voyage, the EIC did not have permanent capital until the 1650s and, even then, it was not yet a full joint-stock company. Therefore, its directors were directly responsible to the major investors (wealthy merchants and aristocrats), not to shareholders. It also meant that all

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profits and costs were booked to a particular ship, not to a factory. The EIC staff in Asia had no central authority, but there were three Presidencies, and each staff had to see to it that they ensured sales and purchases of goods for Europe. Otherwise, staff were allowed to engage in private trade and to issue passes, which, ironically, had to be enforced by the EIC! Most freight was for private trade, but the EIC paid for the ships. Over time, the EIC grew into a state, but one that was different from the VOC, which had an arm’s length relationship with the Dutch state. In contrast, the English royal court continued to exercise its influence to have its own people appointed to positions of authority, threatening otherwise to grant a new charter to others. The various state rights (coinage, army, forts; for example, Bombay was a royal colony leased to the EIC, etc.) were not part of the EIC’s original charter, but, around 1670, were granted by separate individual royal charters, requiring negotiations and money. Therefore, initially, the EIC had very few possessions, unlike the Portuguese and the Dutch.13 The Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie (VOC), established in 1602, was a government-created commercial–military enterprise, which, in Asia, was a state, with a hierarchical structure, but separate from the Dutch Republic. It had its own standing army, fleet, bureaucracy, judiciary, currency, could make treaties, and so on. The VOC charter was confirmed every ten years by the States-General, so interlopers were illegal. Also, there was no recourse to be obtained in the home country from VOC decisions in Asia, unlike in the case of the Estado or the EIC. The VOC’s main objective was trade, pure and simple, although it was also a state-backed military entity that had to wage war on Spanish/Portuguese interests in Asia. The company’s commercial objective meant that it tried to exercise control over all aspects of trade, from production to marketing. This led the VOC to try to redirect trade to fit its central planning. It was only successful in doing so in the case of Japan and the Moluccas, where it had a monopoly position, but it was not for the lack of trying to achieve the same end in the case of other commodities, such as the Persian silk trade. These attempts had a lowering effect on its transport costs. More importantly, its actions had a major impact on direct maritime trade routes in Asia by connecting Asian production centres with markets (such as Taiwan and later Java, sugar with Iran). Also, by controlling many goods and their prices, and by moving to the lowest cost producers, the VOC influenced what people bought and the price they paid. It may be said that it was the first multinational company. Although the VOC also operated as a national policy instrument against Spain and Portugal, the company only used force when it believed it to be the best option, and even then there were differences of opinion between the Hague and Batavia about the use of force. In fact, in principle, both the EIC and VOC held that ‘Trade not Warfare is our business’.14

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The Portuguese The first arrivals, the Portuguese, seemed as if they had come to the Persian Gulf by chance. Alfonso de Albuquerque had been blockading the Red Sea and, while at Socotra, it was decided he would go to Hormuz for supplies. In August 1507, he sailed into the Persian Gulf, where he ran into opposition. Albuquerque’s instructions stated that he was free to wage war upon those who did not want to become ‘our servants’, so he took action. Albuquerque captured Hormuz on 10 October, but was forced to leave, since four of his captains returned to India in January 1508 because they disagreed with his plans. On 26 March 1515, Albuquerque returned to Hormuz to prevent it falling into Safavid hands. Although it would seem as if the Hormuz conquest in 1507 was simply an unplanned gamble, Albuquerque may actually have intended to take this course, albeit at a later date. He aimed to realize Don Manuel I’s policy, intended to liberate Jerusalem from Muslim control, which would make him the leader of the Christian world. To that end, Don Manuel wanted to weaken the Mamluk state through the blockade of its economic lifeline (the Red Sea) and establish forts at strategic points in the Indian Ocean trading network that would prevent the flow of spices to the Mamluks. Thus, this policy had mainly political rather than commercial objectives. Although this particular dream failed to materialize, nevertheless, Albuquerque’s achievement was to prepare the ground for the Portuguese Empire in Asia. Albuquerque wanted to achieve four objectives with his 1515 voyage to Hormuz: (i) to secure Goa’s distributive role of supplying Persian Gulf horses to the Deccan, (ii) to eliminate the alternative spice route via the Persian Gulf to the Levant, (iii) to get the finances for the planned expedition to the Red Sea and take Aden, and (iv) to stop Safavid expansionist activities in India and the Persian Gulf. He was only able to lay the foundations for the first and third objectives (for these were realized by his successors). He failed to achieve the second; the fourth objective was something of a non-starter, as the so-called Safavid expansion was feeble in words and even weaker in deeds. In 1515, the king of Hormuz surrendered his kingdom to the king of Portugal, whose vassal he became. Albuquerque sent an embassy to Shah Esma‘il to assure him that he had no hostile designs, but only wanted to protect Portuguese territory, i.e. Hormuz, while vaguely promising help against the Ottomans. The kingdom of Hormuz was gradually militarily defanged and, although initially its political administrative structure remained unchanged, in 1543 the Portuguese took over direct control of the customs administration. The result was that, until 1602, Safavid Persia posed no problem for the Portuguese, who further increased their hold over the kingdom of Hormuz and the Persian Gulf.

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Given their lack of resources, the Portuguese focused on controlling and taxing traffic in the Straits of Hormuz. Major threats, such as Ottoman naval attacks in the 1550s, were dealt with by a fleet from Goa. In the second half of the sixteenth century, the Portuguese constructed forts in Masqat and Bahrain, prompted by increased piracy and fear of further Ottoman naval attacks. A Portuguese attempt to stamp out the pirates’ nest at Nakhilu in 1580s ended in total disaster and defeat, resulting in an increase in the smuggling of pepper and other spices. ‘Abbas I, who wanted to exercise control over the Persian Gulf, launched a number of military operations against the Portuguese, which resulted in the conquest of Bahrain and Moghestan (1602), Qeshm (1608), Bandar ‘Abbas (1614) and Hormuz (1622), signalling the beginning of the end of Portuguese supremacy in the Persian Gulf.15 Once established, Portuguese influence had a significant effect on economic conditions in the region. Hormuz was the emporium of all trade that entered and left the Persian Gulf. Here, goods were bought and sold and customs were paid. Trade was the wealth of the otherwise completely barren island, where everything, including water had to be imported. In Hormuz, there were generally 400 foreign merchants trading in silks, pearls, jewels and spices, and sometimes there were more than 300 ships assembled at this city. Despite the Portuguese takeover of Hormuz, maritime trade continued to be carried on by Persian, Arab and, in particular, Indian traders. However, they were not allowed to ship ‘prohibited’ strategic goods that could be used by Portugal’s enemies. Hormuz had regular trade mainly with Sind, Cambay, Chaul and Malabar. In the early part of the sixteenth century, trade with Gujarat dominated, while that with Malabar and the Deccan played a minor role. It was towards the end of the century that trade with Malabar and the Deccan become more important. The limited trade with Basra was due to the ban, in 1548, on trade with the city following its takeover by the Ottomans; however, in later years, trade did resume.16 Table 1: Customs revenues at Hormuz in 1548. ‘Normal’ revenues from Trade from Gujarat Trade from Safavid Persia Trade to and from Basra Trade from Sind Duties paid by Portuguese Total

In xerafins

In percentages

35,000–45,000 35,000–40,000 9,000–10,000 8,000–9,000 10,000–13,000 97,000–117,000

36.0–38.0 36.0–38.0 9.0–8.5 8.0–7.6 8.5–11.0 100–100

Source: Teles e Cunha, ‘The Portuguese in the Persian Gulf’, p. 218. Table 1 shows that trade by Portuguese merchants only represented some 10 per cent of total customs revenues. This was because Persia and the Persian

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Gulf were of marginal importance to Portuguese private merchants, who mainly traded in certain goods for India, such as horses, dates, brimstone and specie. After 1590, spices (although illegal) and Indian fabrics played an important role. There was no Portuguese interest in the export of raw silk whatsoever. Although trade with Safavid Persia was of marginal importance to private commercial Portuguese interests, Hormuz was one of the major profit centres for the Estado. In fact, Hormuz was essential to the Portuguese in India, as it ‘was the body from which the members (Diu and other forts) receive their sustenance. … The Estado totally depends for its defense and security on it’, according to the later viceroy Antão de Noronha (1571–73), writing around 1566.17 No other Portuguese factory had such large net profits, which in 1581 represented about 36 per cent of the Estado’s total net profits.18 After the fall of Hormuz in 1622, the Portuguese regrouped at Masqat. The majority of trade was with Sind and Basra and was carried out mainly by nonPortuguese merchants. The cost of defending Masqat was a drain on the Estado, which ended in 1650 with the fall of Masqat. The Portuguese naval actions against Persia were also losing money. These ended in 1628, when the Portuguese made a provisional peace treaty with Emam-Qoli Khan, the governor of Fars, which gave them, inter alia, the right to open a factory in Kong and to half of its customs revenues. However, the Portuguese never received their half of the customs revenues. After 1650, thanks to high customs duties at Bandar ‘Abbas, Kong benefited. Its trade, which mainly consisted of transshipment of Sindi textiles and South-East Asian spices to Basra, grew. Kong also became an important market for Persian Gulf pearls after 1650. In the 1670s, trade at Bandar-e Kong was languishing, although trade in pearls and export of specie remained important. However, after the sack of Kong by the Omanis in 1695 and 1714, trade at the port declined. In 1662, the Portuguese made peace with the Dutch and therefore, from 1667, Goa pursued a more vigorous policy aimed at curbing the rising naval power of the Omanis and increasing pressure on Persia to pay a higher share of the Kong customs. The Estado held on to Kong, not only because of its intelligence-gathering function for the defence of its India possessions, but also because it gave Goa access to hard cash, both in the form of increased Safavid customs payments and through the export of specie through commercial activities. In fact, Kong was one of the few Portuguese factories that showed a profit and, moreover, one with the highest cost-benefit ratio.19

The English The driving force behind the opening of trade relations with Safavid Persia for the English was ‘cloth’. Wool production and weaving was a labour-intensive industry, as was the transport of its final product, cloth and kerseys. Also, the cloth trade was very important to the English exchequer. Due to the Dutch– Spanish war (1568–1648) and upheaval in Germany, there was a major

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disruption in trade with Europe, the main buyer of English cloth. Also, the English developed an interest in Asia in the wake of the Portuguese discoveries, prompting the English to find new markets in Russia and Persia. The six Persian voyages (1562–73) financed by the Russia Company had varying results, some highly successful, others disastrous. It was hoped that, in particular, the export of Persian silk and Asian spices might benefit the English economy. Because of the difficulties of the Russian route and strong opposition from Ottoman and Armenian merchants in Persia, English merchants started to look for other routes to sell cloth and buy silk and spices. In Asia, spices were traded for cotton fabrics or specie, while there was little demand for English cloth. To get spices and other best-selling Asian goods, the EIC needed to establish trade links with areas that produced these goods. However, the EIC’s system of ad hoc financing per voyage did not provide a solid financial basis for its trade. Having failed to gain a significant foothold in Indonesia, the EIC had hopes for trade with Gujarat, where it established a factory in 1612. However, the Indian market for English cloth was limited, so other markets were needed. Market research indicated that sales might be promising in nearby Persia, because much cloth was imported there via Aleppo at high cost. In 1617, the Surat Council decided to send a trade mission to Esfahan, because at that time, Persia was at war with the Ottomans (resulting in fewer cloth imports) and at odds with the Portuguese (whose position was weakened). Therefore, the Surat Council sent Edward Connock to Persia. The EIC had two major problems: (i) a lack of cash, spices and Indian goods, and (ii) Portuguese control over Hormuz, and therefore Connock landed at Jask. Notwithstanding Spanish opposition (ambassador de Silva y Figueroa was in Esfahan), competition by Armenian merchants, lack of money and intrigues by Persian officials, Connock was able to conclude a trade agreement. Despite problems in implementing the agreement, due to a lack of resources and criticism of the entire Persia project, the EIC stayed in Persia. The first years of EIC trade with Persia were characterized by dissent, lack of supplies and Persian indifference. Because of these problems, in 1620 the EIC invited the VOC ‘to join them in an agreement which they have with the king of Persia concerning the silk trade in his country’. Because the EIC offered to share the silk trade equally, the VOC decided to investigate the possibility of such a project. In September 1621, a Dutch fleet of nine ships was sent from Batavia, charged with taking joint action with the English against the Portuguese in the Indian Ocean. Meanwhile, without Surat or London knowing about it, the EIC factors in the Persian Gulf concluded an agreement with Emam-Qoli Khan to provide naval support for his attack of Hormuz. In exchange, the EIC was granted half of the customs revenues of Bandar ‘Abbas. The attack on Hormuz successfully ended on 22 May 1622. The risky decision had paid off, or so it seemed. For although the Portuguese were defeated in the

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Persian Gulf, it was not the English but the Dutch who seized the opportunity created by these events. One must admire the tenacity of the English. Their position in India was under attack by the Portuguese, in Indonesia the Dutch cut them off from the Spice Islands, while their trading activities were constrained by debts and fickle local officials. The benefits of the Hormuz caper were limited for the English. Although Hormuz was destroyed, ‘Abbas transferred its entrepot function to Bandar ‘Abbas, thus depriving the EIC of the opportunity to try to take over the Portuguese role. Also, the fall of Hormuz made it easier for the Dutch to trade with Persia by selling spices, buying silk and the freighting of local merchants and their goods. The timing of the Dutch was very good. In 1623, ‘Abbas was at war with Turkey, which led to the disruption of the silk and cloth trade with the Levant, while the EIC was unable to respond adequately due to a continued lack of resources. Seeing that the Dutch reaped the benefits of the reduced role of the Portuguese, the EIC factors persevered, despite occasional bursts of doubt. They fully admitted that they were outclassed and outplayed. However, the Portuguese were still strong and, until 1629, this forced the Dutch and English to combine their annual fleets to the Persian Gulf. In 1625, this led to the biggest naval battle ever seen in the Persian Gulf. It ended in a draw, but the action totally sapped Portuguese strength and, by 1630, they no longer posed any threat. At that time, despite doubts and pessimism about the Persia trade in India and London, the EIC made good profits (160 per cent) in the years 1630–1632. The EIC Agent, William Burt, had negotiated a contract with ‘Abbas in 1628. However, Safi I (r. 1629–42) cancelled the royal silk monopoly, the EIC was faced with fierce competition from the Armenians and Dutch and it suffered from a lack of cash, while Burt lost the support of some leading courtiers and also came into conflict with Molayem Beg, the royal merchant, and the grand vizier. The question now was whether to continue to contract with the shah or not. Persian merchants had limited capital and, therefore, there was little choice but to deal with the shah. However, a silk disease in Gilan meant that Shah Safi could not supply raw silk, for which he apologized to Charles I. Problems with the silk supply, with Persian merchants and officials, as well as internal bickering, led to disappointing EIC trade results. Because of this, dealing with the court became impractical for the EIC, which instead made deals with Armenian merchants. A truce with the Portuguese in the 1640s gave the EIC access to Portuguese ports and, thus, to a greater number of markets. Hostilities between India and Persia after 1637 (capture of Qandahar by the Mughals) reduced the volume of trade via the overland route and increased freight opportunities and revenues in the Persian Gulf. The 1640s to 1650s saw a continuation of the importance of the freight trade (due to the recapture of Qandahar in 1649), but much less so for trade in silk and cloth. Silk exports became unprofitable, caused by a change in fashion in England. Despite orders

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given in 1642 to close down the Persia factory in Esfahan, the staff did not implement the order. In spite of the desperate EIC situation, the Dutch were not able to benefit from this due to their own problems with Saru Taqi, the grand vizier. Peace with the Portuguese in 1644 caused trade in Indian goods to rise, an upswing sustained by Persian–Mughal hostilities over Qandahar. By 1650, the EIC was doing relatively well, in that it may have rivalled the Dutch in earnings. Also, after 1649, London became interested in silk again. However, more beneficial was the surge in trade in Indian commodities and the freight trade that did much to restore the EIC’s prosperity. The EIC Agent John Lewis calculated that, during 1648–51, EIC trade with Persia amounted to £100,000 and Dutch trade with Persia to £120,000.20 However, the outbreak of the Anglo-Dutch war in 1651 changed all this. The English in Bandar ‘Abbas believed that the Dutch would not undertake any action against them and that, even if they did, one Englishman counted for two Dutchmen. However, in April 1652 they lost their ships and their reputation. ‘Outbought and outsold by the Dutch Company the English factors were now outgunned’. As a result, the ‘liberators of Ormuz became the scorned at Gombroon’.21 The next decades were difficult ones for the EIC. Less competent Agents managed its affairs in Persia, the Dutch consolidated their dominant position and the Persian court was not interested in listening to EIC complaints about the Dutch. The English believed that the Dutch wanted to oust them from Persia and India. In 1654, when Agent Spiller complained about the Dutch naval attack at court, Mohammad Beg, the shah’s nazer or steward of the royal court, told him that it ‘did not concearne his master, for what had he to doe with the Dutch or us in such a case as this; for he was King of the land and not of the Sea, therefore what reason had he to trouble himselfe with other men’s matters’.22 In fact, the Persians told the English they certainly would not take action against the Dutch, whose trade brought them large revenues. If the English wanted to render service to the shah, they would buy silk; also, the 1622 agreement had been with the king of England, whom they had beheaded, and they had no king any longer.23 For the remainder of the Safavid period, the Dutch had virtual control over trade to and from the Gulf. The often multi-year absence of English representatives in Esfahan also reduced their trade prospects. After 1660, the EIC stopped trading in silk between Persia and England, and the staff at Bandar ‘Abbas had to make a living from smuggling and the sale of shipping passes. Meanwhile, trade prospects looked good, but the EIC did not have the means to benefit. In March 1665, the EIC factors wrote to London that the Dutch had told the Persians that the English did ‘bring no benefit to the port [of Bandar ‘Abbas], having not a ship come hither these two year’.24 Local shipping increased, as did private trading. The EIC tried to cut their costs, because their share in the customs revenues was insufficient to cover these. Therefore, it also

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banned visits to Esfahan for some time, although the factors considered these visits essential.25 Under Shah Soleyman (r. 1666–94), English trade languished due to ineffective Agents, debased Persian coinage, irregular payment of their share in customs revenues and reductions in the amounts that were paid. Nevertheless, after 1670 the EIC recovered and, due to a change in fashion in England, began trading wool and silk in Kerman. However, the cloth and silk trade was controlled by the Armenians. The EIC continued to sell limited quantities of cloth and to buy mainly Kerman wool, as well as some minor quantities of Persian goods (wine, drugs, fruits, red earth, horses, dyes, leather and silk goods); it further benefited significantly from the freight trade. As of 1677, Agent Thomas Rolt brought about some improvements and restricted private trade, but he received only 1,000 tumans of the customs duties. Until 1680, the VOC considered the English merely a nuisance. However, after 1680, with the opening of private trade with Hugly (Hoogly), the English started to compete in sugar and, by 1688, they were second (200–400,000 lb) after the Dutch (600– 800,000 lb). The EIC also began competing with VOC trade in Bengali and Coromandel fabrics. Because private English ships could count on the protection of the English flag, they were in a more secure position than Asian traders. Therefore, many of the latter shipped their goods with English ships, while ‘colouring’ their goods, when arriving at Bandar ‘Abbas. As a result, private English trade was more extensive than EIC trade.26 The English made a last major effort after 1689 to increase their sales of cloth in Persia. In 1688, the EIC concluded an agreement with Armenian merchants, given their control over the silk and cloth trade. The objective was to have them use English ships and divert their trade to and from Europe by giving them full rights in EIC possessions. The aim was to co-opt their credit, contacts, markets and commercial know-how and networks; also to entice them to settle in Bombay. This attempt to control the cloth and silk trade failed and led to a conflict with the Levant Company, which feared for its survival and fought back with all possible means. At that time, the EIC had financial problems, Bengal silk was difficult to obtain, Persian officials were obstructive and there was increasing criticism in England regarding its cloth export, or rather the lack thereof. Despite the fact that the Levant trade was impeded by war, trade did not develop as expected, while the silk price was high. However, after a Dutch–English fleet was defeated by the French in the Mediterranean in 1694, it was expected that cloth would be 50 per cent dearer and silk cheaper, which was bad news for the EIC. In that same year, Agent Gladman made a deal with five Armenian merchants for the sale of the cargo of two ships, including cloth, but it fell through. The new Agent tried to sell part of the two cargos in Esfahan and sent the rest to Tabriz and Mashhad, for which he was criticized. In 1694, the shahbandar (harbour master) paid only 1,047 tumans for the five-year arrears in customs, which were estimated at 25,000 tumans a

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year. The EIC again sent a cargo of cloth to Esfahan and approached the five Armenians, who refused, again. The Armenians were rich themselves, had their own ships and contacts all over Europe, the Levant, India and Russia, so they did not need the English, who had nothing to offer. This meant, in practice, the end of the old dream to take over control of the cloth and silk trade from the Levant Company. Also, with the loss of Bantam to the Dutch in 1682, the East Indies were closed to the English. Moreover, the Agent had difficulties with Persian officials, and the Dutch were intriguing against the English, telling Persian officials that the English were now under a Dutch king (William III).27 As of 1698–1708, a new phase began, viz. that of competition between the old and a new EIC (see above). In Persia, the old EIC still continued selling cloth and buying silk. The Act of 1701 banning the import of wrought silk into England meant the end of the export of Persian chintzes. Shah Soltan-Hoseyn (r. 1694–1722) became almost inaccessible and officials were infighting. John Locke, the new Agent, started well but then went spectacularly bankrupt, dragging down EIC credit at the same time. Trade remained problematic, silk was not profitable, cloth did not always find ready sale, and the freight trade was dwindling, although it was hoped that the rebellion at Qandahar in 1709 would result in a diversion from the land to the maritime route, which did indeed happen. Competition from Aleppo remained strong and, by the end of the Safavid period, the EIC had practically given up its attempts to gain control of the cloth trade in Persia.28 In the absence of data, it is difficult to estimate how important EIC trade was with Persia. EIC trade was irregular, while record keeping was unreliable. Moreover, company and private accounts were not kept separately, and may have been ‘adjusted’ in Surat before being sent to London. Therefore, profits are also difficult to calculate, because the available accounts do not provide information on local cost, losses, insurance, etc. Cloth, of course, continued to play an important role. Providing freight services to local merchants was remunerative in certain decades (1640s, early 1700s), as was inter-port trade from India, until the outbreak of the first Anglo-Dutch war (1652–54). Regarding another source of income for the EIC, the moiety of customs was never paid and averaged £1,500 per year before 1653, rose to £2,000 in the 1660s, and remained £3,000 after 1673. Because of their much increased private trade, the English were under obligation to the shahbandar, which weakened their position in asking for a higher share of the customs. In 1682, it was submitted that the EIC should have received 12,000 tumans a year for the 1658–78 period but, on average, only had received 833 tumans, thus being cheated out of 223,340 tumans. Therefore, on several occasions, Surat considered the use force to blockade Bandar ‘Abbas and to demand payment of 20,000 tumans in arrears. However, the EIC concluded that it did not have a large enough force. Also, it was feared that the Dutch would interfere and incite Indian merchants in India to complain to the Mughal emperor. London did not

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want to take military action either against Persia or the Masqat Arabs, because ‘Trade not Warfare is our business’.29 In summary, the original idea was to sell English goods, especially cloth, to Persia. Then it was envisaged that the silk trade could be diverted from the Levant to the Persian Gulf. Neither objective was realized. The Levant Company was too strong, while EIC policy and available resources were fluctuating, forcing the factors to make the most of it, taking advantage of any openings that offered themselves. Things became better when maritime trade between India and Persia improved, with consequent benefits for the EIC. The failure to barter English goods for Persian silk made trade in other Persian goods, such as drugs, dyes and specie, more important. The EIC’s greatest impact was the development of the so-called country trade, which had a major effect on trading patterns and markets. Although still less substantial than VOC intra-Asian trade in the seventeenth century, the English competed directly with Indian traders. Whereas the VOC dealt in monopoly goods, for which it set its own prices, the others (English and, Indian merchants) mainly traded in the other goods. Thus, to a certain extent the Dutch and English were targeting different market segments. The country trade partly grew out of a need, due to the lack of EIC resources. Hence, EIC gave protection to country traders – for a price, of course.

The Dutch Before 1600 there had been no Dutch silk industry or silk trade. However, this changed in 1604 when raw Chinese silk, part of the cargo of a captured Portuguese ship, was auctioned in Amsterdam. The auction coincided with the failure of the silk crop in Italy and a drop in Persian silk supplies due to war between Persia and the Ottomans. The auction was an enormous success; it launched Dutch silk manufacturing and trade. It whetted the appetite of the VOC, which sent silk experts to the East Indies and instructed its staff to find out how it might secure the Persian silk trade. However, Dutch trade in the Indian Ocean developed slowly, because it took time to establish contacts, networks and markets for its products. Also, there was fierce competition from Asian merchants and Europeans, in particular the Portuguese, who were strongly entrenched there. Although the early establishment of the Dutch factory at Surat in north-west India dates from 1606, it was, in fact, not until a decade later that Dutch trade in the Gujarat became a going concern. Similarly, extending their reach towards the Red Sea, which involved establishing contacts in Aden and a factory at Mokha, took time. The Dutch were always mindful of creating stable trading arrangements. They welcomed one-time profits as much as any traders; however, since they were a company, a stable pattern of trade was needed to ensure the company’s health. This stable pattern – this institutionalization of trade – was slow in coming to the West Asian trade of the VOC.

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In 1620, the offer to join the English East India Company and participate in the silk trade in Persia, led to the joint Dutch–English naval operations in South-East Asia, which were extended to the Persian Gulf area. Because the Dutch had no solid information on trade in Persia, the first ship going there had to investigate the Persia trade, rather than opening trade relations!30 The Dutch established a presence in Persia on 20 June 1623, when Huybert Visnich arrived in the Heusden to open Dutch trade.31 In 1620, the EIC made a determined effort and for the next three years bought substantial quantities of silk for export to Europe. By the time Visnich arrived in Persia, however, the English had found the trade to be considerably less profitable than they had expected. In early 1619, ‘Abbas I had set the price for silk at 50 tumans a load, which was at least five tumans above the market price. There were no other suppliers of silk, because ‘Abbas had established an export monopoly. The EIC concluded that the shah’s price of 50 tumans did not allow sufficient profit and, on 23 January 1622, the Court in London decided to suspend trade with Persia until better terms could be negotiated. It was just at the time of Visnich’s arrival in Persia that the English factor at Esfahan received that instruction. Thus, when the Dutch appeared in Esfahan in 1623, they offered the Persian government the opportunity it needed to take bids from a competitor – and at just the right time. When the shah returned to Esfahan in August 1623, Visnich had arrived at the capital at about the same time. By 17 November 1623, Visnich had concluded an agreement with ‘Abbas I, which in substance was based on the earlier English–Persian agreement of 1617 and included extensive rights of self-governance and an exemption from customs, although it did not include a silk monopoly. It was thus the Dutch, rather than the English, who immediately profited from the fall of Hormuz. The Dutch took control over the spice trade and used the network of local merchants to retail their commodities. Their first trading operation in Persia made an impression, as it represented a value of 12,000 tumans and was carried on the backs of 600 camels. Moreover, the Dutch made positive overtures to the shah with regard to the purchase of silk and created goodwill with the mercantile community by transporting merchants and their goods. War had again broken out with the Ottoman Empire and the normal trade routes to the Levant had been blocked. The shah had large quantities of silk and needed money desperately. The English, in contrast, were disorganized, neglected and unsupported by their office in Surat and thus slow to act to take advantage of the situation they had helped to create. Not only did they fail to contract a silk deal with the shah but, in particular, they failed to coordinate the activities of their various Asian factories and fill the vacuum created by the ousting of the Portuguese from Hormuz with goods supplied by EIC factories and carried on EIC ships. In contrast to the English position, the Dutch made their Persian operation an integrated part of their comprehensive and coordinated policy to finance their Asian operations as far as possible with goods and monies

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supplied by their Asian factories, rather than with funds and goods from Europe.32 The contract with the shah’s factor with both the EIC and VOC called for the barter of their imports (75–65 per cent in goods and 25–35 per cent in cash) against the only export commodity that Safavid Persia had to offer: raw silk. This arrangement worked fine as long the shah had silk to barter and the price was right. Despite problems with the implementation of the silk contract in the 1620s, the Dutch were quite pleased with their trading results. Initially, silk profits were promising, and later the profits from the pepper sales were also excellent. Persian raw silk was the second most important European import from Asia during the period 1626–31. After the death of his grandfather ‘Abbas I in 1629, Shah Safi I abolished the silk export monopoly. However, a revolt and a subsequent plague in Gilan resulted in reduced silk output – the shah was unable to honour his contracts. He sold his silk to Armenian merchants, who paid in ready money and exported it to the Levant. Safi I eventually supplied the Dutch and English Companies with silk, but late and in insufficient quantities. The factors of the two Companies had to satisfy their Companies’ demand for more silk. Therefore, they approached the Armenian merchants to buy silk from them to redress the shortfall. As a result, silk continued to play an important role during the 1630s. In fact, the VOC tried in vain to seize control over the entire silk trade. In 1638, a major problem arose. The contract between the shah and the Dutch company stated that the VOC was exempt from the payment of customs duties, but only for an amount equivalent to the silk bought from the shah. The Dutch had become so accustomed to not paying customs duties that they treated this issue rather offhandedly. When reminded by the grand vizier, who also raised the price of silk from 45 to 50 tumans, that the VOC would have to pay customs duties on the silk that the company had bought from private merchants, the Dutch felt that they were being taken advantage of. True, the VOC owed customs duties, but what about the loss of interest on capital when the Dutch company had supplied its part of the contract with the shah, who had been unable to do his part? Also, the price increase made silk unattractive. Therefore, both companies wanted to get rid of the link between Persian silk and Persian trade. Eventually, the English company was able to do so, while the Dutch company was not. The reason why it was relatively easy for the EIC to disengage was that, by 1653, English trade had become unimportant and was mainly limited to freight trade, whereas Dutch trade (spices, pepper, sugar, and metals) dominated Persian Gulf commerce. Meanwhile, the talks between the Persian court and the VOC became strained. In 1642, Mirza Taqi, the grand vizier (1634–45) became really angry with the Dutch factor Willem Bastingh, when the latter asked that the price of royal silk be lowered by two tumans. He told him: ‘Our friendship does not depend on the price of silk. This is a merchant’s affair; it has not more value

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than straw’.33 Of course, if the Dutch really were serious about it, an adequate present would need to be made and things could be arranged. When Dutch arguments and complaints continued to be met with indifference and an implacable position by the grand vizier, and two subsequent VOC directors were beaten by Persian government officials, Batavia saw no other solution than war. It sent a fleet to Bandar ‘Abbas, which blockaded the port, while the Dutch attacked the fort on Qeshm Island, but failed to seize it. The Dutch were more successful with the blockade of Bandar ‘Abbas and the seizure of Persian vessels and Persian goods on non-Persian vessels. After an initial Persian reaction of consternation and a willingness to meet Dutch demands, with the passage of time the Persian court began to play hardball. After all, what could the Dutch do? Despite all the Dutch huffing and puffing, they needed the trade with Persia more than Persia needed the Dutch. Although the shah needed the money from the Persian Gulf trade he needed it less than the VOC, since he could get the same goods, and therefore the customs revenues, via the land route with India. Unfortunately, Persia was engaged in a military conflict with Mughal India after 1638, when the Persian governor of Qandahar, the gateway of the land route to India, had handed the city to the Mughal emperor. Because Shah ‘Abbas II wanted to retake Qandahar, the conflict with the Dutch was very unwelcome, as he required money to pay for his military campaign. This meant that he needed to restore peace in the Persian Gulf, the major port of entry and exit of Persia’s imports and exports. These factors explain why the resolution of the conflict with the Dutch took seven years. The shah had neither the time nor the patience to deal with the Dutch after 1645. Therefore, the shah took a very practical attitude and allowed the Dutch to trade in his kingdom without the obligation to buy silk from him or to pay customs duties. The fact that he would make more money by selling his silk to the Armenian merchants had much to do with that decision, of course. In addition, he still had his revenues on Dutch imports, because anything that was sold or moved in his kingdom by merchants other than the Dutch was liable to taxation. Nevertheless, as soon as Qandahar had been retaken in 1649 the shah was ready to resume the discussion with the Dutch and asked that a Dutch ambassador be sent to resolve all outstanding difficulties. Batavia therefore sent Joan Cunaeus in 1651 as plenipotentiary to negotiate a new commercial treaty. Up to the fall of the Safavid dynasty in 1722, similar problems continued to bedevil Dutch–Persian relations. By the 1680s, the VOC lost on Persian silk and, as of 1683, wanted to stop trading it. This led to the occupation of Qeshm (29 July 1684 to 27 June 1685) and the blockade of Bandar ‘Abbas. However, as before, it was the Dutch who were forced to give in. They had to send an embassy, spend much money on presents and agree to a new commercial agreement with the Persian government, which, as before, was open to conflicting interpretation. By 1694, silk supplies from the Levant and Bengal

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had fallen, while prices in Europe were rising. The VOC made an agreement with the shah for 200 bales at 44 tumans a bale. In 1701, Hoogkamer noted that Persia did not supply silk as obliged, and a new deal was concluded at the same price and quantity of silk plus a specified quantity of presents. Thereafter, trade in silk abated. Problems arose for a third time in 1712–17, this time over the illegal export of gold and silver by the Dutch. An agreement was reached by a Dutch embassy in 1717 but, as before, all parties were unhappy with the results. Just before the fall of Esfahan to the Afghans in October 1722, the Dutch were still negotiating the implementation details of the 1717 agreement with the Safavid bureaucracy.34 The real moment of take-off for Dutch trade was the collapse of the EIC following the defeat of its fleet in 1653. Thereafter, the Dutch dominated seaborne trade in the Persian Gulf. The VOC also controlled many of the major commodities, such as spices from the Moluccas, copper and silver from Japan, tin from Malacca and much of the Indian textiles. Apart from raw silk, the VOC became a major importer of sugar. The VOC and the EIC (but not the English country traders) were unable to compete successfully with Asian merchants where the latter had equal access to labour, raw materials, means of transport and routes and, very importantly, the markets. This was particularly true in the case of textiles and raw silk, where Asian merchants enjoyed the dominant position. With the sale of sugar from Taiwan, Bengal and other parts of India, Japanese copper, tin from Malacca, coffee from Mokha and fabrics from all over India (as of 1646, fabrics from Coromandel assumed a major role), the Dutch financed their purchase of silk and ready money. In fact, in the second half of the seventeenth and eighteenth century, not silk but specie and bullion became the most important export commodities for the VOC. How important was VOC trade in Persia? In 1646, the Dutch merchant Winninx estimated the total customs revenue of Bandar ‘Abbas at some 500,000 guilders, which, assuming an average customs rate of 10 per cent, would indicate a trade turnover of more than 5 million guilders. At that time, the VOC imported goods with a value of 700,000 guilders, or some 15 per cent of total trade. It is likely that VOC trade continued to represent 10–15 per cent of total foreign trade in the Persian Gulf.35

European Interactions with Iranian Society Of the three European nations, the Portuguese probably had the fewest contacts with Persians, because there was hardly any direct trade with Persians outside Hormuz and, even there, Portuguese traders formed a small minority. Therefore, Portuguese interest in and understanding of Persia and its culture was and remained superficial, inaccurate and coloured by religious prejudice, a situation that was mirrored on the Safavid side.36

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In contrast, the English, and even more so the Dutch, had many contacts with government officials and merchants. However, those contacts were of a formal and mostly of an outwardly polite nature. Therefore, the letters written by Dutch and English merchants rarely express an opinion about Iran or its inhabitants, which is understandable, because the company directors were, above all, interested in trade results. The formal trade agreement between the Dutch and the shah gave rise to conflicts about its implementation, instigated by both sides. This twice led to military action, while on several occasions Dutch Agents were beaten by either courtiers or the governor of Bandar ‘Abbas. Likewise, the English twice considered taking military action against Persia, but due to their military weakness these plans were shelved.37 Given these experiences, both the Dutch and the English considered Persian officials to be haughty, untrustworthy, greedy and corrupt, and effeminate. They were considered masters of duplicity, who were prepared to wear a mask of friendship for a long time in order to bring down an enemy. The Persian merchants, although obsequious towards their betters, imitated their behaviour towards others.38 This opinion was shared by their English counterparts. On 15 February 1660, the EIC factors wrote: ‘The Persian is a nation as full of words and complements as scarce of good deeds and performances’. Persians also were considered to be full of knavery and trickery, while the factors also referred to the ‘fair promises in the Persian mode’.39

Conclusion In the beginning I raised three questions: (i) What had Iran to offer to these three European countries? (ii) What was the nature, composition and significance of these commercial contacts? (iii) Did the content and substance of their relations allow them to form an Idea about Iran? (i) The Portuguese did not come to the Persian Gulf to get anything from Iran. They wanted to prevent spices going via the Persian Gulf to Europe. To achieve that end they needed control over Hormuz, also to deny the Safavids the chance to seize the kingdom. The English came because England needed more revenues, and one way to achieve that was to seek new markets for their woollen goods. The Dutch came explicitly for Persian raw silk to supply the silk manufacturing industry of Amsterdam. In that respect, one might say that the Portuguese were the most successful, even though they were unable to entirely stop the flow of pepper via the Persian Gulf. The English were the least successful, because they never were able to sell as many woollens as they would have liked. The Dutch position lay in between these two; i.e. they obtained access to Persian silk, until they did not want it anymore and then got into trouble. This happened twice, but that did not stop them from carrying on a profitable trade. (ii) The Estado did not trade with Iran and, apart from controlling the shipping of spices and strategic goods, did not interfere with existing trade

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patterns. The English first tried to trade with the shah and then with private traders. Because the EIC lacked Asian commodities to pay for silk and specie, it traded mostly in non-monopoly goods and, unwittingly, became involved in the country trade through the private trade of its own factors, competing with Indian traders. The VOC, through the sale of Indonesian spices, Taiwanese and Bengal sugar, Japanese copper, tin from Malacca, coffee from Mokha and fabrics from all over India, financed their purchase of silk and specie. For all three European organizations, the export of specie became their most important Persian export commodity. Portuguese private capital was not really interested in trade with Persia (apart from horses), while the EIC and VOC, represented, respectively 5–10 per cent and 10–15 per cent of trade at Bandar ‘Abbas. The large number of Armenian, Indian and other regional merchants represented at least 75 per cent of trade with Persia. (iii) Portuguese merchants had very little interaction with Persians; the English and Dutch merchants more so. However, these contacts with Persians were formal and limited to a number of courtiers and local merchants, with contacts being mainly business-oriented in nature; more intimate and freer relations existed with Armenians and other Europeans. In short, the scope for these European merchants to form an informed opinion about Safavid Persia was rather skewed, being determined by the lack of variety of contacts and limited acquaintance with Persian culture. There was awe of the luxuriousness of the Persian court, but little interest in Persian culture, while Persians were considered haughty, untrustworthy and corrupt, and the nature of government tyrannical and despotic.

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Notes: 1. Willem Floor, A Fiscal History of Iran in the Safavid and Qajar Periods, Chapter 1; idem, The Economy of Safavid Persia, Chapter 1. 2. R.W. Ferrier, ‘An English view of Persian trade in 1618’, p. 192. 3. Budāq Monshi Qazvini, Javāher al-akhbār, p. 140. 4. Anonymous, A Chronicle of the Carmelites in Persia, vol. I, p. 47; H. Dunlop, Bronnen tot de geschiedenis der Oostindische Compagnie, pp. 391–92; Ferrier, ‘British–Persian Relations in the 17th Century’, pp. 330, 342; Kaempfer, Exotic Attractions in Persia, 1684–1688, p. 106; Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, Voyages en Perse et description de ce royaume, p. 222; Francis Richard, Raphael du Mans, vol. II, p. 276. 5. Dunlop, Bronnen, pp. 190, 221, 224, 231–35. 6. Vali-Qoli Shāmlu, Qesas al-khāqāni, vol. I, p. 89; Anonymous, Chronicle, vol. I, p. 45. 7. Eskandar Beg Monshi, Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, vol. I, pp. 406–7. 8. Ibid., p. 468. 9. Don Juan of Persia, A Shi‘ah Catholic 1560–1604, pp. 221–22. 10. Floor, Economy, p. 30. 11. Rudi Matthee, Willem Floor and Patrick Clawson, The Monetary History of Iran, p. 110. 12. Luís Filipe Thomaz, ‘Portuguese control over the Arabian Sea and the Bay of Bengal’, pp. 81–85; Sanjay Subrahmanyam, The Portuguese Empire in Asia 1500– 1700, p. 77; João Teles e Cunha, ‘The Portuguese in the Persian Gulf’. 13. Ferrier, ‘British–Persian Relations’. 14. Ibid., p. 185; Willem Floor and Mohammad Faghfoory, The First Dutch–Persian Commercial Conflict, pp. 232–33. 15. Floor, The Persian Gulf, Chapters 2 and 4; Teles e Cunha, ‘The Portuguese’; idem, Olha da grande Pérsia o império nobre. 16. Floor, Persian Gulf, pp. 58–88. 17. Luís Matos, ed., Das relações entre Portugal e a Pérsia 1500–1758, p. 227. 18. Subrahmanyam, Portuguese Empire, p. 190, table 7.5. 19. Floor, Persian Gulf, Chapter 7. 20. Ferrier, ‘British–Persian Relations’, p. 111. 21. Ibid., pp. 94–95, 97; idem, ‘The terms and conditions under which English trade was transacted with Safavid Persia’. 22. Ferrier, ‘British–Persian Relations’, p. 439; Floor, The First, p. 108. 23. Ferrier, ‘British–Persian Relations’, pp. 103–7. 24. Ibid., p. 126. 25. Ibid. 26. R. J. Barendse, The Arabian Seas, p. 447; Ferrier, ‘British–Persian Relations’, pp. 373–425; idem, ‘The trade between India and the Persian Gulf and the East India Company in the seventeenth century’. 27. Ferrier, ‘The Armenians and the East India Company’. 28. Ferrier, ‘British–Persian Relations’, pp. 339–40, 376–80, 405–12. 29. Ibid., pp. 111, 185. 30. Dunlop, Bronnen, p. 16; Ferrier, ‘British–Persian Relations’, p. 53. 31. Floor, ‘The Dutch and the Persian silk trade’, pp. 323–68.

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32. Ferrier, ‘British–Persian Relations’, pp. 52–53; Dunlop, Bronnen, pp. 33–34. 33. Nationaal Archief, Collectie Geleijnsen 167 b (14/10/1642), unfoliated; Floor, Commercial Conflict between Persia and the Netherlands 1712–1718, pp. 2–3. 34. Floor and Faghfoory, The First; Floor, Commercial; Matthee, The Politics of Trade in Safavid Iran, pp. 210–17. 35. VOC 1136, fol. 198; VOC 1144, fol. 562 (08/09/1646). 36. Teles e Cunha, ‘The Portuguese’. 37. Floor and Faghfoory, The First, p. 115; Floor, Commercial, p. 2; Matthee, Politics, pp. 154–56, 185. 38. VOC 2548, fol. 1888; VOC 1406, fol. 1220 vs. 39. William Foster, ed., The English Factories in India, vol. 12 (1665–67), pp. 82, 346.

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Bibliography: Nationaal Archief, The Hague Collectie Geleynssen de Jonghe VOC – Records of the Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie (VOC) (Dutch East Indies Company) Hooge Regeering Batavia Anonymous, A Chronicle of the Carmelites in Persia and the Papal Mission of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, 2 vols (London: Eyre & Spottiswood, 1939). Barendse, R.J., The Arabian Seas: The Indian Ocean World of the Seventeenth Century (Armonk, NY: Sharpe, 2002). Budāq Monshi Qazvini, Javāher al-akhbār, ed. Mohsen Bahrām-nezhād (Tehran: Āyena-ye ketāb, 1379/2000). Don Juan of Persia, A Shi‘ah Catholic 1560–1604, trans. Guy Le Strange (New York: Harper, 1926). Dunlop, H., Bronnen tot de geschiedenis der Oostindische Compagnie in Perzië (The Hague, 1930). Eskandar Beg Monshi Torkamān, Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, ed. Iraj Afshār, 2 vols (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1350/1971). Ferrier, R.W., ‘British–Persian Relations in the 17th Century’, doctoral dissertation (Cambridge University, 1970). — ‘The Armenians and the East India Company in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries’, Economic History Review 26 (1973), pp. 38–62. — ‘The trade between India and the Persian Gulf and the East India Company in the seventeenth century’, Bengal Past and Present (1976), pp. 189–98. — ‘An English view of Persian trade in 1618’, JESHO 19, no. 2 (1976), pp. 182–214. — ‘The terms and conditions under which English trade was transacted with Safavid Persia’, BSOAS 49, no. 1 (1986), pp. 48–66. Floor, Willem, Commercial Conflict between Persia and the Netherlands 1712–1718 (Durham: Centre for Middle East and Islamic Studies, 1988). — ‘The Dutch and the Persian silk trade’, in Safavid Persia, ed. Charles Melville (London: I.B. Tauris, 1996), pp. 323–68. — A Fiscal History of Iran in the Safavid and Qajar Periods 1500–1925 (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 1999). — The Economy of Safavid Persia (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2000). — The Persian Gulf: A Political and Economic History of Five Port Cities 1500–1730 (Washington DC: Mage, 2006). Floor, Willem and Mohammad Faghfoory, The First Dutch–Persian Commercial Conflict (Costa Mesa: Mazda, 2009). Foster, William, ed., The English Factories in India 1618–1669, 13 vols (London: Oxford University Press, 1906–27).

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Kaempfer, Engelbert, Exotic Attractions in Persia, 1684–1688: Travels & Observations, translated from Latin and annotated by Willem Floor and Colette Ouahes (Washington, DC: Mage, 2018). Matos, Luís, ed., Das relações entre Portugal e a Pérsia 1500–1758: Catálogo bibliográfico da exposição comemorativa do XXV centenário da monarquia no Irão (Lisbon: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, 1972). Matthee Rudi P., The Politics of Trade in Safavid Iran: Silk for Silver 1600– 1730 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). Matthee Rudi P., Willem Floor and Patrick Clawson, The Monetary History of Iran (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013). Richard, Francis, ed., Raphael du Mans, missionnaire en Perse au XVIIè s, 2 vols (Paris: L’Hartmattan, 1995). Shāmlu, Vali-Qoli b. Dā’ud-Qoli, Qesas al-khāqāni, ed. Hasan Sādāt Nāseri, 2 vols (Tehran: Vezārat-e ershād-e eslāmi, 1371/1992). Subrahmanyam, Sanjay, The Portuguese Empire in Asia 1500–1700 (London: Longman, 1993). Tavernier, Jean-Baptiste, Voyages en Perse et description de ce royaume (Paris: 1677 [1930]). Teles e Cunha, João, ‘The Portuguese in the Persian Gulf’, in The Persian Gulf in History, ed. Lawrence G. Potter (New York: Palgrave, 2009), pp. 207– 34. — ‘The eye of the beholder: The creation of a Portuguese discourse on Safavid Iran’, in Portugal, the Persian Gulf and Safavid Persia, ed. Rudi Matthee and Jorge Flores (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), pp. 11–50. — Olha da grande Pérsia o império nobre. Relações entre Portugal e a Pérsia na Idade Moderna (1507–1750) (Lisbon: IRE, 2014). Thévenot, Jean de, The Travels of Monsieur de Thevenot into the Levant (London: H. Clark, 1686 [1971]). Thomaz, Luís Filipe, ‘Portuguese control over the Arabian Sea and the Bay of Bengal: A comparative study’, in Commerce and Culture in the Bay of Bengal, 1500–1800, ed. Om Prakash and Denys Lombard (New Delhi: Manohar/Indian Council of Historical Research, 1999), pp. 115–62.

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12 ‘The World is an Oyster and Iran, the Pearl’ Representations of Iran in Safavid Persian Travel Literature Maryam Ala Amjadi (Independent scholar)

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n 21 March 2019, I received a text message on my mobile phone from the Iranian President Hassan Rouhani, relaying his best wishes for the Iranian New Year, Nowruz. The mass presidential message to Iranian citizens congratulated them on the occasion of Nowruz-e ‘Alavi (literally, New Year of ‘Ali’s followers), a compound that I read with great interest. This year, the last day in the Iranian calendar had coincided with the birthday of ‘Ali, the first Shi‘i imam. The old year, the presidential message seemed to convey, did not conclude with the birth of Emam ‘Ali, but rather the Shi‘i celebration marked the beginning of the Persian New Year. The representation of Nowruz as a Shi‘i celebration is not an unprecedented concept. Hemerological anxieties to reconcile pre-Islamic festivals with events pertaining to the lives of Shi‘i imams were investigated by Safavid jurists, such as Mohammad Baqer Majlesi, who traced the genealogy of the Iranian New Year in sayings attributed to Shi‘i imams to establish jurisprudential justifications for the celebration of Nowruz by the Shi‘is.1 Regarded as the day of ‘covenant with Mankind’, in a hadith (tradition) attributed to Emam Ja‘far al-Sadeq, Majlesi established Nowruz as ‘one of our days’, a conviction which has been espoused and upheld by the Persians to a remarkable degree and, conversely, suppressed by the Arabs.2 Majlesi also examines counterarguments, wherein Nowruz celebrations are purely founded on the pre-Islamic Persian heritage with no rationalization for their cause and maintenance in the words of Prophet Mohammad and his successors, the Shi‘i imams.3 The main purpose of these and similar disputes was to determine, when events in the Persian calendar (e.g. Nowruz, Yalda) coincide with incidents in the Islamic calendar (e.g. the anniversary of the martyrdom of imams), which one takes precedence. This question was of particular jurisprudential significance when joyful Persian rituals, such as Nowruz, overlapped with Shi‘i mourning rituals, such as the anniversary of the Battle of Karbala in the month of Moharram.

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The link between Shi‘i events and Iranian festivals was also highlighted by pre-1979 Islamic theorists, such as ‘Ali Shari‘ati, who highlighted the Safavids’ contribution to the construction of Iranian Shi‘i identity. When Nowruz and ‘Ashura, the tenth day in the mourning month of Moharram, coincided during the reign of Shah ‘Abbas, as Shari‘ati recounts, the Safavids were faced with a momentous dilemma which, according to Shari‘ati, had never been a challenge for previous rulers of Iran. It was eventually decided that the Safavids should mourn ‘Ashura first and celebrate Nowruz the next day, thus refraining, as Shari‘ati notes, from sacrificing either ‘nationality’ or ‘religion’ for the sake of the other.4 Building on the premise of such an anecdote, Shari‘ati establishes that there should be no qualms about prioritizing religion over nationality. However, on checking the conjunction of ‘Ashura and Nowruz throughout the Safavid period, it appears that the first day of the Persian New Year never coincided with ‘Ashura. Throughout the Safavid rule, from 1501 to 1736, the first month in the Iranian calendar ‘Farvardin’ coincided with the Islamic month of Moharram 38 times. During this period, however, the first day of the New Year, Nowruz, never coincided with the tenth day of Moharram, ‘Ashura. The anecdote reported by Shari‘ati, nevertheless, continues to emerge in post1979 readings of the Safavid period, mainly to establish that the theo-political confluence of Iran and Islam in the construction of Shi‘i identity and the overall precedence of religion over nationality was defined by the Safavids. Evidence of such a complex relationship between ‘Iranian-ness’ and ‘Shi‘iness’ emerges significantly in encounters with non-Iranians in Safavid travel narratives. In current scholarship, the study of Safavid travel writing is predominantly limited to European accounts of Iran. The large corpus of travel writing produced by Europeans has led to the assumption that the Safavids were comparatively less preoccupied with travel and travel writing. Safavid travel literature, however, was conceived according to different parameters and intellectual frameworks. As an example, prescriptive jurisprudential treatises that address the maintenance of the Shi‘i identity through travel rituals when undertaking a journey indicate how travel and mobility were embedded in the everyday practices of the Safavids. Shah ‘Abbas I (r. 1587–1629) commissioned Sheykh Baha’ al-Din ‘Ameli to compose a treatise that would delineate the tenets of Shi‘ism, including everyday Shi‘i practices, for the general public. Sheykh Baha’i’s treatise Jame‘-e ‘Abbasi was the first Shi‘i practical guide (resala-ye ‘amaliya) in the Persian language. Such guidebooks offer practical solutions to everyday questions posed by believers. The answers to these frequently asked questions, which are anticipated by Shi‘i jurists and scholars, are extracted from the in-depth study of the Qur’an and hadiths and made accessible to the reader without the historical exegesis and investigations into their veracity that so often attend the analysis of hadiths. Another popular Safavid treatise Helyat al-mottaqin (1671), composed by Mohammad Baqer Majlesi, is a compilation of Islamic traditions, ethics and etiquettes derived

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from the study of hadiths. Although the last chapter of the treatise, entitled ‘Manners of travelling’ (adab-e safar), is specifically dedicated to travel and travel-related acts in everyday Shi‘i practices, the other 13 chapters also include sections that address mobility and mobility-related performances in Shi‘i culture. ‘Manners of entering and exiting a house’ and ‘Manners of walking, riding, going to the bazaar, trade, agriculture …’ are other chapter titles. Through an analytical examination of mobility-related and travel-centred examples in jurisprudential literature, we are able to establish how travel and mobility are entrenched in everyday Perso-Shi‘i practices. Based on textual evidence, obligatory religious practices, such as daily prayers and fasting, are intertwined with questions of mobility. For instance, both Jame‘-e ‘Abbasi and Helyat al-mottaqin address the issue of the shortening of prayers and fasts while away from home. The information derived from analytical examination of mobility-related jurisprudential acts could contribute to our understanding of Perso-Shi‘i travel culture during the Safavid period and help us contextualize Safavid Persian travel accounts, outnumbered as they appear to be by European accounts of travel within Safavid Iran. In the past two decades, archival investigations have contributed to our increasing awareness of textual evidence for Safavid travel culture. To the best of my knowledge, there are presently 13 Persian travel narratives available in printed editions, none of which were destined for Europe and a considerable number of which (six) were composed in verse. These 13 travel texts, in chronological order of their composition dates, are: Fotuh al-harameyn (1505) by Mohyi al-Din Lari; Khataynama (1516) by ‘Ali Akbar Khata’i; Jaddat al-‘asheqin (1549–51) by Sharif al-Din Hoseyn Khvarazmi; Resala dar zera‘-e Makka (1572) by an anonymous author; E‘jaz-e Makki (ca. 1624) by Vaheb Hamadani; Resala dar zera‘e Madina by Farshi; Nur al-mashreqeyn (ca. 1657) by ‘Abdollah Beheshti Haravi; Safarnama-ye manzum-e hajj (1642–66) by Mohammad Nabi’ Qurchi-ye Esfahani; Dar zekr-e ba‘zi az ghara’eb-e ruzegar va sharh-e shamma’i az ahval-e kathir al-Ekhtelal Sargashta-ye Wadi-ye Na-kami Mohammad Mofid (1679) by Mohammad Mofid Mostowfi Bafqi; Safina-ye Soleymani (1683–87) by Mohammad Rabi‘ ebn-e Mohammad Ebrahim; Hajjnama (1721) by Allahyar Sufi-ye Naqshbandi-ye Samarqandi; Safarnama-ye manzum-e Hajj (1691–1726) by an unnamed woman from Esfahan; and Tarikh va safarnama-ye Hazin (ca. 1741) by Hazin Lahiji. I propose that these underexplored travel texts, particularly those composed in verse, although outnumbered by European narratives, are replete with historical and socio-cultural knowledge, to the extent that they should be included in Safavid and Shi‘i historiography. Through analytical engagement with travel texts of the period, we can navigate the vocabulary of Iranian

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selfhood and sense of self at a distance from home. By interrogating the complex relationship between mobility and identity in Safavid travel texts, we can infer how the Safavids referred to themselves, their homeland and their neighbours in and outside the Muslim world. Looking at Safavid travel culture, it becomes instantly apparent that the hajj supersedes all other forms of, and incentives for, travel. Eight out of the 13 travel narratives are centred on the hajj, reflecting the sacred superiority of Mecca and Medina as primary destinations for the Safavid traveller. Consciousness about the significance of Mecca and Medina as primary travel destinations is emphasized to such an extent that the desire for and the act of the hajj also emerge in non-hajj travel literature. In the introductory sections to Nur al-mashreqeyn, a seventeenth-century account of Iran and Hend, the author ‘Abdollah Beheshti Haravi dedicates over 40 rhyming couplets to the description of Mecca and Medina, immediately after enumerating the miracles of the Prophet of Islam in the introductory sections of his account. It is impossible to determine whether the author had indeed undertaken the hajj or simply prefaced his account of Hend auspiciously, according to travel writing conventions of the period, with brief descriptions of Mecca and Medina as the primary sacred destinations. It may be argued that perhaps the religious compulsion of the hajj casts a shadow over the notion of travel as a deliberate act, in the ‘pursuit of knowledge’5 or as a journey to ‘comprehension of the self by the detour of the comprehension of the other’.6 Theoretically, the religiously incentivized hajj is a journey of introspection, less preoccupied with representations of the external world and more intertwined with self-evaluation and self-criticism. The uniform white ehram (plain pilgrimage attire) is meant to erase any sense of superficial distinctions among the pilgrims and render the collective sanctity of the pilgrims as one worshipping body. However, the agential aspects of Shi‘i Iranian identity and self-referential terms that emerge significantly in hajj encounters, particularly in contact and encounters with the non-Iranian and non-Muslim ‘Other’, translate the hajj into a dynamic site of self-image production. I begin my brief expedition into Iranian selfhood with what at first seems to be an anomalous text, a pilgrimage narrative in verse by a Safavid woman who undertook the hajj from the Safavid capital Esfahan, most probably in the early eighteenth century, unaccompanied by any male or female relatives. From a little note in the margin of the manuscript, we know that she was the widow of Mirza Khalil, the Royal Scribe (raqam-nevis) in the financial department at the court in Esfahan.7 Some scholars, such as Kathryn Babayan, have referred to her as ‘The Isfahani widow’,8 and others, such as the editor of her text, Rasul Ja‘fariyan, regard her as the ‘Esfahani Lady’.9 However, because her identity as a female traveller and poet is unique and further evidence regarding her precise name is unknown, I chose to refer to her as Lady Sarsar or ‘The Lady of the

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Swift Winds’ (Banu-ye Sarsar), as she frequently likens her sudden departure from Esfahan and other locations to ‘a cold harsh wind’ (sarsar). Who needs a human companion on their side, With God as friend to the friendless in the tide? When I found so unfaithful my dear ones Like sarsar I hastened out of Esfahan10 The onomatopoeic word, which also appears in the Qur’an, conjures up the abrupt sounds of Lady Sarsar’s departure from Esfahan after her family’s possible protest and reluctance to accompany her on the hajj. Conventionally, classical Iranian poets adopt pen-names (takhallos). While pen-names are predominantly peculiar to the qasida and ghazal forms, they are also found in the masnavi style.11 Sarsar appears to be a forceful wind with a voice, through association with which the author inscribes herself and her narrative in 1,200 couplets (masnavi style).

ࢂ Ν ऒ ່ ‫ ﯾﺎر دم ﺳﺎز‬ϓ΋ ඼ ‫ از‬ϡϪ  ඟ

ද ণ Δࣽ ߮ ϰ άඵ ‫ ﭼﺎرهای‬ϞΨ Ҥ Ψ ৯

ন ໖ ໊ औ ໑ ΋ ૤ ϰ έ΋ Χ୏Ϧ Σඟ  Χඟ ϡϪ  ජ

ේ য फ़ ໓ ऒ ΋ Δࣽ Ϋ΍΋ Ϫ  άනଘΨ ॰ϟ΋ ඟ

When my liver was slashed by the sly wheel of fate and my breath-sharing companion torn away of late Peaceful sleep was outlawed in my bed I knew no cure but travelling ahead12 In the opening lines of her account, the poet tells us how the cunning wheel of fortune has slashed her liver, the spiritual centre for accumulated sorrow and pain induced by hardship, and separated her from her beloved husband. Since then, what has become ‘jurisprudentially impermissible’ (haram) for her is peaceful sleep that is undisrupted by sorrow, a situation for which she sees no cure other than excursion (seyahat). Conventionally, Safavid travel narratives open with expressions of gratitude towards God, praise of the Prophet Mohammad and proclamations of allegiance to the Shi‘i imams. Lady Sarsar’s narrative, however, begins in medias res and ends abruptly in Aleppo on her return journey to Iran. References to Shi‘i imams are, however, interlaced throughout her narrative, emerging significantly in encounters with the Ottoman and Sunni ‘Other’. As the Lady’s caravan, which she joined back in Nakhjavan, treads into Karamanlar before stepping for the first time outside the Safavid borders and into the Ottoman domains, there is anxiety among her fellow travelers: The realms of ‘ajam have ended, ah! There’s no one under command of the shah! In our own territory, we were all growling lions Now we’re humiliated and dominated by the Ottomans

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Throughout the night, Lady Sarsar and her fellow travellers were aware that in the morning they would no longer be traversing the realms of the ‘ajams, which were under the jurisdiction of the shah of Iran, presumably Shah Soltan-Hoseyn (r. 1694–1722), during whose reign Lady Sarsar seems to have composed her account. Lady Sarsar’s manuscript was located in a larger compilation entitled Jong-e Mirza Mo’ina-ye Ordubadi. The compilation, according to Ja‘fariyan, contains significant Safavid texts ranging from the years 1691 to 1726. There are no dates at the narrative’s beginning or end. However, a page prior to Lady Sarsar’s manuscript contains the Islamic calendar date Dhu’l-Qa‘da 1122 (December–January 1710). Ja‘fariyan speculates that the Lady may have travelled to Mecca before this date. Historically, as Abbas Amanat notes, ‘ajam is connotative of ‘linguistic condescension’ and literally translated as ‘one who does not speak discernibly’, perhaps a derisive comment on the inability of Iranians to pronounce the deep glottal sounds of the Arabic language. The term gradually lost its pejorative meaning and by the eleventh century it had gained currency among the Iranians as a term of ‘ethnolinguistic self-identification’, distinguishing them from their Arab-speaking neighbours.14 To the Lady’s regret, the Iranians, who were roaring lions in their own lands, are now degraded by the Ottomans to such an extent that they must refrain from enunciating the name of God’s Lion, an epithet for Emam ‘Ali. This precautionary dissimulation (taqiya) of their faith is also extended to all other distinctive Shi‘i activities, including the ‘trade of gems’, which refers to the tradition of purchasing carnelian, strongly recommended as an amulet and signifier of Shi‘i fellowship in Safavid jurisprudential treatises. The second chapter in Helyat al-mottaqin addresses the blessed benefits of wearing rings, particularly those set with carnelian (‘aqiq), and how a Shi‘i believer is recognized by the way he wears his rings. Majlesi quotes Emam Ja‘far al-Sadeq in establishing that carnelian rings immunize the traveller against possible threats.15 He further reiterates that the colours of carnelian stones correspond to the colours of the mountains in paradise that face the houses of the Prophet and his progeny. As long as ‘the Shi‘is of Prophet Mohammad’s commune’ (Shi‘ayan-e Al-e Mohammad) wear those carnelian rings, they are divinely protected.16 Lady Sarsar points out how the consecrated act of purchasing amulet stones, as a significantly Shi‘i custom, ceased as soon as the caravan entered the Ottoman domains. Abstinence from specifically Shi‘i activities may also have been a preemptive measure of self-protection by the caravan members. Evidence of tensions regarding the treatment of Iranian pilgrims can be traced in epistolary exchanges between the Safavid and Ottoman rulers, who, as the Custodians of the two holy mosques in Mecca and Medina (Khademeyn-e Harameyn-e

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Sharifeyn), were responsible for the protection of pilgrims. Due to the escalating number of attacks by bandits on the roads and the increasing price of travel taxes, Shah ‘Abbas II (r. 1642–66) once issued a decree forbidding pilgrimage to Mecca on the premise that financial competence and safety were jurisprudential prerequisites for undertaking the hajj.17 Despite the jurisprudential emphasis on abstinence from signifiers of disparity in the state of ehram for the purpose of fostering fellowship among pilgrims, accounts of travellers to Mecca and Medina provide us with evidence to the contrary. Recounting his memories of the hajj in Lavame‘-e Saheb Qerani (1656), Mohammad Taqi Majlesi notes how Shi‘is are immediately identifiable by the position of their hands during prayers, which they keep at their sides as do Malekis, one of the four major schools of the Sunni law. If a Maleki does not fold his arms during prayers, Majlesi observes, no one protests against him. But when an ‘ajam stands in prayer with open hands, even when praying behind a Maleki imam, the Sunnis conclude that he must be a ‘rafezi’, someone who curses the Caliphs, and therefore must be punished, often by death.18 Majlesi implies that, from a Sunni standpoint, denunciatory rituals (tabarra), by means of which the communal Shi‘i self-identity is reinforced, equated Iranian-ness with Shi‘i-ness. In fact, one of the ways in which the theopolitical affiliations of Safavid travel writers is exposed is through the confirmation of their allegiance (tavalla) to the main Sunni and Shi‘i figures and, subsequently, Safavid and Ottoman rulers as the legitimate heirs of Islam. As an example, the unnamed writer of Resala dar zera‘-e Makka (composed ca. 1573), which is a detailed account of the spatial specificities and the architectural history of the Ka‘ba and Masjed al-Haram, appends the honorific prayer ‘May Allah be pleased with him’ (raziya Allahu ‘anhu) to the names of each of the Sunni caliphs Abu Bakr, ‘Omar and ‘Othman.19 He also mentions Sultan Soleyman I (r. 1520–66) with the supplication ‘May God immortalize his kingdom’ (khallada Allahu molkahu).20 In contrast, Shi‘i travel writers disclose their theo-political allegiances with praise of Safavid rulers. Another feature, which exposes the Shi‘i convictions of Safavid travellers is the mournful descriptions of the al-Baqi‘ cemetery, where the bodies of a number of Shi‘i figures are interred. Describing the state of al-Baqi‘, Lady Sarsar writes: O Breeze, blow over Esfahan, Inform the sultan of Iran Say ‘O just ruler, where are you? Why are you oblivious to this paradisiac place?’ […] A servant to Heydar’s clan [gholam-e Al-e Heydar] Send [Persian] carpets worthy of the Four Masters’ Land21

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Lady Sarsar, who is heartbroken by the humble state of the untended cemetery, summons the breeze to carry a message back to Esfahan. Addressing the shah of Iran as the ‘servant of descendants of Emam ‘Ali’, she pleads with him to send glorious Persian carpets, golden chandeliers and Persian pomegranate trees, in other words ‘endowments’ to the ‘immortal garden’ of al-Baqi‘ in the hope that it may unsettle the rivals of Iran and Shi‘ism. However, it is not only in the encounter with the sacred land of al-Baqi‘, where the four Shi‘i imams are buried, that the author reveals her theo-political and cultural loyalties. Upon seeing the Ka‘ba for the first time, Lady Sarsar writes: The House of God how may I describe? It is more sublime than anything I could scribe Incomparable [be-la tashbih], the Ka‘ba like an adolescent seems His stature in the likeness of a [Persian] Cypress tree He’s clad in a velvet robe of black His waist firm with a gold embroidered sash The skirt of his robe he’s lifted to the waist As though rising sprightly and in haste22 As she nears Mecca, the Ka‘ba emerges like a moon in the distance. Tonguetied with the joy of union, she finds that her powers of description fail her, for the Ka‘ba is more sublime than any word she can possibly conceive. Finally, she cautiously succumbs to the limitations of her pen and likens the Ka‘ba to a young man, as slender and tall as a Persian cypress, who is clad in a velvet black robe with a golden embroidered sash. The young man has lifted the skirt of his robe up to his waist as though standing up in a sprightly fashion. Conversely, the mid seventeenth-century author of E‘jaz-e Makki (‘Meccan miracle’) Vaheb Hamadani, who also composed his account of the hajj in verse, describes the Ka‘ba in feminine terms: When I saw the Ka‘ba, I protruded my chest So through this chasm the heart could see the shadow of Truth And except for that shadow of Truth I have never seen a shadow standing upright. In the midst of that shadow my weary eyes saw A bride sitting behind a curtain.23 Vaheb portrays the Ka‘ba in its entirety as a bride who sits behind a black veil which serves a specific purpose. This black veil represents the saviour, who will provide a refuge on the day of resurrection (qeyamat) and shield the blackfated sinners from the wrath of God. The Ka‘ba with its black curtains conjures a spiritual rendition of Leyli and Majnun’s love story, narrated by the twelfthcentury Persian poet Nezami. The black cloth (keswa) draping the Ka‘ba, as Vaheb indicates, represents the black tent of the beloved Leyli and her very presence pacifies the heart of her lover, Majnun (literally meaning, bewildered).

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A specifically feminine representation of the Ka‘ba in a Safavid dictionary, Farhang-e Rashidi (1654), indicates that perhaps gendered representations of the House of God were not that uncommon among the Safavids and their predecessors. The curious entry appears as ‘The Bride of the Arabs’ (‘Arus-e ‘Arab) and is explicated as ‘the ennobled Ka‘ba’.24 Conversely, the comparative scarcity of masculine representations of the Ka‘ba leads us to believe that Lady Sarsar’s portrayal of the House of God in masculine terms and through specifically Persian elements is indeed unique, if not subversive. While the Iranian-ness of Shi‘i travel writers is conveyed through cultural elements, such as allusion to Persian poetry and reference to Persian artefacts, the Sunni authors of texts that specifically make pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina the focal point of their narrative are less preoccupied with geopolitical portrayals of Iran. The Sufi and Sunni author of Hajjnama (1721), Allahyar Sufi Naqshbandi Samarqandi, refers to the Ka‘ba as the House situated in Omm al-qora (the Mother of all Settlements), a Qur’anic term of reference for Mecca.25 On the other hand, according to Shi‘i hadiths, the Ka‘ba was the first house ever built and the central point from which all distances in the corporeal realm are measured.26 Consequently, in travel accounts such as Hajjnama and Resala dar zera‘-e Makka, whose Sunni authors specifically place Mecca and the hajj centre stage, there is no indication of a geopolitical consciousness of Iran. Consciousness of Iran as a theo-cultural as well as a geopolitical concept also emerges in non-hajj travel narratives. In the opening lines of Khataynama, an early sixteenth-century account of China, the author ‘Ali Akbar Khata’i establishes that there are only a few distinct Muslim realms (mamlekat-e Mosalmani): ‘Arabestan (the land of Arabs), Rum (the land of Ottomans), ‘Ajamestan (the land of ‘ajams), which is comprised of the realm of Iran (molke Iran) and Turan (Transoxania). These Muslims realms, he writes, are at the centre of the world, and the infidels (koffar) reside around these distinct borders.27 Such instances show us that Safavid travellers were conscious of the extent of the geographical borders and territorial representations of Iran. ‘Ali Akbar, who is disputably a Sunni, takes refuge in the patronage of the Ottoman sultan Selim I (r. 1512–20), to whom he seems to dedicate his narrative. Sunni travellers, particularly those who wrote in the early years of Safavid rule, tend to reveal greater affinity with the Ottoman Empire. This affiliation, as previously mentioned, is disclosed through the names of Sunni caliphs and Ottoman rulers, to whom the travel account is dedicated. Jaddat al-‘asheqin, a sixteenth-century hajj travel narrative in prose composed by Sharif al-Din Hoseyn Khvarazmi, describes the pilgrimage of a delegation of 300 Sufis headed by the author’s father, Sheykh Kamal al-Din, in 1549 from Samarqand through Crimea and Constantinople to Mecca. With the advent of the new Shi‘i rule and Iran–Ozbek wars, pilgrims from Transoxania (Hojjaj-e Mavara’ al-nahri), who were mostly Sunni and Sufi, were compelled

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to undertake the hajj from Khvarazm to Istanbul via the Mazandaran Sea or the Black Sea.28 The Ottomans offered financial support and security to the ‘Pilgrims of Transoxania’ and even built khaneqahs and caravanserais en route to Mecca. On the way from Crimea to Constantinople, waiting for the ships to dock, the delegation of 300 Sufis, who also employ ‘ajam as a self-referential term, are compelled to spend the entire night in an unspecified village, which the author refers to as ‘village of gabran [non-Muslims]’ where not even one Muslim could be found to speak with.29 This is one of the rare instances in travel narratives when Muslim-ness is equated with linguistic knowledge of Islam, through the Arabic language. Sharif al-Din regards the Arabic language, the language in which God spoke with the Prophet, as the language of Muslims. The author of an early sixteenth-century hajj narrative in verse, Fotuh alHarameyn, Mohyi al-Din Lari, who reveals his Sunni faith, also regards Arabic as a divine language: To pacify this poor heart Recite a verse or two from Faraqi [or induced by feraq, separation] Recount the Arabs’ Nowruz in songs Utter secrets in the Arabic tongue30 Lari, who is conscious of the presence of both Arab and ‘ajam pilgrims in Mecca, acknowledges that neither poetry nor music can pacify his heart, which is aching for the Ka‘ba, but only the words of worship, best codified in the Qur’an in the Arabic language. Additionally, Nowruz-e ‘Arab (Arabs’ Nowruz) could be regarded as a Persian musical term and indicative of the celebratory emotional state of the poet in overcoming the obstacles in the path of his pilgrimage.31 The fact that Sunni travellers reveal consciousness of the Arabic language as the language of Islam while composing poetry and prose in Persian seems to suggest, by contrast, that Shi‘i travellers, who equated Iranian-ness with Shi‘i-ness, were deliberately employing the Persian language. Shi‘i travellers to Hend, on the other hand, generally regarded the Safavid rulers as the embodiment of Iran. After conventional prayers to God and invocation of the Prophet, Mohammad Nabi’ Qurchi’s narrative in verse, Safarnama-ye manzum-e hajj, commences with praise of Shah ‘Abbas II, which he regards as being as jurisprudentially obligatory (vajeb) as daily prayers and fasting.32 Mohammad Nabi’, who was born in Esfahan, finds himself ‘trapped’ for 25 years in Hend, a land that he finds jurisprudentially impure, mainly due to idol-worship and theologically defined infidelity. Perhaps to cleanse himself ritualistically following his long stay in Hend, he sets out for the hajj shortly after returning to Iran. In his deferential portrayal of the shah of Iran, he also writes: Even though he [the shah] descends from the Prophet At heart he is the sincere slave of ‘Ali The shah is a sublime untouched land Whose beliefs are purer than the skirt of Maryam33

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Even though the shah is a direct descendant of the Prophet, despite his elevated status as the king of Iran, Mohammad Nabi’ remarks, he is nothing more than a slave (gholam) of Emam ‘Ali. Rum and China shrivel up before the elevated state of the Iranian king, and Hend is merely one of the many houses of slaves that Iran owns on the royal chessboard. And yet, such prevalent presumptuous notions of its inherent ‘inferiority’ do not prevent Iranians from traveling to Hend. The image of Hend is primarily represented as a destination where the Perso-Islamic travellers find themselves due to the slyness of fate and, in their accounts, Hend is regarded as a vertiginous object of desire which they fear and yet for which they want to fall. Their accounts vacillate between the longing to explore the wonders of Hend and the fear of never being able to escape from its monstrosities. The author of Nur al-mashreqeyn, who also travelled to Hend, prefaces his account in verse with praise of Shah ‘Abbas II: In the orchard of Heydar, he is a [Persian] cypress The goldasta [chosen bouquet] in the entire seven realms [keshvar]34 […] O King! I cannot praise you Do seaweeds deserve to describe pearls? It suffices that by God Himself you are praised And you are the Son of Mortaza ‘Ali nonetheless35 Writing under the patronage of the Mughal prince Morad Bakhsh, Beheshti Haravi praises Shah ‘Abbas as a descendant of the mythical Persian king Jamshid and regards him as a Persian cypress in the orchard of Emam ‘Ali. For Beheshti, the shah is an ethnically proportionate embodiment of the confluence of Iran’s glorious pre-Islamic past and the zenith of its Shi‘i present. He invokes the presence of the Qaghans of China and the Caesars of Rome, as the hierarchal representatives of the non-Muslim world, to witness the grandeur of the shah, who is praised by God himself. On the one hand, he regards the shah as the ‘goldasta’, a term indicative of the superlative and unmatched qualities of the Safavids in the entire seven realms, the world in its entirety. ‘Goldasta’, however, is also connotative of the small tower or minaret attached to a mosque for giving the call to prayer. Furthermore, ‘seven realms’ (haft keshvar) is suggestive of Iran’s pre-Islamic historical consciousness of geographical boundaries. The poet’s loyalty and pledge of allegiance to the Safavid king, whose ‘blessed face’ he has never seen but for whom he (the poet) bears his love with a ‘thousand souls’, resembles the general tone of Safavid poets who praise the physical and spiritual aspects of the Shi‘i imams, whose faces they have never seen. Beheshti declares his stance as an Iranian poet who resides in Hend: Even though refuge in Hend I gain I am Iranian and a servant to the shah I remain36

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Despite his long residence in India, Beheshti’s sense of his Iranian self is immediately equated with his servility towards the shah of Iran as the quintessence of the Shi‘i ethos on earth and the executer of divine decrees in the absence of the last imam. This is one of the few significant instances of travellers equating Iranian-ness with Shi‘i-ness by association with the Safavid rulers. Beheshti’s account is also remarkable for its descriptions of cities in Iran as he negotiates ‘belonging’ between people and spaces that he encounters, how each locale bears the attributes of its inhabitants who define the sociocultural borders of that realm. Mashhad and Sabzavar are home to the Sadat (verified male descendants of the Prophet), the people of Semnan are experts in mathematics and the people of Shiraz are all poets, as one would expect from a land that was home to canonical figures such as Sa‘di and Hafez. Due to the presence of Emam Reza’s shrine, he regards the land of Mashhad to be as blessed as the land of Karbala. Nothing and no one emerges from the earth of Mashhad, he writes, that is not Shi‘i.37 The rise in the number of pilgrimages to Shi‘i landmarks inside Iran officially expanded the definitions of Shi‘i topography in the Safavid period and contributed to the notion of Shi‘i-ness being equivalent to Iranian-ness. Given the privileged position of its residents as inhabitants of a world of culture and letters, for most travellers of the period, Esfahan is the focal point and the lens through which other places and peripheries are evaluated. Travelling from Esfahan, a city in which she has presumably resided after her marriage, upon reaching Aleppo Lady Sarsar writes: I saw Aleppo as similar to Esfahan I saw Aleppo as the twin sister of Iran In the shops, bazaars and squares (meydan) It [Aleppo] had everything ready in the likeness of Esfahan38 To Lady Sarsar, Aleppo is not only reminiscent of Esfahan but, as the centre of earthly resourcefulness and divine hospitality, resonant of the entirety of Iran itself. Even a Herati poet such as Beheshti, who celebrates Herat as his hometown, cannot evade the geocultural and political supremacy of Esfahan and dedicates a significant number of verses to admiration of the city. For the eighteenth-century poet and polymath, Hazin Lahiji, whose autobiography-cum-travel narrative is set in the context of political turmoil towards the end of the Safavid period, the fall of Esfahan is the fall of Iran as he knew it. Hazin was both an active participant in and an empathetic recorder of events during the siege of Esfahan in 1722 and gives an account of noblemen and scholars who died during and before the siege. After a decade of displacement, moving residences across several cities due to the increasing upheavals that led to Nader Shah’s rise to power, Hazin was compelled to leave Iran abruptly for Hend in 1734, a decision that he regrets in retrospect. To Hazin, who was close to the centres of power, Iran was defined by the Safavids,

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whom he views as the epitome of ‘generosity induced by manliness’ (morrovat) and ‘people-centeredness’.39 Hend, on the other hand, not only did not possess such masculine Sufi attributes but rather depleted the manliness of the Iranian travellers through its exhaustively feminine features. Hend’s treatment of Iranian nobility, Hazin notes, predated Islam and emerged in the ‘history of the majus (Zoroastrians)’, notably in the eleventh-century poet Asadi Tusi’s Garshaspnama, where the mythical Iranian dragon-slaying hero Garshasp is advised by Nariman to shorten his stay in India lest his army loses all sense of ‘manliness’ and ‘culture’.40 Writing about home at a distance from home in Hend, Hazin reminisces about the land of Iran, whose glory surpasses the wonders of Solomon’s proverbial ring. Iran-zamin (the land of Iran) is the elevated paradise Its expanse wider than Solomon’s [realm] and its majesty [better than his] gem May the soul of vatan (homeland) [forever] be that elevated paradise [Iran] May the gem never be in the hands of Ahriman (evil forces) As long as the sun shines over all its plains May the evil eye keep distant from its remains For those who know how to look beyond and within The world is an oyster and Iran, the pearl41 Trapped for nearly three decades in Hend, a land that he can only escape through death, Hazin Lahiji reminisces about Iran’s mythical and residual cultural superiority that surpasses the wonders of Solomon’s proverbial ring, which was lost temporarily, but eventually returned to its rightful owner. Hazin prays that the elevated paradise of Iran-zamin may be immune to the attack of Ahriman (Aniran, non-Iranians), the enemies of Iran, implicitly the Ottomans, the Arabs and the Mughal Indians, all those who have their eyes on the mythical ring. For those who possess insight, he writes, Iran is the pearl, the central gem that makes encounters with and discovery of the world’s oyster worthwhile. Although these verses belong to Hazin’s large poetry compilation and are not a part of his travel narrative, they could be regarded as belonging to the larger corpus of Safavid travel literature produced during his period of displacement within and outside Iran. Moreover, the designation Iran-zamin (the land of Iran) or Iranshahr was employed by the Sasanians (224–651 AD), the last Persian rulers before the emergence of Islam, as a point of reference to ‘the core of their empire’.42 In Hazin’s poem, however, Iran-zamin is indicative of the general concept of Iran, in other words, the overall characteristics that constitute the state and experience of Iranian-ness, irrespective of its ‘transient political realities’, fluctuating borders and temporary rulers.43 Looking through Safavid travel literature, we can infer that there was an awareness of ‘Iran’ as a geopolitical body with distinct geographical borders

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and distinct governance that travellers noted variously in their accounts. Iran appeared to be a cultural and political component through which the PersoIslamic traveller established his sense of self, often in opposition to elements that seemed to threaten the integrity and entirety of Iranian-ness, which was often intertwined with notions of Shi‘i-ness and personified by the Safavid rulers. By examining Iranian and Shi‘i selfhood through the synergic relationship between ‘travel’ and ‘identity’, the historical and cultural contexts through which the lived and traversed geography of the Iranian travellers were translated into the literary topography of the Safavids, we can shed light on how Safavid travellers conceptualized a theo-political and cultural Iran that travelled with them beyond its borders.

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Notes: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 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.

John Walbridge, ‘A Persian Gulf in the sea of lights’, p. 90. Ibid., p. 83. Ibid., p. 89. ‘Ali Shari‘ati, Bāzshenāsi-ye hoviyat-e Irāni-Eslāmi, p. 102. Roxanne L. Euben, Journeys to the Other Shore, p. 92. Ibid., p. 2. Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Indo-Persian Travels in the Age of Discoveries, p. 24. Kathryn Babayan, ‘“In spirit we ate each other’s sorrow”’, pp. 239–74. Bānu-ye Esfahāni (The Esfahāni Lady), Safarnāma-ye manzum-e hajj. Ibid., p. 1. Ebrāhim Khodāyār and Yahyā ‘Obeyd Sāleh ‘Obeyd, ‘Takhallos dar she‘r-e Fārsi va ‘Arabi’, p. 63. Bānu-ye Esfahāni, Safarnāma-ye manzum, p. 1. Ibid., pp. 36–-37. Abbas Amanat, ‘Iranian identity boundaries’, pp. 11–12. Mohammad Bāqer Majlesi, Helyat al-mottaqin, p. 34. Ibid, p. 35. Masoumeh Kāmkār, ‘Hajj-gozāri-ye Irāniyān dar dowra za‘f va zavāl-e Safaviyān’, p. 115. Mohammad Taqi Majlesi, Lavame‘-e Sāheb Qerāni, vol. V, p. 219. Anonymous, ‘Resāla dar zerā‘-e Makka’, pp. 21–22. Ibid., editor’s introduction, p. 12. Bānu-ye Esfahāni, Safarnāma-ye manzum, p. 76. Ibid., p. 89. Vāheb Hamadāni, ‘E‘jāz-e Makki’, pp. 347–48. ‘Abd al-Rashid ebn-e ‘Abd al-Ghāfur Tattavi, ‘Arus-e ‘Arab’, vol. II, p. 986. Allāhyār Sufi Naqshbandi Samarqandi, ‘Hajjnāma’, p. 149. Mohammad ebn-e Ya‘qub al-Koleyni, ‘Ketāb-e hajj’, p. 506. Sayyed ‘Ali Akbar Khatā’i, ‘Khatāynāma’, p. 30. Sharif al-Din Hoseyn Khvārazmi, ‘Jaddat al-‘āsheqin’, p. 19. Ibid., p. 43. Mohyi al-Din Lāri, Fotuh al-harameyn, p. 36. ‘Ali Akbar Dehkhodā, ‘Nowruz-e ‘Arab’, p. 22836. Mohammad Nabi’ Qurchi-ye Esfahāni, ‘Safarnāma-ye manzum-e hajj’, p. 322. Ibid. ‘Abdollāh Beheshti Haravi, Nur al-mashreqeyn, p. 68. Ibid., p. 69. Ibid., p. 70. Ibid., p. 203. Bānu-ye Esfahāni, Safarnāma-ye manzum, p. 50. Mohammad ‘Ali ebn-e Abi Tāleb Hazin Lāhiji, ‘Tārikh va Safarnāma-ye Hazin’, p. 590. Ibid. Hazin Lāhiji, Divān-e Hazin-e Lāheji, p. 664. Gene R. Garthwaite, The Persians, p. 2.

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43. Andrew J. Newman, Safavid Iran, Rebirth of a Persian Empire, p. 128.

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Bibliography: Alam, Muzaffar and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Indo-Persian Travels in the Age of Discoveries, 1400–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). Amanat, Abbas, ‘Iranian identity boundaries: A historical overview’, in Iran Facing Others: Identity Boundaries in a Historical Perspective, ed. Abbas Amanat and Farzin Vejdani (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), pp. 1– 33. ‘Āmeli, Sheykh Bahā’ al-Din Mohammad, Jāme‘-e ‘Abbāsi: Resāla-ye ‘amaliya, 3rd edn (Qom: Jāme‘a-ye modarresin-e howza-ye ‘elmiya-ye Qom, Daftar-e enteshārāt-e eslāmi, 2014). Anonymous, ‘Resāla dar zera‘-e Makka (Treatise on Measuring Mecca)’, in Shānzdah safarnāma hajj [Safavi va] Qājāri-ye digar, ed. Rasul Ja‘fariyān (Qom: Movarrekh, 2016), pp. 9–28. Babayan, Kathryn, ‘“In spirit we ate each other’s sorrow”: Female companionship in seventeenth-century Safavi Iran’, in Islamicate Sexualities: Translations across Temporal Geographies of Desire, ed. Afsaneh Najmabadi and Kathryn Babayan, Harvard Middle Eastern Monographs, 39 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Center for Middle Eastern Studies, 2008), pp. 239–74. Bānu-ye Esfahāni (The Esfahāni Lady), Safarnāma-ye manzum-e hajj (A hajj travel narrative in verse), ed. Rasul Ja‘fariyān (Tehran: Sāzmān-e Joghrāfeyā’i-ye niruhā-ye mosallā, 2007). Beheshti Haravi, ‘Abdollāh, Nur al-mashreqey, safarnāma-ye manzum az ‘ahde Safavi, ed. Najib Māyel Haravi (Mashhad: Āstān-e Qods-e Razavi, 1998). Dehkhodā, ‘Ali Akbar, ‘Nowruz-e ‘Arab’, in Loghatnāma-ye Dehkhodā, ed. Mohammad Mo‘in and Sayyed Ja‘far Shahidi, vol. XV (Tehran: Mo’asessa va enteshārāt va chāp-e Dāneshgāh-e Tehrān, 1998). Euben, Roxanne L., Journeys to the Other Shore: Muslim and Western Travelers in Search of Knowledge, 2nd edn (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2008). Farshi, ‘Resāla dar zera‘-e Madina’, in Shānzdah safarnāma hajj [Safavi va] Qājāri-ye digar, ed. Rasul Ja‘fariyān (Qom: Movarrekh, 2016), pp. 29–130. Garthwaite, Gene R., The Persians (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005). Hamadāni, Vāheb, ‘E‘jāz-e Makki: Safarnāma-ye manzum-e hajj-e dowra-ye Safavi’, ed. Rasul Ja‘fariyān, Payām-e Bahārestān 12 (2011), pp. 335–73. Hazin Lāhiji, Mohammad ‘Ali ebn-e Abi Tāleb, Divān-e Hazin-e Lāhiji, ed. Zabihollāh Sāhebkār (Tehran: Nashr-e Sāya, 1378/1999). — ‘Tārikh va Safarnāma-ye Hazin’, in Divān-e Hazin-e Lāhiji, be enzemām-e tārikh va safarnāma-ye Hazin, ed. Bijan Taraqqi and Sayyed Vahid Semnāni (Tehran: Sanaei Publications, 2008), pp. 507–99. Kāmkār, Masoumeh, ‘Hajj-gozāri-ye Irāniyān dar dowra-ye za‘f va zavāl-e Safaviyān’, Farhang-e Pazhuhesh 13 (2013), pp. 111–30.

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Khatā’i, Sayyed ‘Ali Akbar, ‘Khatāynāma’, in Khatāynāma: Sharh-e moshāhedāt-e Sayyed ‘Ali Akbar Khatāi dar sarzamin-e Chin be peyvast-e Safarnāma-ye Gheyās al-Din Naqqāsh, ed. Iraj Afshār, 2nd edn (Tehran: Markaz-e asnād-e Farhangi-ye Āseyā, 1993), pp. 25–267. Khodāyār, Ebrāhim and Yahyā ‘Obeyd Sāleh ‘Obeyd, ‘Takhallos dar she‘r-e Farsi va ‘Arabi (Barresi-ye tatbiqi-ye nām-hā-ye she‘ri dar nazd-e shā‘erāne Fārsi zabān va ‘Arab)’, Fonun-e Adabi 4, no. 1 (2012), pp. 61–78. Khvārazmi, Sharif al-Din Hoseyn, ‘Jaddat al-‘āsheqin: Az māvarā’ al-nahr tā Harameyn-e Sharifeyn (Gozāresh-e safar-e hajj-e Sheikh Hoseyn Khvārazmi (1549–1551))’, ed. Rasul Ja‘fariyān, Payam-e Baharestan 4, no. 13 (2011), pp. 11–88. al-Koleyni, Mohmmad ebn-e Ya‘qub, ‘Ketāb-e hajj’, in Foru‘-e Kāfi, ed. Mohammad Hoseyn Rahimiyān, 10 vols (Qom: Quds Publications, 2009), vol. III, pp. 415–652. Lāri, Mohyi al-Din, Fotuh al-harameyn, ed. ‘Ali Mohaddes, 2nd edn (Tehran: Ettelā‘āt, 2004). Majlesi, Mohammad Bāqer, Helyat al-mottaqin, ed. Kāzem ‘Ābedini Motlaq, 5th edn (Tehran: Vojdāni, 2010). Majlesi, Mohammad Taqi ebn-e Maqsud ‘Ali, Lavame‘-e Sāheb Qerāni, 8 vols (Tehran: Matba‘a-ye Mirzā ‘Ali Asghar, 1913), vol. 5. Mofid Mostowfi Bāfqi, Mohammad, ‘Dar zekr-e ba‘zi az gharā’eb-e ruzegār va sharh-e shamma-i az ahvāl-e kathir al-Ekhtelāl Sargashta-ye Wādi-ye Nākāmi Mohammad Mofid’, in Jame‘-e Mofidi, 3 vols (Tehran: Enteshārāte asātir, 2008), vol. III, pp. 743–816. Newman, Andrew J., Safavid Iran: Rebirth of a Persian Empire (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009). Qurchi-ye Esfahāni, Mohammad Nabi’, ‘Safarnāma-ye manzum-e hajj, ‘asr-e Shāh ‘Abbās-e dovvom-e Safavi’, in Maqālāt va resālāt-e tārikhi, ed. Rasul Ja‘fariyān, 2 vols (Tehran: ‘Elm, 2015), vol. II, pp. 317–58. Rabi‘, Mohammad ebn-e Mohammad Ebrahim, Safina-ye Soleymāni (Safarnāma-ye Safir-e Irān be Seyām) 1683-1687, ed. ‘Abbas Faruqi (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e Dāneshgāh-e Tehrān, 1977). Shari‘ati, ‘Ali, Bāzshenāsi-ye hoviyat-e Irāni-Eslāmi, majmu‘a-ye āsār, 27, 9th edn (Tehran: Elhām va Bonyād-e farhangi-ye Dr. ‘Ali Shari‘ati, 2009). Sufi-ye Naqshbandi-ye Samarqandi, Allāhyār, ‘Hajjnāma’, in Shānzdah safarnāma hajj [Safavi va] Qājāri-ye digar, ed. Rasul Ja‘fariyān (Qom: Movarrekh, 2016), pp. 141–57. Tattavi, ‘Abd al-Rashid ebn-e ‘Abd al-Ghāfur Hoseyni Madani, ‘Arus-e Arab’, in Farhang-e Rashidi, be zamima-ye mo’arrabāt-e Rashidi, ed. Mohammad ‘Abbāsi, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Tehran: Ketābforushi-ye Bārāni, 1958). Walbridge, John, ‘A Persian Gulf in the sea of lights: The chapter on Naw-Ruz in Bihar al-Anwar’, Iran 35 (1997), pp. 83–89.

13 Local and Transregional Places in the Works of Safavid Men of Letters Sunil Sharma (Boston University)

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afavid literary culture was to a great extent a continuation of Timurid practices, with the court as the centre of patronage and textual production and the use of traditional poetic forms such as the qasida, masnavi and ghazal. Yet poets introduced many innovations in terms of literary genres and forms.1 Additionally, over time the occasions and spaces in which literature was practised took on a distinctly Safavid form, in keeping with changes such as the establishment of Shi‘i Islam as the state religion and due to larger political and social developments in the wider Persianate world. A noticeable shift can be seen especially in the position of the professional poet and his relationship to place. Poets and their literary output were, on the one hand, deeply rooted in the local – the here and now – but at the same time they were also embedded in trans-local networks. In other words, what once signified the realm of Persian literature, i.e. the central Iranian lands, was rapidly becoming part of a larger Persianate cultural sphere. The Safavid period was marked as an age of travel, and peripatetic poets joined a larger wave of emigration from Iran and found themselves employed in far-flung courts outside Iran in new cultural and geographic landscapes. But many poets also did not leave home, of course, although they were conscious of the travel ethos of the age. In order to map the range of the experiences of Iranian émigrés, scholars to date have focused largely on the accounts of Iranians abroad, as penned in their travelogues, such as those by Mohammad Mofid Mostowfi Bafqi and Hazin Lahiji, or the more provocative topic of how they fared in ‘liver-burning’ India (Hend-e jegarsuz), the most popular destination for a few decades.2 In her study of travel and expression of the ‘self’, Kathryn Babayan states that ‘[t]he variety of subjective voices and modes of witnessing and recording travel defy any neat categorization in terms of genre, form, or content’.3 We shall see how the idea of the expanding Persian world of letters was articulated in different genres of literary texts, and specific places on the itinerary of mobile poets were inscribed with special significance, which resulted in poets rethinking their sense of self in terms of both a geographical and a conceptual world of Persian letters.

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The reasons for the limited opportunities for poets in the Safavid lands and their migration to other lands are thought to be manifold and have been the subject of extensive scholarly discussion since the time of the literary historian E.G. Browne a century ago.4 The preference for poetry with an overtly Shi‘i content, persecution of specific communities of people, such as Sunnis and Sufis, at certain times and the more lucrative opportunities available for professional poets in the Ottoman, Deccan and Mughal courts all spurred the dispersal of men of letters from Safavid centres of literary production, whether temporarily or on a more permanent basis. Nonetheless, there is some value in the argument that an ungenerous attitude on the part of Iranian patrons towards court poets in general created an atmosphere that prompted emigration from Iran. A watershed moment in Safavid history is thought to be Shah Tahmasp I’s ‘second sincere repentance’ in 1556, which resulted in a more stringent atmosphere with regard to public morality and piety, culminating in repercussions for the state of patronage of the arts.5 The Safavid chronicler Eskandar Beg Monshi, writing several decades after the fact, described the shift in Tahmasp’s attitude towards poetry: During the latter part of his life, however, when the Shah took more seriously the Koranic prescription to ‘do what is right and eschew evil’, he no longer counted poets pious and upright men because of the known addiction many of them had to the bottle. He ceased to regard them with favor and refused to allow them to present him with occasional pieces and eulogistic odes.6 This explanation alone, however, could not have been sufficient for the largescale emigration of men of letters from Iran that was a defining characteristic of early modern Persian literary culture. Paul Losensky offers a corrective view here: ‘His renunciation of arts and letters, memorialized in several well-known anecdotes, belie the wealth of artistic production and panegyrical literature that emerged from his court’.7 The life stories of Safavid men of letters provide useful information on the motivations for migration and the various itineraries of travellers. It is likely that Safavid Persian poets were leaving home for better opportunities abroad even before the reign of Shah Tahmasp I (r. 1524–76), which saw the greatest migration of men of letters to India. An overlooked example, and one which took a different direction, i.e. westward to the Ottoman court, is that of a poet of the early sixteenth century named Mowlana Mohammad ‘Ada’i’ Shirazi.8 In his Shahnama-esque masnavi, Salimnama or the Shahnama-ye moharaba-ye Soltan Salim (ca. 1520), Ada’i describes the circumstances of his decision to emigrate from Iran in somewhat general terms, without any emotional overtones:9

LOCAL AND TRANSREGIONAL PLACES ঝ ໋ ං ౻ ໑ ΋ Ϋ߮ ϰ ΋  ̶ ਛ Ψ ৯ Χඟ Δࡤ  ජ

࣎ भ ࣤ ಪ ෙ ঳ ࢋশ ହϞΧϪ ϟ Ϋ ଒‫ ﺟﺎ‬ ඼ ࣤ ಪ ࢬ ৩ ൈ ૛ Ϣૼ‫ ازو راز‬ ̵ ΧϪ Ϧ ൏ ।‫زﺑﺎن‬ ਲ਼ ࢁ ༜ ϔ࣪ Χ ඟ ‫ و‬ϡ΋ Ψ Ϥ

311

໋ ‫ روزﮔﺎر‬ γ Χඟ ‫ از‬ ଒ ϞΨ ৯ Ϳభ

෉ ઈ োάධ র Ύࢹ Ϋ‫ و‬ ΧϪ ‫ﻓﻠﮏ ﯾﺎورم‬

࢙ ϕ ෻ ঙ র Ϣૼ  έ߮ βज़ Χ‫ و‬έ΋ ඼ ΧϪ ϟ

ਮ ࡂ ভ র ໑ ΋ ϔ࣪ Ϋ‫ و‬ΧϪ ‫ ﯾﺎر‬ ජ ࢌ঻ ජ

At that time a turn of fate made me peripatetic, Heaven was my helper and destiny my guide; I wasn’t a stranger in any place. My pen was my confidant and companion; my secret wasn’t hidden from it. In exile the tongue of poets and intellect were my friends. After an initial period of finding himself at a loose end, Ada’i found a worthy patron in one of the Deccan courts, the details of which have not come to light, and spent a number of years in the southern part of India. He left India after some time to go on the hajj, and while visiting in the holy cities he made the decision to try his luck at the Ottoman court in Istanbul. When Ada’i arrived at his new destination, he was met with the sight of a magnificent city:10

च য শ ു ই ෙ Ψ ϰ ϡ߮ ΐশ ହ඼ ̶ ਞ ହ

൚ ো૟ ࡺ ভ ඇ ࡨ ࣍ ࣚ ു ই ੸ ดฎ Ψ ϰ  ϟ Ϧ 

ই Δࡤ ‫୏ از ﺑﺎغ و‬δ ি ϩ ୀ‫ و‬ϡϩ భ

ࢪ ঳ ໕ औ ෙ ७ Δࡤ Ϟ ඟ  Ϫ ‫ دﯾﺪم‬ ඼  ఇ

࡫ ࣼ ඵ ථ ত ί ߮ Ϥ  Γ άධ ϟ ‫ زو‬ ϥ άෆ ϥ Ψ ॰

ࣣ ದ ൉ ໍ ί ߮ ϰ Ϗජ  ଽϩ భࢋশ ߮ Ξࠡ

ड़ ϩ భ‫ ﺟﺎن‬ΰ ি Ϫ ‫دوای دل و‬

ࢪ ঳ ു ૡ ঙ ऑ ೻ ύ‫ و‬ΫϪ ϩ భϡ߮ ଶ  Ϧ ̶ ਠ

My destiny took me to Istanbul; exile took me to a strange city. I saw a city like a happy paradise; it was full of gardens and fields. A paradise full of damsels and boys, holding a cure for the heart and companion for the soul. There were unmatched wonders everywhere; the eye of learning was stunned by it. This exuberant mode of description was a common feature of early modern Persian literature, especially travelogues, and was used in particular to praise flourishing urban centres, as will be discussed below. Finding himself in a new place again, Ada’i had some difficulties initially but received help from two

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compatriots, one a learned man from Qazvin and the other a physician from Barda‘, attesting to the presence of an established community of Persophone émigrés who were in high positions. While Ada’i did not express any great sorrow about leaving home, other poets would later be torn by the prospect of emigration. An extreme example is Mohammad Jan Qodsi (d. 1646), a poet from Mashhad who had risen from being a grocer to holding the post of treasurer of the holiest shrine of Emam Reza. He composed many devotional poems to the imam and eventually attracted the attention of the governor Hasan Khan Shamlu in Herat. With the death of his son at the age of 20 and frustrated by his financial difficulties, in 1632, when he was himself 50, he decided to leave for India. He received the highest honours at the Mughal court under the emperor Shah Jahan (r. 1628– 56) and died there 14 years later. Qodsi agonized over the decision to leave his homeland:11

ඍ ໕ ৔ ΋ ... ϡ߮ α΋ ඟ ‫ دل از‬Ϣಶ Χୀϡ΋ Ϫ

໋ ໋ ত ষ Δ॥ ΋ ϡ߮ ϰ Ϳ Ψ ঴ ඟ ΋ Δ॥ ΋ ̮ ϰ  ඟ ΋

ࣂ ඓ ࡭ ই ໕ ‫ آﺳﺎن‬଒ ΫϪ ‫ آن‬Δ ࡣ ϡ߮ α΋ ඟ

ਖ ৶ ি ৤ ໕ দ Δࡣ Ϳ‫ و‬Ϣଌ ΋ ϡ߮ α΋ ඟ  ϟ Ϫ ̶

Khorasan is not a country that you can let go of so easily. I’m not saying that Khorasan is this or that, good or bad – it is home. Although he displayed a deep attachment to the city of his birth, he realized that, as a poet, his best chances were to leave Iran because it had let him down:12

ঙ ࢉ ϣ औ ΍߮ ΐন  Ϫ Δ࢟ ହ ߮ α ϩ భΔ ॥ ΋ ϡϪ  ଒

໔ ૡ ঙ ΋ ‫ ﺑﺎب‬Ϧ ‫ ﻃﺎق از‬ϥ Ψ ॰ ψप ϩ  ଒‫ ﺷﺎه‬ భච

හ ࣤ ಪ ਲ‫ ﺻﺪ‬ϡ΋ ऒ ໋ ϐࣣ ୌ ΋ ‫ از‬ άන Ϫ  ΧϪ ̶ ਪ ߮ Ν ଦඟ ໓ ໓ ૕ आϢଌ Ϟ΋ ඟ  Δ॥ ΋ Ϟ΋ ඟ  Ϧ భ‫ﺟﺎی آرام‬

Although there is no happier place than Iran, a hundred regrets that in it the cup of ambition is upside down, like a bubble. A place for repose is forbidden in this land, except for the threshold of the king where there is an arch at every door. Like Ada’i, Qodsi also refers to the realm of poetry as a metaphor for a place to which he belongs when he praises Emam Reza as he is leaving Mashhad:13

ࢦ ৷໓ଌ ૽ দ ࠩ ΋ ϥ Ϫ ̵ Ϫ ΧϢଌ భ  ΰয ϟඟ  Ϣ΋ ϢΫ‫ﭼﺎر‬

૸ ।ࢆ βज़ Ϡ হ Δ॥ ΋  Ϣૼ  ̮ ϝ  Ϣ ϡϪ  ψভ Ϋࢌশ ߮ Ϥ  భ

In praising you, the domain of poetry is my country, The four pillars of this sanctuary are witness to my claim. The professional poet, and one who was a native speaker of the Persian language, was in possession of skills that were in high demand in the larger world.

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The expansion of the domain of Persian letters was also described by writers of other works at this time. In the Haft eqlim (Seven Climes), which combined geography, biography and history, the author Amin Ahmad Razi places Iran right in the centre of the third clime, with many cities actually located in the more moderate fourth clime. He describes Iran as being a vast land that contains many varieties of riches (‫)ﻣﻤﻠﮑﺘﯽ اﺳﺖ در ﻏﺎﯾﺖ وﺳﻌﺖ و ﻣﺸﺘﻤﻞ ﺑﺮ ﺻﻨﻮف ﻧﻌﻤﺖ‬.14 Its inhabitants are educated and thus fit to hold important positions in any state:

ࢉ ΏଛϪ ૡ ঙ দ ‫ ارﮐﺎن ﻣﻠﮏ‬Ϧ ଛϪ

૸ । ॷ ফ Ψ Ϥ ଒ΧΫ߮ ଶ  ଒‫ را‬Ϣ ສঔ ΋  ϩ

॒ ૤ ଶ ‫ ﻣﻠﮏ‬ϡ߮ ̳ Ϋୁ Ϧ Ϣ૽ ߮ α

ෛ য ࢙ ω‫ از‬άන ෙ ঳ ঃ Ψ Ϥ ඼ ‫ و ادب‬ϟ

The inhabitants are all grandees of the country; in each corner all are pillars of the state. Most are accomplished in knowledge and adab; as for poets, who can count how many there are. The celebration of Safavid Iran as the centre of the Persian world and its inhabitants as men of letters makes for a loaded statement, given that Amin Ahmad Razi completed his work in Mughal India at the end of the sixteenth century. By this time many poets, among other classes of professionals, had emigrated from Iran and were in high positions at the Mughal and Deccan courts, therefore it was important to emphasize their place of origin. While the Haft eqlim marked a new perspective on the Persian world of letters, the authors of Safavid biographical dictionaries for the most part continued the practice of using the traditional tabaqat genre, mapping communities of poets based on a social hierarchy. But, over time, the arrangement of the works reflected a programme of writing about the ‘centre’, i.e., Iran, in a more expansive manner. An early example is the Tohfa-ye Sami (Gift of Sam), finished around 1550 by Shah Tahmasp’s brother, Sam Mirza (d. 1566), who was governor of Khorasan.15 The work is divided into seven sections (sahifas): 1) Shah Esma‘il and contemporary princes; 2) sayyeds and ulema; 3) viziers and other officials; 4) distinguished persons who occasionally wrote poetry; 5) professional poets; 6) poets of Turkish race; 7) mainly tradesmen who were poets (sa’er-e ‘avamm). A similar tabaqat classification was already developed by earlier tazkera writers, such as ‘Owfi’s Lobab alalbab and Dowlatshah’s Tazkerat al-sho‘ara. In his introduction, Sam Mirza praises contemporary poets as having surpassed the canonical master poets:16

ੂ ।࣓ ඥ ࣺ ࣨ ൎ ϕ ࣂ ඒ ࡭ ࡭ ই ৗ ່ ̶ ਉ ϩ Χ඼  ̵ ΋ Ϫ ̶ ਫ ฬ΋ Χ ΫϪ  భ‫ ﯾﮏ‬ଽ‫ و‬ ̵ ΫϪ ΋ ‫و‬ ̵ Ψ ϊॣ ‫و‬ϩ ά  ̵ ΫϪ ϟ΋ భ‫ ﯾﮏ‬ଽ Each one in the clime of poesy a Khosrow, Sa‘di and Anvari, and in expertise about countries, a leader such as Ferdowsi.

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SAFAVID PERSIA IN THE AGE OF EMPIRES

He wishes to preserve their verses lest they disappear in the passing of days or conflicts between peoples and cities. But the metaphor of the eqlim-e sokhanvari was limited to the area of greater Iran, not the Persianate world beyond. A comparison of Sam Mirza’s biographical dictionary with the earlier influential work, Mir ‘Ali Shir Nava’i’s Majales al-nafa’es (Assemblies of the nobles), written in the late Timurid period, can be summed up in the words of B. Reinert: While Nawā’ī exults in the idea according to which Khurasan, with its capital Harāt, had reached the highest blossoming of Persian culture under its lord Husayn Baykara, and concentrates his observation on the Khurasanian poets, Sām Mīrzā’s point is rather the overall picture of Safawid poetry … in the separate chapters the place of origin often serves for an associative classification. Sam Mirza does not think in a centralistic way but along lines of political integration; every place in the realm of the Safavids counts, and the real image of Persian poetry emerges only from the totality of all the places where it is practiced.17 The author’s objective is to chart the literary parameters of the Safavid political domain by emphasizing the existing social order through the culture of poetry at all levels of society. Sam Mirza includes 30 Safavid poets who are Turks along with a sampling of their Turkish verses, a unique feature of biographical dictionaries of the period. The focus on the land of Iran is also evident in another major biographical dictionary from the late sixteenth century, Kholasat al-ashʻar va zobdat alafkar (Summary of verses and choice thoughts), authored by Taqi Kashi (d. after 1608) in 1577–78 and expanded in 1607–8.18 Along with the ‘ancient’ or classical poets of all regions, section four in the Kholasat focuses on contemporary poets and is organized into 12 subsections devoted to the important literary centres in Iran: Kashan, Esfahan, Qom, Sava, Qazvin, Gilan and Mazandaran, Tabriz and Azerbaijan, Yazd and Kerman, Shiraz, Hamadan, Ray and Astarabad, and Khorasan. But over time, by the late seventeenth century, such as in the case of Taher Nasrabadi’s work, Tazkera-ye Taher-e Nasrabadi, begun in 1672–73 and completed in 1680 with a dedication to Shah Soleyman, although the tabaqat model was retained, the section on professional poets had become a tripartite division of the world of Persian literature: Iran, Turan and Hendustan.19 Of course, each of these areas did not receive equal coverage, with the emphasis being on Safavid Iran. The tripartite division of the world of Persian poetry was maintained in the major post-Safavid tazkera by Lotf ‘Ali Beg Azar Bigdeli, Atashkada (Fire temple), which was begun in 1760–61 and was an important source for the poetry of the so-called bazgasht poets.20 In the ‘poets’ section of his Tarikh-e ‘alam-ara-ye ‘Abbasi, the court chronicler Eskandar Beg Monshi lists 18 poets, along with brief biographical

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entries, who were active around the death of Shah Tahmasp I in 1576, followed by an additional five men who were non-professional poets in the capital Qazvin.21 The major court poets among them are Mowlana Zamiri Esfahani, who is called the ‘peerless poet of the age’, followed by Mowlana Mohtasham, Mowlana Vali and Mowlana Vahshi Yazdi [Bafqi]. As if trying to underplay the emigration phenomenon, Eskandar Beg only mentions two court poets who permanently left Iran for India, Mir Heydar ‘Mo‘amma-ye Kashan’ (Rafe‘i in Mughal texts) and Mowlana Malek Qommi, who enjoyed a distinguished career entirely at the ‘Adel Shahi court in the Deccan. The career trajectories of three of the court poets mentioned by Eskandar Beg Monshi attest to the growing consciousness of the Persianate cultural sphere as mapped out in biographical dictionaries, but also highlight the sense of rootedness in the local in an age of mobility and travel. Vahshi Bafqi (d. 1583) was a poet who was ‘free of the wanderlust that would possess Persian poets over the next fifty years’.22 Although he spent some time in Kashan, where he wrote panegyrics dedicated to Shah Tahmasp I, and also travelled to Arak and Jarun, Vahshi was content to stay in Yazd or nearby Taft for most of his life, with local rulers as his patrons. His rival, Mohtasham Kashani (d. 1588), remembered by posterity for his strophic poem (davazdah-band) on the martyrdom of Emam Hoseyn in the Battle of Karbala, was a more influential poet, who remained in Kashan throughout his life. Although he wrote panegyric poems to the ‘Adel Shahi and Mughal rulers, and saw many of his pupils, such as Zohuri Torshizi and Now‘i Khabushani, leave permanently for India, where they earned great fame and honour, he himself did not emigrate from Iran.23 The third poet of this time, Zolali Khvansari (d. 1615–16) spent his entire life in Khvansar and Esfahan, and remained connected to the Safavid court, especially to Mir Mohammad Baqer Astarabadi. Zolali was a poet of the ghazal, but also wrote seven mystical or romantic masnavis, collectively known as the Sab‘a sayyara (Seven Planets).24 Each of his long poems is dedicated to Shah ‘Abbas I and includes a section in praise of his native place, Khvansar. In one line, Zolali lets slip an anxiety about the global shifts that were affecting the lives of Iranian men of letters, even as he praises Iran:25

ࢠ ࠬ ࡤ ࣂ ඓ ঙ Δࡣ ଡ ߮ Φ ଒Δ ঝ ߮ ଶ Ψ ώࣻ

ࣁ ౼ ඌ ৗ ৗ ত Δ॥ ߮ Ϥ ͿχϪ  ଘχϪ ࢌඇ

࢘ Ϡૡ ࣂ ඓ ঙ Δࡣ  ଡ ΋ ୌ ϩδ ࢁ ϻ భ

໑ ঘ Δ॥ ߮ Ώ ΫϞΧජ  ϡ΋ ୌ ΋ ‫ از‬δ ই  Ψ Ϥ

There is no desolate place in the entire kingdom the owl has become a bird of paradise for there is no house of sorrow. India that steals people from Iran Its kind is familiar to every type of person. Although not all Safavid poets dreamed of leaving Iran, the vision of the glittering prospects of India haunted many of them.

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In the next generation, the life and career of Sa’eb Tabrizi (d. 1676) stands out starkly when emigration from Iran was at its highest levels.26 After travelling for a seven-year period, from 1624 to 1631, in Kabul, Kashmir and the Deccan, Sa’eb returned to Esfahan and established himself as a master poet, frequenting coffeehouses but also maintaining a connection with the court. He enjoyed an international reputation in his own lifetime and is now considered the premier poet of the early modern Persian-speaking world. His topographical poems celebrate local elements, from buildings to bridges, in the capital city. In one ghazal, Sa’eb compares his homeland to India:27

ࣂ ඓ ৔ औ ࢅ พি ൈ બ‫ ﺑﺎغ‬Ϧ ૛ Δࡣ  Ϫ ϡ୓ ߮ ϒ  ສঢ  ϡϪ

ૡ ঙ ठ ̳ ঘ ‫ را‬Ψ Ϥ ‫ ﺑﺎغ‬ ̵ ߮ Ϩ Ϧ ࢋ঵ ߮ ι ‫دﯾﺪه ام‬

Sa’eb, I have seen all the flowers of the garden of India; It is not like the not-yet-bloomed flower of your garden of Esfahan. Here Sa’eb seems to be alluding to the unexplored potential of the Safavid capital city as a centre for poets, who were more attracted by the glitter of a distant place. Sa’eb experienced the best of both worlds: he was able to travel and see for himself what the attraction was in the new centres of Persian literature outside Iran, but eventually he settled down in the Safavid realm and did not have to live with permanent feelings of loss and nostalgia. While scholarship on the literature of the Safavid period has largely focused on the ghazal and discussion on the validity of the term sabk-e hendi,28 in fact the three non-ghazal literary genres that were emblematic of this age and connected to a new sense of space were the saqinama, shahrashub and the travelogue-topographical masnavi, with a great deal of overlap between them. According to Paul Losensky, ‘Because it engages a wide range of literary precedents and social values, the new genre of sāqi-nāma proved an ideal forum for negotiating diverse representations of kingship in the early Safavid period’.29 By the seventeenth century, this genre of poetry became a favourite of poets who were grappling with the poetics of emigration and exile. While saqinamas tended to be lengthy poems, the shahrashub can be considered in terms of individual verses. The basic definition of the poetic genre of the shahrashub in the context of early modern literature is a poem describing young men of a particular profession or social group against the backdrop of an actual urban city. It was chiefly celebratory and, unlike the medieval shahrashub, which was exclusively an independent poem that was not limited to a particular poetic form, in the early modern period the poems were part of a unified work that was loosely framed by the description of a city – usually an imperial centre – and dedicated to a ruler.30 It is a point of interest that the same genre flourished in distinct forms in different Persianate societies. Safavid shahrashub poems were basically poems on young male beloveds engaged in different professions or activities, read individually or as a cycle of poems, with no overt connection

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between them. Thus, these works have the quality of poetic ethnographies of a city or region. While Mughal and Ottoman poets focused on the religious and ethnic diversity among people in their societies, Safavid poets, perhaps in response to aesthetic choices and demands, displayed a kaleidoscopic view of a community of men connected by their affiliations to guilds and Sufi orders. Poems in the shahrashub genre represented a poet’s reinterpretation of the role of the beloved in a new urban context. The conventional images and metaphors of Persian love lyrics were the basic building blocks of this genre, but instead of celebrating the binaries of Turk and Hindu, the stern dictates of the ascetic (zahed) or market inspector (mohtaseb), here, every inhabitant of the city is a potential beloved, as the interplay of homosocial and mystical is acted out in spaces such as the tavern, coffeehouse or bazaar.31 The first Safavid shahrashub poem was composed by Lesani Shirazi (d. ca. 1534), an associate of the prince Sam Mirza, about the Safavid capital Tabriz and dedicated to Mansur Karahrudi, a monshi at the court of Shah Tahmasp I. Lesani’s Majma‘ al-asnaf (Collection of Vocations) is a literary innovation in the form of 109 sets of five roba‘is each, 95 of which are on the youths themselves.32 Although Lesani lists a wide range of young men in specific occupations, including those engaged in the book industry, there is no representation of the various ethnic groups that made up Safavid society. Several stock figures of the ghazal are included: cypress-statured (sarv-qadd), ascetic (zahed), mo’azzen (muezzin), moghbachcha-ye badaforush (Zoroastrian wine-seller) and qalandar (wandering dervish). Lesani’s poem on the attractive qalandar is set in the context of both a metaphoric ideal city and a real one:33

ൢ ϣ අ ൊ Ε ন ૟ Ψ Ϥ  ΫΨ ϰ ϻ భ ห

ൢ ϣ ൎ ϕୀ අ ൊ Ε ফ ૟ Ψ Ϥ  ΫΨ Ϥ Ϧ ଒ Ψ Ϥ  ଽ

࢝ ੎औ ໊ १ ൎ ϕ ϥ ߮ ̴৽  Χඟ  Ϣૼ  ̵ Ϫ  ΫΨ Ϥ  ສ ϡϪ

࣒ ঻ ࢤ ඐ ণ બ ϥ ߮ ϰ ϡ߮ ΐඅ ‫ ﺳﺎق و‬ ̵ ߮ ϒ ΧϪ

ি ໖ ॶ ං ౮ ΋ ૞ Δࡣ Ϋϩ Χϻ  χ߮ ଶ ‫ و‬Σඟ  భ

ൔ ঠ ਌ ী ࣓ ං ি Δࡣ ߮ ζী ϩ భ̶ ϩ భ଒ϟ

ැ ૡ ॷ ໊ ൊ Ҥ Χάධ ϔ৘ Ϸ̵ ୓Ϧ ඟ ଘ̮ ϰ

ැ Χάධ ϔॴ ߮ ω Ϋ΋ ା‫زﻧﮓ از دل ﺻﺪ‬

࠳ ग़ ൢ ϣ ੢ අ Ψ Ϥ  ෘ ‫ ﺟﺎن‬Ϟ߮ ζज़  ϓ߮ ζ࠙

঒ ঻ ໑ ൊ Ε ൊ Ε ΋ ૟ ૟ Δ॥ ϩ ΋  ଘϦ ජ ‫و‬Δ ࡣ  ̶ ਠ Ϧ భ ࣄ ઺ ૟ ී ൊ Ε ϥ ߮ ̴ৼ  Π ‫ دی‬Ϧ άඵ Δक़ Ψ ೯ భ

ࣄ ઺র ࣎ ൈ ঠ ࢼ δࣂ Ύ ८‫ و‬ο߮ ζি  Π ΧϪଦϟ ি ൎ ϕ Δࡣ ߮ Ν‫ ﺑﻼی‬ ଒ ΫΨ Ϥ  Ϋ΋ Ψ ঁ Χ ̶

ං ඔ ࣓ ࢡ ਈ যࡣ ৤ Δ ‫ ﺑﺎﺑﺎ و‬଒ ϟ Ψ Ҥ Χ

ැ ൎ ϕ Υ‫ از‬ Χάධ ϔ৘ ϸ ΫΨ Ϥ  ଒‫ دل‬ଽ

෦ ৅෻ ঊ ශ ࣪ ਭ ̵ άධ γ άඵέ ඼  Χ Ϲ Ϫ భ

318

SAFAVID PERSIA IN THE AGE OF EMPIRES ৔ ৖ १ ૟ ণϐॹ ΋ Ϟ΋ Ϫ  γϪ Ϧ έ ‫ زد ۀ‬ ΧϪ

ࡻ ॹ ৔ দ ૓ ࢕ Ρ‫ ﻏﻼم‬Ϧ ૔ Ϟ΋ Ϫ γϪ  భϦ ΋

૏ মΫΨ ৔ ও ൎ ϕ‫ ̶ ﺑﺎده‬ਟ Ϟ΋ Ϫ  γϪ Ψ ॠ Ϧ Ϥ ෬ Ώ ࡶ ভ ໋ ໑ ΋ ̵ άඵ ̶ ਍ ϩ ජ ‫و‬ ජ  Δ॥ Χඟ

Until they visit the Heydar shrine, the olfactory sense of lovers’ souls is not perfumed. In the takiya there is an idol who is my support, though one can’t rely on qalandars. While serving the master of the takiya at dawn yesterday, when the lad glanced at me, I asked what is the morning of pleasure and night of luxury? He showed me his white calves and black trousers. The darling qalandar who is a taker of life is a sensation in whirling and sama‘. I saw that there are many old men and orphans and said ’You are a dervish among dervishes’. Every heart that the qalandar stole from people, he did with fitting gestures. In the creed of love his thin waist removed the rust from the hearts of a hundred thousand lovers. Without drinking, young qalandar, I am drunk on you, mad about your dark hair. If you take my hand and sell me, then I will be your slave with rings in my ears. The context of this poem would seem to be the Heydari–Ne‘mati rivalry, two urban moieties into which Iranian cities were divided all over Safavid Iran but which was particularly entrenched in Tabriz. The Heydari order, according to John Perry, was founded by Sayyed Mir Qotb al-Din Heydar Tuni in the fifteenth century: Though the dichotomy arose in the pre-Safavid period, it seems to have become identified with, and to have been spread by, the Safavid ethos. Contributing factors were, perhaps, an enthusiastic (at times, fanatical) Shi‘ite fervor imposed rapidly on a variegated population; selective urban expansion and consolidation through commerce; increased mobilization of apprentices and other youths for public pageantry; and encouragement of factionalism by the authorities as a safety valve.34 The historian Houchang Chehabi has suggested that Ottoman takiyas at this time served multiple segments of the urban population and included wrestlers among their membership, and visual representations of the clothing of the qalandar and his spinning exercises corroborate the resemblance to the garb of athletes.35 Thus, the poems that follow directly are appropriately on a koshtigir

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(wrestler), zurgar (weightlifter) and shater-bachcha (couriers). In these poems, there is a tension between the metaphoric beloved and the actual city, the universal and the local. As with the tazkeras of this period, the poems in Lesani’s work are to be taken as an aggregate whole representing the mosaic composition of the early modern Safavid city. Poets from the seventeenth century described the magnificence of the newly constructed and refurbished capital city of Esfahan. Striking examples are provided by two poems composed by the poet-monshi-historian Taher Vahid Qazvizi (d. 1700) for Shah ‘Abbas II (r. 1642–66) and Shah Soleyman (r. 1666–94), respectively. One of these poems frames a more elaborate story than simply a paean to the city and ruler. It is actually a romance, Masnavi-ye ‘asheq o ma‘shuq, describing Esfahan through the eyes of two Indian lovers.36 The couple marvels at the city and its sites in rapturous terms:37

࣓ ঍ േ ໋ औ ঩ ඟ ߮ ϰ ϛ߮ ϰ ‫ ﮐﺎخ‬ ϡϪ

ૡ ঙ ෙ ७ ‫୏ زر‬γ ୓  ଡ ߮ ΥϦ ̵ ඼

Esfahan is a city whose houses are filled with gold, like the imaginary palace of alchemy. There follows a catalogue of 53 lyrical poems on individuals working in the city, mostly craftsman, but also teachers and scribes. In addition to this poem, Vahid composed another, a saqinama, in which he described 80 urban inhabitants, along with the cityscape of Esfahan. Whereas the shahrashub was about life at home, the theme of the verse travelogue was mostly about the world abroad. Excluding several texts that are chiefly pilgrimage narratives, at least two significant works in the genre of verse travelogue were composed in the middle of the seventeenth century. These were modelled on the classical masnavi by Khaqani Sharvani (d. 1190), Tohfat al-‘Eraqeyn (Gift of the Two ‘Eraqs), whose subject was the poet’s hajj pilgrimage to the holy cities. The poets who composed these works were Salek Qazvini and Beheshti Haravi, both of whom skilfully combined classical imagery with some distinctly early modern tropes. Salek begins his poem, Mohit-e kowneyn (Ocean of Two Worlds), with an address to the sun, as Khaqani had done in his poem, before launching into a description of places in Iran. He begins with his hometown Qazvin (Sefat-e Qazvin-e jannat-a’in), describing the royal garden (Ta‘rif-e bagh-e shah), followed by a short section satirizing greed (Dar mazammat-e zar) and extolling his own virtue, perhaps signalling to the reader that he was not motivated by material gain when he travelled to India. He then describes Tabriz, the erstwhile Safavid capital (Sefat-e Dar al-saltana-ye Tabriz-ye bahjat-angiz), before moving on to Iraq with a description of Baghdad (Sefat-e Dar al-salam Baghdad) and the Shi‘i holy cities of Kazemeyn and Karbala. At this point he returns to Qazvin and then launches into a detailed description of Esfahan, followed by a short depiction of Shiraz. The first half of the poem

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comprises a grand tour of the major cities of the age, largely focusing on Iran, as if he is trying to capture the world that he is going to leave behind. When Salek arrives in the city of Lar, he encounters a town that contrasts starkly with the magnificent urban centres of his earlier descriptions. Disgusted by what he sees, he writes in the satiric mode that is characteristic of the shahrashub genre:38

ࣥ ਬ ࣪ ਲ ళ ϣ ΋ ... ϡ΋ ΫϪ ‫୏ از‬ϥ Ψ Ϫ ࢒ Ϡ Ϡ ່ ΋ ϡ΋ ϩ ඼  Τ ‫و‬ΰ ࢂ ‫ وی‬ భ

ෂ ঈ ෙ ७ ϡ΋ ΫϪ  ඼  ί άඳ ‫از ﻻر‬ ह আ ࢠ ಭ औ ෙ ७ ϡ΋ Χฬψࣝ  Ϫ  Μ ̵ ඼

Don’t ask about Lar, the city of the blind; it is an abode of beasts and full of quadrupeds. A disorderly city like the temperament of the ignorant, with lots of flies and locusts. He is offended by the smell, heat and belligerent people. Subsequently, when he arrives at the port city of Bandar ‘Abbas, he is even more appalled by the rabble, who appear savage and cunning. When he finally gets on a boat, he wistfully narrates how:39

৤ ঍ ϡ΋ ୌ ΋ ‫ دل از دﯾﺎر‬ ϟ Ψ Ϥ

ম̶ ਗ ස ॴ ϡ΋ άඵ ΋ ‫ ﻣﺎ‬Δ ࡈ Ϫ ‫از‬

We tore our hearts from Iran, prisoners of an inauspicious fate. The time that Salek spends at sea is not without excitement, as he writes:40

ࡦ ি ৤ ീ ૛ ϟ Ψ Ҥ ୀ‫ ره‬ Ϧ ‫ﯾﮏ ﻣﺎه‬

ੁ ख़ ৤ ໍ ϟ Ψ Ҥ Χπࣜ ‫ آن‬భ଑ ජ ΰয

We saw many wonders in that ocean; the trip lasted a month. Once he lands at the port of Surat, he praises this gateway to the Indian subcontinent. The second half of Salek’s poem mirrors the first, except that in this part he describes the major Mughal cities in the same vein that he employed for the Safavid ones. He goes through Ahmedabad, Borhanpur, Dowlatabad, Agra, Delhi, Lahore, Kashmir, and ends up in Multan in the employ of prince Moradbakhsh, the son of Shah Jahan. In the Delhi section, he sings the praises of the classical poet Amir Khosrow Dehlavi:41

ෑ ঘ ୍ άධ ‫ و ﺷﺎم و‬ ϓ΋ ଷ‫ و‬ Ψ Ϥ  భ

൏ । ࢁ ε ‫ او‬ϡ߮ ॴ ୍ Ϋඟ Ϥ ΫϪ

The charm of his words sweetens India, Iraq, Aleppo and Tabriz.

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Then, in the Kashmir section, he eulogizes the two recently deceased Iranian émigré poets, Mohammad Jan Qodsi and Abu Taleb Kalim Hamadani, who had attained the highest honours at the Mughal court. For Salek, it was quite natural to consider the realm of Persian literature as extending into the Mughal lands, since Persian poetry was thriving there and the established networks allowed him to settle away from home with relative ease. His experiences, as he travelled in the smaller towns and port city in Iran and crossed the sea, made him realize that the various urban centres in the larger Persianate imperium had more in common with those he was leaving behind in Safavid Iran. The second work, Nur al-mashreqeyn (Light of the Two Easts) by Beheshti Haravi, begins with the requisite address to the sun, praise of the Prophet and description of Mecca and Medina.42 Subsequently, half of Beheshti’s poem is taken up by panegyrics to the Shi‘i imams. After that he praises places in Khorasan, starting with his city of origin, Herat, followed by Mashhad, Neyshapur and Sabzavar, moving on to Semnan, Tehran, Qom and Esfahan, where he tarries to enumerate the wonders of the city. From there, he goes to Hamadan and returns to Herat, to the court of Hasan Khan Shamlu. At this point he tells the reader:43

೶ थ ৎ ୌ Ψ ϖ ϔर ϩ ଘϢૼ  Δ ࢟ Ψ ঴ ່ ࢘ Υ ‫از‬ ඼ ߮ βज़ ϞΨ ॰ Ϣૈ ϩΨ

೷ ইස ෩ औ ঘ άඵ άඵ ‫و‬ Ψ Ϥ ‫ دﯾﺪن‬ϡϪ

ໍ ΋ ૕ ॢ ජ ߮ Υ ‫ ﺑﺎ ﻣﻼل‬Ϧ ϩ̶ ਟ

Since seeing India and visiting Kashmir was my fate and destiny, Without reason and bored, I became a traveller from the paradise of my homeland. He records his land journey as he travels through Sabzavar, Farah, Bost and Qandahar, which marked the frontier of the Safavid and Mughal realms. The actual section on India, comprising a few pages, is relatively brief in comparison to Salek’s longer description of the places there. Geographically, Beheshti’s land route took him to the border regions of the Safavid lands, where cities such as Qandahar changed hands between the Safavids and Mughals, which would have meant a gradual shift from the Iranian plateau to the Indian plains. Beheshti is very precise in his mapping of India, which he equates with the Mughal lands:44

࡟ ख़ ੀ ২ ণ γ߮ Ϥ  Ψ Ϥ  έ ສ Λ΋ Ϋ ห

঱ ࡭ ই ‫ ﭘﺎش‬Ϣ૽ Χ ΫϪ ‫و‬ άໆ ສ߮ ̯

Kabul is the head and the Deccan the foot; from Sindh to Rajmahal. But, like Salek, his purpose is to map the frontiers of the Persianate world to the east of Iran and present the extended area as a connected ecumene. With large communities of Iranian émigré men of letters settled in the Indian subcontinent, there was an impetus to recreate the paradisal setting of

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the ideal Persian garden in far-flung places. The Mughal general and patron of the arts, ‘Abd al-Rahim Khan-Khanan, whose Kurdish father Beyram Khan’s rise to power was tied to the fortunes of the Mughal ruling house, was praised as Hendustan-e Iran-saz (Creator of an Iran in India), for his convivial assemblies in important provincial cities, such as Ahmedabad and Borhanpur.45 Kalim, the poet laureate of Shah Jahan’s court, described Kashmir, the favourite locale of his patron, as an extension of Greater Iran:46

࡫ ࣼ ໖ ৔ Δ॥ ΋ ϡ΋ ΫϪ ϋ΋ ඟ ϡ΋ ୌ ΋ ϟ

೷ ই ෩ ओ άඵࢌশ Ϸ ϩγ ΧϪ ϩ‫ﺑﺎ‬

Kashmir exists as the eye of Iran, as the lamp of Turan. In fact, Kashmir came to be called Iran-e saghir (Little Iran) at this time. Poets inevitably made comparisons between the place they had left behind and the one in which they had chosen to settle. Ashraf Mazandarani, a latecomer to India, when much of the sheen of the émigré experience had vanished, was sceptical about whether it was possible to recreate Iran anywhere and wrote:47

લ ං १ औ ‫ را‬Χ΋ Ϫ Ψ ॰ ߮ ΐষ ສ΋ Ϋ߮ ΐࢼ ΋  ϡϪ

ඌ িঘ ‫ﻣ‬ ঍ ̶ ਣ  ̶ ਗ  ଦϡ΋ ୌ ΋ ࢌඁΨ Ϥ‫ﺑﺎ ﻠﮏ‬

How can you compare Iran with India? A copy does not have the same validity as the original. In another poem, he repeated this point using a different image:48

Ϡ ෑ ࢓ ̳ ‫ را‬ϡ߮ ΋ Ζീ Ϣ૰ ୀ ୀϥ άඵ ‫ ﺧﺎک‬ ଘ

࣊ ণ ঘ ‫ﻣ‬ ਂ ‫ را‬ ϡ΋ ୌ ΋ ‫ ̶ دﯾﺎر‬ଦ Ψ Ϥ‫ ﻠﮏ‬ଘ

How can you compare Iran to India? Don’t compare a rose garden to a dark land. Whether a poetic trope or a heartfelt utterance, this stance represented a complete volte-face from the days when a poet’s arrival in a new place was celebrated with great exuberance. Safavid poets, by the second half of the seventeenth century, had become disillusioned with the prospects of leaving home, partly in response to historical realities in Mughal India, and partly due to the improved situation in Iran, especially for the arts. Poets who travelled to distant courts outside the Iranian heartland exported elements of Safavid literary cultures, with a preference for certain poetic genres that were popular with the literati in Iran, such as the three discussed above. At the same time, they were attracted by some of the poetic innovations originating in Indian courts, which eventually made their way back into Safavid literary circles and, in turn, influenced those poets who did not travel. As we have seen, whether the itineraries of poets were domestic or involved travel to far-flung lands, place was inscribed in almost all genres popular with Safavid poets in a number of ways: one’s ancestral land of origin, centres of power and

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literary production, and one’s actual home. As the historian Mana Kia states, ‘When place was determinative of the way in which a person was represented, it rarely existed as a stable, singular place, but more often as a number of places in the itinerary of a person’s life’.49 Thus, for poets, both the places they inhabited and those they imagined fed into the poetic genres and aesthetic systems with which they worked. During this period, the courts of India beckoned Iranian men of letters and both attracted and repulsed poets, who wrote about their feelings either when they had already emigrated or simply while staying home. Focusing on place is only one of several entry points into the understudied corpus of Safavid Persian poetry. The realm of Persian letters had always been expansive and open-ended; in the early modern period, it intersected with a number of other historical and social factors to give rise to a truly cosmopolitan and dynamic literary scene that was lost in the immediate post-Safavid period.

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Notes: 1. Surveys of Safavid Persian literature have focused largely on questions of style and aesthetics and usually provide a negative picture of the literary scene: see Z. Safa, ‘Persian literature in the Safavid period’, pp. 948–64 and, in the same volume, Ehsan Yarshater, ‘Persian poetry in the Timurid and Safavid periods’, pp. 965–94; E.G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia, vol. IV, pp. 161–81; Jan Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, pp. 291–300; in Persian, Mohammad Sadr Hāshemi, She‘r va shā‘eri. Paul Losensky has lamented the fact that ‘our critical understanding of the period remains hampered by an inadequate conceptual framework’, Welcoming Fighānī, p. 3. 2. The travelogues of Mofid and Hazin are discussed in the context of Safavid and Mughal history by Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Indo-Persian Travels in the Age of Discoveries, pp. 179–221 and 226–39; for Mofid, also see Kathryn Babayan, ‘The topography of travel’, pp. 30–32. 3. Babayan, ‘The topography of travel’, p. 25. 4. Browne, Literary History of Persia, vol. IV, pp. 165–68; Aziz Ahmad wrote about emigration from Safavid Iran and the lives of poets, while historians such as Haneda and Subrahmanyam have taken a broader historical view of the phenomenon of early modern migration of Iranians into the Persianate world and beyond. Recent scholarship on this topic is by Sunil Sharma, Mughal Arcadia, and Saeid Shafieioun, ‘Some critical remarks’. 5. The subject of Shah Tahmasp’s ‘spiritual rebirth’ is discussed by Colin Mitchell in ‘Tahmāsp I’. 6. Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, p. 274. 7. Paul Losensky, ‘The palace of praise and the melons of time’, p. 29. 8. On Adā’i, see Charles Rieu, Catalogue of the Persian Manuscripts, vol. I, p. 219. 9. Adā’i Shirāzi, Salimnāma-ye Adā’i Shirāzi, pp. 16–17. 10. Ibid., p. 18. 11. Qodsi Mashhadi, Divān-e Hājji Mohammad Jān Qodsi Mashhadi, p. 821. 12. Ibid., p. 84. 13. Ibid., p. 268. 14. Amin Ahmad Rāzi, Tazkera-ye haft eqlim, p. 83; for a discussion of this work, see Sharma, Mughal Arcadia, pp. 65–67. 15. C.A. Storey, Persian Literature, vol. I, pp. 797–800. 16. Sām Mirzā, Tazkera-ye Tohfa-ye Sāmi, p. 3. 17. B. Reinert, ‘Sām Mīrzā’. 18. Storey, Persian Literature, pp. 803–5. 19. Ibid., pp. 818–21; Mahmoud Fotoohi, ‘Tadkera-ye Nasrābādi’. 20. Storey, Persian Literature, pp. 868–73. 21. Eskandar Beg, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, pp. 274–80. 22. Losensky, ‘Vahši Bāfqi’. 23. Idem, ‘Mohtašam Kāšāni’. 24. Idem, ‘Zulālī-yi Khwānsārī’. 25. Zolāli Khvānsāri, Kolliyāt-e Zolāli Khvānsāri, p. 181. 26. Losensky, ‘Sā’eb Tabrizi’; see also, idem, ‘“The Equal of Heaven’s Vault”’, pp. 210–11.

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27. This verse does not appear in the printed edition of Sā’eb’s poems, but seems to belong to ghazal 1305, Sā’eb Tabrizi, Divān-e Sā’eb Tabrizi, vol. II, p. 653. This poem contains the oft-quoted line, which was perhaps an alternative signature verse:

৅ ‫ دﯾﺪه ام‬ ࢋশ ߮ ι ‫ و رزم‬Ϟୁ ଘ‫ را‬ ϡฬ߮ Φ ߮ Υ

ࣂ ඓ ࡶ ੑ । ৔ औ Δࡣ Ϫ  ϡ߮ Υ ජ ϡϪ Δࠥ ߮ Ξ९ భ‫ و‬ ߮ Φ భ

28.

29. 30. 31.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

I have seen Khan-Khanan in feasting and fighting, Sa’eb, He is not like your Zafar Khan in generosity and courage. On an online database, both verses appear in the poem: http://iran-poem.ir/ poem/53502. Losensky, Welcoming Fighānī, pp. 3–7. The terms shiva-ye tāza or tarz-e now (new style) are preferred by some scholars, since these were used at the time by the literati, rather than the retrospective sabk-e hendi (Indian style). Losensky, ‘Vintages of the Sāqī-nāma’, p. 141. Ahmad Golchin-Ma‘āni, Shahrāshub dar she‘r-e Fārsi, pp. 2–7; Losensky, ‘The Palace of Praise’, p. 23; Sharma, Mughal Arcadia, pp. 90–91. Farshid Emami discusses the role of coffeehouses in Safavid society, with particular reference to the shahrāshub genre of poetry, ‘Coffeehouses, urban spaces, and the formation of a public sphere’, pp. 204–6. Golchin-Ma‘āni, Shahrāshub dar she‘r-e Fārsi, pp. 94–159. Ibid., p. 151. John R. Perry, ‘Haydari and Ne‘mati’. Personal communication. Several shahrāshub verses by Vahid have been translated by Mehdi Keyvani, Artisans and Guild Life, pp. 263–95; for Vahid as a poet and historian, see also Sharma, Mughal Arcadia, pp. 189–93 and Losensky, ‘“The Equal of Heaven’s Vault”’, pp. 200–2. Golchin-Ma‘āni, Shahrāshub dar she‘r-e Fārsi, p. 225. Sālek Qazvini, Divān-e Sālek Qazvini, p. 560. Ibid., p. 561. Ibid., p. 562. Ibid., p. 577. On Beheshti, see Babayan, ‘The topography of travel’, pp. 32–33; a study of dreams in the autobiographical sections of Beheshti’s work can be found in Derek ManciniLander, ‘Dreaming the elixir of knowledge’, pp. 77–97. Beheshti, Nur al-mashreqeyn, p. 238. Ibid., p. 257. Corinne Lefèvre, ‘The court of ‘Abd-ur-Rahīm Khān-i Khānān’; Sharma, Mughal Arcadia, p. 100. Kalim, Divān-e Abu Tāleb Kalim Hamadāni, p. 132. Ashraf Māzandarāni, Divān-e ash‘ār-e Ashraf Māzandarāni, p. 332. Ibid., p. 327. Mana Kia, ‘Contours of Persianate Community’, p. 124.

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Sharma, Sunil, Mughal Arcadia: Persian Poetry in an Indian Court (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2017). Storey, C.A., Persian Literature: A Bio-Bibliographical Survey, vol. 1 (London: The Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, 1970–72). Subrahmanyam, Sanjay, ‘Iranians abroad: Intra-Asian elite migration and early modern state formation’, The Journal of Asian Studies 51 (1992), pp. 340– 63. Tāleb Āmoli, Kolliyāt-e ash‘ār-e malek al-sho‘arā Tāleb-e Āmoli, ed. Tāheri Shahāb (Tehran: Sanā’i, 1346/1967). Thackston, Wheeler M., ‘The Poetry of Abu-Talib Kalim, Persian PoetLaureate of Shah Jahan, Mughal Emperor of India’, doctoral dissertation (Harvard University, 1974). Yarshater, Ehsan, ‘Persian poetry in the Timurid and Safavid periods’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6, The Timurid and Safavid Periods, ed. Peter Jackson and Laurence Lockhart (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 965–94. Zolāli Khvānsāri, Kolliyāt-e Zolāli Khvānsāri, ed. Sa‘id Shafi‘iun (Tehran: Ketābkhāna, muza va markaz-e asnād-e majles-e shurā-ye eslāmi, 1385/2006).

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14 Shi‘i Rulers, Safavid Alliance and the Religio-Political Landscape of the Deccan Roy S. Fischel (SOAS University of London)

I

n 1631, the political order in the Deccan Plateau of South India was on the cusp of significant change as the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan (r. 1628–58) embarked on a major campaign into the region. Understanding the graveness of the situation, the sultan of Golkonda, ‘Abdollah Qotb Shah (r. 1627–72) delivered the following speech in his court in Hyderabad. His court historian, Nezam al-Din Ahmad Shirazi, recorded his words: Our laudable ancestor, king and conqueror of the Kingdoms of Hendustan, Lord of the Happy Conjunction (saheb-qeran) … with the assistance of the prophet’s pure soul and of the commander of the believers ‘Ali (Heydar), and with the help of the sacred spirits of the Twelve imams … struck the heads and necks of the leaders of the vile infidels and lowborn Hindus in this country with his strength and power of bravery and with his sword that is like Zu’l-feqar … [This way,] he conquered his kingdom. He spread the customs of the nation of Mohammad and the creed of ‘Ali …1 In this critical moment, the sultan chose to declare the raison d’être of the sultanate in terms of the spread of Islam, clearly in its Shi‘i form, expressed in the invocation of ‘Ali, his sword Zu’l-feqar and the Twelve imams. Such rhetoric was not uncommon in the courts of the Deccan, and may have been used for domestic consumption. After all, when the situation seemed dire, members of the court, in particular Persianate nobles who had no special attachment to the sultanate, had the option to leave the Qotb Shahi court and join the Mughals, as several courtiers did; some two decades later, Mohammad Sa‘id Shahrestani, better known as Mir Jomla, famously took this very path.2 Therefore, a reminder of why the sultan deserved their support was essential. This idiom, however, was not limited to internal affairs. Similar language had been employed extensively in diplomatic correspondence among the Deccan Sultanates, and between them and the Safavids. In the latter case, another

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element was introduced to the mix: not only general use of Shi‘i tropes, but also more explicit expressions of Safavid allegiance. Take, for example, an undated letter sent from Ebrahim Qotb Shah of Golkonda (r. 1550–80) to the Safavid Shah Tahmasp (r. 1524–76). Opening with a long list of Tahmasp’s exalted titles, the letter states that: [Qotb Shah] raised the banners of victory with divine help and the good fortunes of royal benevolence. He made the rows of the enemies, who were collected in the knot of the Pleiades (‘aqd-e sorayya), disperse in the manner of Ursa’s tail.3 Now he is in a position to fulfil the obligations of governance and to renew old bonds. It is evident that no one before us has raised the banner of propagating the imami creed in these lands! No one before us has spread the sublime Twelver khotba! Day by day, extreme effort has been made to strengthen the foundations of this great creed (mellat) and the rules of this superior Shari‘a.4 Correspondence of this kind marks unambiguous links between the sultans of Golkonda and the Safavids, the core of which relies on shared Shi‘i leanings. Similar trends can be noted in the case of the neighbouring sultanate of Ahmadnagar. In 951/1544, Borhan Nezam Shah (r. 1510–53) sent Khurshah b. Qobad al-Huseyni as ambassador to the Safavid court. Having delivered presents (pishkesh) from India, Khurshah was granted audience with the shah. In his report, the ambassador stated that the shah: inquired on the events in India and the circumstances of its rulers. He applauded the Refuge of the World (Borhan Nezam Shah) citing his own name following His Majesty’s (Shah Tahmasp). The shah demonstrated endless kindness towards Shah Taher, who was the cause of the Shi‘i following (tashayyo‘) of the Nezam Shah and the reason for the friendship and conciliation of the two sides.5 Similarly to Golkonda, in Ahmadnagar, too, the link with the Safavids was stated explicitly as relying on the shared creed. Special attention was given to the circumstances of the conversion of Borhan Nezam Shah. According to the chronicler Mohammad Qasem Astarabadi (better known by his pen name Fereshta), the sultan adopted Shi‘ism after Shah Taher Hoseyni, the sultan’s close adviser and confidant, managed to cure his son, Prince ‘Abd al-Qader, when all others had failed.6 This version presents a major oddity. Shah Taher was most likely an Esma‘ili; however, Borhan converted to Twelver Shi‘ism.7 This choice of creed may be an indication that the conversion, at least conceptually, had something to do with the Safavids. Both Iranian and Deccani sources, then, indicate that the sultanates in the Deccan adopted Twelver Shi‘ism as their official creed. The Deccan Sultanates are described as Shi‘i states at the margins of the Safavid sphere of influence. Modern historiography has followed suit, at times uncritically. Edmund Herzig

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and Willem Floor pose the question, ‘how important was the religious factor in the Safavid alliance with the Shi‘i states of the Deccan?’, thereby stating the creed of the sultanates as a matter of fact, without considering what this may entail.8 Moojan Momen proposes to fold the sultanates of Ahmadnagar, Bijapur and Golkonda into the Shi‘i world by providing only skeletal details: conversion, migration of Shi‘i ulema and Safavid links.9 Juan Cole argues that the Deccani courts modelled themselves after the Safavids in a linear story that begins with the proclamation of Shi‘ism as the state religion and ends with the Mughal conquest. The less straightforward case of Bijapur is depicted similarly, by saying that ‘Shi‘ism remained influential at this court, with a one or two-decade interlude, until late in the sixteenth century’. Cole thereby ignores the long interval between the end of the sixteenth century and the Mughal conquest in 1686.10 A similar approach is adopted by Roger Savory. Challenging E.G. Browne’s claim that the Safavid period did not produce any great poets, he asks ‘how was it that many Safavid poets flourished in the three Shi‘i courts in India: Ahmadnagar, Golconda and Bijapur?’.11 Modern historiography of India presents a similar approach. The prominent historian H.K. Sherwani argues that the relations between the Qotb Shahi sultans of Golkonda and the Safavids strengthened as Shi‘ism became prevalent under the Safavids. He attributes the significance of the Safavids in the sultanate purely to religious issues.12 M.A. Nayeem offers a similar narrative regarding Bijapur, pointing to the temporal proximity in the introduction of that creed in both sultanates. He further suggests that ‘the Perso-Bijapur collaboration in political and religious affairs had its repercussions not only on cultural and intellectual activities of the ‘Adel Shahi Sultans, but its impact penetrated deep into various aspects of life and society in Bijapur’.13 In his study of Shi‘i Islam in India, Justin Jones mentions the ‘Shi‘a-informed dynasties in the Deccani South’, where many ‘established Shi‘a cultural forms’,14 without discussing their extent or impact. The historiography that positions the Deccan Sultanates in ideological and diplomatic proximity to the Safavids is only to be expected. The sultanates emerged almost in parallel to the Safavids, whose historiography was marked by strong association with that creed. The Persian-speaking elite communities of the Deccan were influential in shaping political life there while maintaining intimate links to their ancestral lands. Accordingly, Persian sources of the Deccan, which were composed by members of the same community, promoted this vision as part of their appeal both to the Safavid rulers and to the wider Persianate world. As a result, the Deccan Sultanates, based on the proclamations found in their official chroniclers, were understood not only as Shi‘i states, but in the Safavid form; the Safavids were assumed to be the gold standard against which the meaning of Shi‘i following was weighed. However, the political, social and cultural circumstances in the Deccan varied significantly from those in Iran. Can we assume that the Safavid model

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was transferred to the Deccan in full? In this chapter I seek to question this assumption. Focusing on the sultanate of Bijapur under the rule of the Shi‘i ‘Ali I (r. 1558–80) and the Sunni Ebrahim II (r. 1580–1627), I argue that the meaning of Shi‘i state in the Deccan was significantly different from that in Iran. Showing more continuity than change between the two sultans, I suggest that many of the assumptions around their reigns were based on the importation of tropes that developed outside the subcontinent and could not be easily applied there. Instead, a careful inquiry into local circumstances demonstrates that the term ‘Shi‘i’ in this context reflects a superficial label that has been neither all-encompassing nor total, as it was in Safavid Iran.

Historiography of Binaries: Two Frameworks The identification of the Deccan Sultanates as Shi‘i states is closely associated with historiographical trends constructed around questions of empire and early modernity. A growing body of literature produces a comparative framework for the analysis of the Ottoman, Safavid and Mughal Empires. The three were treated as interlinked entities, sharing similar beliefs, connected to the TurkoMongol past and reliance on Perso-Islamic traditions.15 This process involved the crystallization and emergence of new religious orthodoxies, accompanied by the creation of legalistic discourses, all aimed at supporting the universalist claims of the rulers.16 This process is particularly evident in the Safavid and Ottoman cases. The Safavids began officially to proclaim their following of the Shi‘i creed with the establishment of their political rule in 1501. Their notion of Shi‘ism, however, continued to evolve with the changing political and ideological circumstances in the state. At first based heavily on ideas of messianism and extremism under the charismatic leadership of Shah Esma‘il I (r. 1501–24), from the early 1530s the dynasty began to develop the more formal and doctrinal approaches of Twelver Shi‘ism. This version of Shi‘ism leaned increasingly heavily on the work of religious scholars, in part rejecting concepts of mysticism.17 Various Sufi orders began to be suppressed, first those solely identified as Sunnis, such as the Naqshbandis, later even the Ne‘matollahis, who, from the beginning of Safavid rule, had allied themselves with the new dynasty.18 By the time of Shah ‘Abbas I (r. 1587–1629), Twelver Shi‘ism in its clerical, Shari‘a-bound form was established at the heart of the empire as part of the effort to construct an integrated state system.19 Sunni orthodoxy became well established at the centre of the Ottoman Empire. From the late fifteenth and into the sixteenth century, learned classes were politicized and integrated into the imperial mechanism, producing an image of a state based on the Shari‘a and justice. The intensified imperial order was supported by an evolving administrative and legalistic discourse and a bureaucratic apparatus, all with the aim of realizing the sultans’ universalist claims.20 Central to this project, suggests Hüseyin Yılmaz, was the concept of

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the caliphate, now reworked to allow its convergence with messianic ideas. This new form enabled the sultans to promote their sovereignty against similar claims of rival dynasties, Muslim and European alike, as well as within their own realm.21 Signs of heterodoxy were repressed throughout by the direct intervention of the central administration, while establishing approved elements (such as certain Sufi orders) in lieu of those considered too far from orthodoxy. These steps enhanced the crystallization of orthodoxy and the emergence of dichotomies between orthodox/heterodox, Sunni/Shi‘i.22 The result of the respective realignments of both dynasties was an intensified language of religious conflict. States and groups were labelled as either Sunni or Shi‘i, promoting a growing distinction – and hostility – between the two creeds.23 The early modern period as a whole was perceived as an environment in which conflict between those two increasingly crystallized creeds was rife. These new binaries not only affected society within states but also served to define the relationship between dynasties. Beyond the direct Safavid–Ottoman conflict, works analysing Mughal–Ottoman and Mughal– Safavid relations referred to religion as a major issue. Religious sensitivities were evoked in the never-realized possibility of an all-Sunni alliance, comprising the Ottomans, Ozbeks and Mughals, against the Shi‘i Safavids. The same sensitivities were used to explain the tensions between the Ottomans and the Mughals regarding acceptance of the Ottoman claims to caliphate.24 In this historiographical environment, it was clear that the Deccan Sultanates ought to have been categorized as belonging to either side of the conflict. The growing distinction between political Shi‘a and Sunna, however, is not the only paradigm within which the Deccan Sultanates were examined. Upon arriving in the subcontinent, the binary scheme encountered the local circumstances, which were radically different from those in west Asia. At the heart of the local system stood a different set of binaries. To understand the local setting, let us diverge momentarily to consider the development of Muslim society in the Deccan. Muslim rule in the region began during the reign of Mohammad b. Toghloq (r. 1325–51), sultan of Delhi. Under his rule, Muslim governors from north India were posted in towns in the Deccan, whereas other Muslims settled as rural landholders. In parallel, the position of certain pre-existing Hindu elites as landed gentry was confirmed and they were introduced into the service of the sultanate as assignment holders.25 Furthermore, in 1327, the sultan pronounced Dowlatabad in the northern Deccan his secondary capital, forcing nobles and civilians from the north to settle there. Others were lured by money or land grants. The short-lived project incentivized many to relocate to the Deccan, including Sufis, ulema and other members of the Muslim intellectual and political elites.26 These Muslims, who became the kernel of the Deccani Muslim society, gradually developed their own language, Dakhani, an amalgamation of north Indian languages but influenced by local vernaculars.27

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In 1347, Delhi’s rule collapsed and was succeeded by the locally grown Bahmani dynasty. The sultanate reflects a large degree of continuation of both Toghloq and local pre-Delhi titles and institutions, and both localized Muslims and Hindus played a significant part in various military and administrative roles.28 Of particular importance were Sufis, welcomed in the region by the Bahmanis as part of their effort to construct their legitimacy as a rebel dynasty in an overwhelmingly Hindu environment. Two north Indian orders, the Cheshtiya and the Joneydiya, and one Iranian order, the Qaderiya, took root in the region.29 Notable among these was the Cheshti Sheykh Mohammad Hoseyni, better known as Khvaja Banda Navaz Gesu Daraz (d. 1422), who settled in the Bahmani capital, Gulbarga. Gesu Daraz established a new spiritual line within the Cheshti tradition. At the same time, he created a political centre opposing that of the sultan.30 The emergence of strong local Muslim elites, with their own linguistic identity, links to the place, association with certain Sufi orders and connections to Hindu elites, alerted the sultans. Consequently, Ahmad I (r. 1422–36) decided to engineer a new elite group from the new capital city he established in Bidar. He invited Iranians to settle, and increasingly relied on their services to run the sultanate. Self-styled ‘Foreigners’ (ghariban), these Persian-speaking elites became central in politics, administration and scholarship as well as international trade.31 The sultan further invited Ne‘matollahi Sufis to settle in Bidar. Of this family, Shah Khalilollah gained great importance in the capital. His hospice linked together Foreigners, Sufis and the royal family, but did not extend far beyond these circles.32 The shift of power created tensions between Deccanis and Foreigners. These tensions became the hallmark of Deccani politics, even if modern historiography tends to exaggerate their extent; after all, the Bahmani sultanate remained relatively stable for well over a century.33 Nevertheless, a crisis of leadership in Bidar from the 1480s brought heightened tensions and the rapid collapse of Bahmani authority. By the turn of the sixteenth century, five de facto independent dynasties had emerged. Most important were the Nezam Shahs of Ahmadnagar, ‘Adel Shahs of Bijapur and Qotb Shahs of Golkonda.34 The question of their sovereignty remains contested, however; we will return to this point later. With this newly acquired status, the sultanates, collectively known as the Deccan Sultanates, acknowledged each other’s independence. None made any sweeping claims for sovereignty over the entirety of the former Bahmani domains.35 Within this system, the Deccani–Foreigner issue remained a significant framework in the history of the sultanates. Based on the development of the two groups, they were often perceived as total and all-encompassing opposites. Their contradictory characterization comprised several elements: the Deccanis were identified with the Dakhani language. Associated with the locality, they were considered to be susceptible to Indic culture and to cooperation with non-

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Muslims. D.C. Verma suggests, quite dramatically, that the Deccanis were primarily the descendants of local converts who were ‘half Hindus in feelings, thought, speech, customs and dress’ and ‘had retained their way of life and outlook’.36 The other group, namely the Foreigners, were linked to transregional networks. They were mostly Persian speakers, thus related to Persianate culture and to the wider Muslim world. Therefore, they were perceived as less sympathetic to Indic culture. This is reflected in the literary production of the two groups: the Foreigners wrote in Persian, the Deccanis solely in Dakhani.37 This clearly marked cultural distinction has naturally attracted scholarly attention. M.A. Nayeem suggests that the difference between Deccanis and Foreigners was racial; he even employs cranial morphology to make his point.38 A less objectionable approach emphasized the relations with the locality. Trying to create a more harmonious understanding of the sultanates, and in line with the twentieth-century project of state-building in India, H.K. Sherwani coined the terms ‘New-comers’ (Foreigners) and ‘Old-comers’ (Deccanis). With these terms, he acknowledged the genealogy of the elite clusters as fundamental in shaping the complex relationship between them.39 S.R. Sharma emphasizes the unique nature of Deccani culture, stating that, due to the isolation of the community, its culture developed differently from those of the foreign Muslims.40 Among these suggestions, a common attempt to explain the conflict was in terms of creed. Considering the origin of each group and the broader historical development in the early modern period, Foreigners now became associated with the Shi‘i creed, and the Deccanis with Sunni Islam. Not only the elites but even the rulers themselves were included in this division, associating each sultan’s creed with a preferential treatment of their coreligionists-cum-elite group, while subduing rivals.41 The collision of the two binaries, then, creates a clear distinction between two groupings. On the one hand stood the Foreigners, who were associated with the cosmopolitan Persianate world and transregional networks; as such, they were viewed as indifferent, if not hostile, to the Deccani environment and Indic culture, and therefore not likely to cooperate with Hindu elites. Identified as Shi‘i, and following the developments in the Safavid realm, they were also increasingly depicted as hostile towards Sufism, with the possible exception of the Ne‘matollahi order.42 The Deccanis were perceived as the mirror image of the Foreigners. Closely linked with the Deccan rather than anywhere else in the subcontinent or the outside world, they were understood as operating along local lines. Associated with the Dakhani language, they were only happy to cooperate with Hindu elites and showed sympathies to both Indic culture and the vernaculars. As Sunnis they were also closely associated with Sufism. This scheme is presented in Table 1.

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SAFAVID PERSIA IN THE AGE OF EMPIRES Table 1: Attributed differences of Foreigners and Deccanis Orientation Language Creed Culture Sufism

Foreigners Cosmopolitan Persian Shi‘i Perso-Islamic Hostile

Deccanis Local Dakhani; vernaculars Sunni Islamic/Indic Sympathetic

Bijapur and the Dissolution of Binaries To what extent can we assume that this binary model offers a viable representation of political life in the Deccan? The sultanate of Bijapur provides an interesting case study to examine the model’s validity. Unlike its neighbours in Golkonda, whose rulers were Shi‘i from the establishment of the dynasty, and in Ahmadnagar, where the sultans adopted that creed early on, the ‘Adel Shahi rulers of Bijapur reflect a more changeable story. The sultanate emerged around 1490 under the Shi‘i Yusof ‘Adel Khan (d. 1510), a Foreigner in Bahmani service. Throughout the sixteenth century, the rulers’ creed changed constantly: Yusof’s successor Esma‘il (r. 1510–34) remained Shi‘i, Ebrahim I (r. 1535–58) was Sunni, ‘Ali I (1558–80) Shi‘i and Ebrahim II (1580–1627) again Sunni. As Bijapur inherited many of its elite structures from the Bahmanis, including the Foreigner–Deccani divide, these switches led scholars to assume that such changes in the rulers’ creed meant that the sultanate as a whole changed its course radically. A notable example of this approach is provided by Richard Eaton and Phillip Wagoner. They describe the Shi‘i Esma‘il as ‘devoted to foreign – that is, Persian – culture’, therefore he ‘seldom spoke the Dakhni language, and also vowed that he would never enlist Deccanis and Habshis (Ethiopian military slaves) in his service’. He even ‘ordered his entire army to wear scarlet caps with twelve points’ in the Safavid manner. In contrast, Esma‘il’s Sunni son Ebrahim I ‘fervently favored Deccanis’, preferred vernaculars over Persian and prohibited the Safavid cap. Moreover, he changed the language of revenue accounts and judicial records from Persian to the local vernaculars, Marathi and Kannada, and appointed Brahmins in the administrative system. Ebrahim later integrated elements from the local, preIslamic Western Chalukya Empire in his public architecture.43 This kind of narrative is limited in several points. It is not clear how sweeping and clear-cut those changes were. No evidence for literary patronage of either Marathi or Kannada by Bijapur’s elites is noted (but this may be the result of limited scholarly attention). Furthermore, the boundaries between language at the time are questionable. Sumit Guha suggests that early state documents in Marathi, while written in Modi script, were comprised mostly of

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Persian vocabulary and even grammar, with only occasional terms and verbs taken from Marathi.44 The problems run much deeper. The scheme of radical change itself reflects the persistence of the colonial-era perception of Great Men, in which the ruler alone sets the tone for his kingdom. This notion had been used already in the early nineteenth century by James Mill, to whom the declared religion of the ruler defined the entire era.45 That Eaton and Wagoner follow this idea is striking, considering that elsewhere they both rightfully reject the similarly clear-cut, generations-old and outdated division between Muslims and Hindus.46 Moreover, the scheme assumes extreme discontinuities in the history of Bijapur, in particular when compared with Ahmadnagar and Golkonda. This assumption is questionable if we consider the resilience and stability of the sultanate, which until the mid-seventeenth century retained its position as the strongest state in the Deccan. Furthermore, total changes imply monolithic views of each group. However, this might be a gross oversimplification: consider how diverse must be the opinions among the members of a group comprising local Muslims, Ethiopian military slaves, Marathas and Kannadaspeaking Brahmins. A careful examination of the two sultans that followed Ebrahim I demonstrate the problems in this model. Ebrahim I’s son, ‘Ali I, ascended the throne of Bijapur in 1558 at the age of 16, even though it is reported that his father was reluctant to promote him due to his Shi‘i inclinations. Nevertheless, the prince enjoyed the support of both the nobles and the larger population; upon Ebrahim’s death, he was selected to succeed him.47 Under ‘Ali’s rule, state power expanded considerably, in particular following the defeat of the formidable neighbour to the south, Vijayanagara, in 1565. Extensive construction projects mark the turning of Bijapur into a major political centre. During these important developments, ‘Ali’s Shi‘i inclination did not result in the anticipated exclusions. No change of administrative language is recorded, of the kind mentioned under Ebrahim I. Even though ‘Ali is said to have favoured Foreigners, Hindus continued to serve in the royal armies. Some attained high rank, including various generals and the auditor-general (majmu‘e mamalek), Daso Pandit, whose family remained interlinked with the ‘Adel Shahs into the reign of Ibrahim II.48 An interesting reflection of ‘Ali’s association with Hindus can be found in an inscription on the newly built city wall, stating that the segment was built by one Pandit Nandji. Underneath the inscription, a ritualistic Chalukya-period gate is integrated into the wall, resonating with localized historical memory.49 Another inscription on the wall opens with the Shi‘i formula ‘No hero like ‘Ali! No sword like Zu’l-feqar!’.50 While this kind of statement is only to be anticipated under a Shi‘i ruler, it is surprising that the person associated with the use of this language was a Hindu named Jagdeva Rao.

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Sufis, too, were not shunned. Rafi‘ al-Din Shirazi reports that the sultan was fascinated by Muslim and Hindu ascetics, and constantly sought their company.51 This kind of Shi‘i–Sufi association was commonplace in the Deccan, and was not limited to the Ne‘matollahis. Most visible are funerary practices that brought sultans and saints into close spatial (and spiritual) proximity. The first two sultans of the ‘Adel Shahi dynasty, both Shi‘i, were buried in a royal necropolis in Gogi, some 110 km east of Bijapur, near the resting place of the Sufi Sheykh Chanda Hoseyni (d. 1454).52 This reflects continuity with the Bahmani sultans, whose necropolis near Bidar was built in proximity to the tomb of the Ne‘matollahi Shah Khalilollah (d. 1455).53 ‘Ali I broke this tradition, as his mausoleum moved away from Gogi to Bijapur. Yet, as Deborah Hutton suggests, his tomb reflects important aspects of continuity: ‘Ali’s modest mausoleum was modelled after Gogi’s royal tombs and was built near, and in association with, the tombs of Qaderi Sufis’.54 Correspondence between Bijapur and Golkonda during his reign evokes the name of the Cheshti saint Gesu Daraz.55 ‘Ali’s Sufi sympathies correspond with the wider Shi‘ite– Sufi affinity in the Deccan. An early seventeenth-century painting, titled ‘Dervish receiving a visitor’, depicts Shi‘i ‘alams (metal banners, typically carried in the Shi‘i procession on ‘Ashura) resting on a Sufi shrine.56 In the unequivocally Shi‘i Golkonda, too, Sufis were highly esteemed: they were second only to the sultans in the prominent place given to their tombs in the royal necropolis near Golkonda Fort, and their tombs shared similar architecture to those of the sultans. Marital connections cemented the links between Qotb Shahi sultans and prominent Sufis.57 ‘Ali’s links with local elites were not solely utilitarian. A deeper engagement is expressed in a curious work, titled Nojum al-‘olum. Composed in Persian before 1570, probably by the sultan himself, the Nojum is an innovative composition which brings together esoteric knowledge from Indic, Hellenic, Central Asian, Persian and Islamic traditions, in writing and with hundreds of illustrations. The work elaborates on ideas of kingship, which included the Indic concept of the sultan as universal ruler (chakravartin), thus reflecting an exchange within the composite environment of the Deccan and with Indic concepts.58 Furthermore, Emma Flatt suggests that ‘Ali promoted a territorial claim that connected him to particular places in the Deccan, even beyond his own realm.59 Similarly to the reign of Ebrahim I, ‘Ali, too, made use of Chalukya symbols. Eaton and Wagoner demonstrate that, under ‘Ali, a Chalukya-era temple in newly conquered Bankapur was converted into a mosque while maintaining its original form. This conversion serves as an example of the integration of local pasts into the expanding sultanate.60 Another sign of this engagement is in the major musical treatise Sangitaratnakara. Katherine Butler Schofield suggests that this work was translated from Sanskrit into Dakhani in Bijapur around 1570.61 Considering ‘Ali’s personal involvement, his engagement with the locality seems more than merely

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Realpolitik, but rather the reflection of a deeper affiliation with the local idiom, contrary to what might be expected from a Shi‘i ruler. The childless ‘Ali I was succeeded in 1580 by his nephew Ebrahim II, who soon changed the sultanate’s official creed to Sunnism. According to the standard historiography, this would therefore presuppose that he would prefer Deccanis over Foreigners, be disinterested in Persian and the Persianate world, demonstrate localization and heavily engage with Sufis.62 Much of this does indeed reflect Ebrahim’s interests. Remembered for his contribution to the development of a unique, localized and hybrid courtly culture, his royal identity was constructed around the deliberately ambiguous concept of nowras. This term carries a double meaning: in Persian, nowras means ‘newly arrived’, reflecting the sultan’s youth and innovation; in Sanskrit, nava rasa (written as nowras in nasta‘liq) or nine rasas (emotional essences) are associated with music and are experienced through the senses.63 Ebrahim composed Ketab-e nowras, a collection of songs in Dakhani, written to be sung to classical Indian music. Laden with Sanskrit terminology, this composition reflects aesthetics and themes related to Indic poetry. The verses famously invoke Sarasvati (goddess of knowledge and music), the Prophet Mohammad and the Cheshti Sufi Gesu Daraz.64 On the other side of this alleged zero-sum game, Ebrahim was also reported to have only rudimentary knowledge of Persian. Famously, the Mughal ambassador Asad Beg Qazvini, who visited Bijapur in 1603, reports that Ebrahim spoke only broken (shekasta) Persian.65 A careful examination of the evidence, however, suggests a much deeper engagement with elements which were considered to belong to the ‘Foreign’ side. Keelan Overton demonstrates the variety of Persianate intellectuals who settled in Bijapur during the reign of Ebrahim II, thanks to the ‘welcoming climate for foreigners’. The Foreigners were central to the intellectual scene of the capital, linking it to the world of Persianate cosmopolitanism.66 These circles included the leading poets Nur al-Din Mohammad Zohuri and Malek Qommi, who migrated from Ahmadnagar, and Zohuri’s son, Zahur, who composed the chronicle Mohammadnama for Ebrahim’s successor, Mohammad.67 The Shi‘i intellectual Khvaja Sa‘d al-Din ‘Enayatollah Shirazi, along with the poets Molla Shakibi and ‘Enayatollah Ardestani, arrived in Bijapur, entered royal service, and received land grants (soyurghal). Khvaja Sa‘d al-Din became Ebrahim’s close counsellor with a new title, Shah Nawaz Khan.68 Royal patronage was extended to the historians Rafi‘ al-Din Shirazi and Fereshta, who composed Persian chronicles for the sultan. The climate of openness towards the Islamicate, particularly Persianate, cosmopolitan world, is reflected in the contents of Ebrahim’s library and its function as a nodal point for the circulation of manuscripts in Persian and Arabic. Overton suggests that the library contributed to the creation of Ebrahim’s firm image as a Muslim sovereign.69

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Fereshta’s personal testimony is particularly revealing. In sections not included in the oft-used translation by John Briggs, the chronicler depicts a ruler who was deeply involved in Persianate culture and language. He reports that, at a time when he was facing financial difficulties, he attended a royal council (majles), where the sultan personally increased his rank (mansab) and land grant (eqta‘). The sultan then gave the chronicler a copy of Tarikh-e Rowzat al-safa’ and ordered him to write an ‘honest’ account on his reign in that manner.70 Fereshta further suggests that the sultan recognized the need to learn Persian and made an effort to master the language. Ebrahim started by reading one or two lines of a report, gradually progressing to poetry and prose, until becoming well versed in the language.71 Even if we choose not to accept Fereshta’s favourable report unreservedly, it is clear that the official chronicler saw it as crucial to depict his patron as part of the cosmopolitan Persianate world. Other references link Ebrahim more directly to the Shi‘i creed. In Golzar-e Ebrahim, Zohuri mentions the sultan’s ‘good fortune of submission to the illustrious Shari‘a of Mostafa (i.e. Mohammad), and the felicity of raising the banner of friendship for Mortaza (i.e. ‘Ali)’, to which he adds that ‘a proof of his pure nature [is] his love of the pure Imams’.72 A similar reference to ‘Ali can be found on copper coins from his reign.73 An even more direct reference appears in yet another (not translated) section from Fereshta. The chronicler reports that in Moharram of 1004/September 1595, the sultan encamped to perform the Shi‘i rites of mourning. In the following year, the Shi‘i scholar Mir Mohammad Saleh Hamadani arrived in India. Ebrahim organized a royal reception for him. On the tenth day of Moharram, the sultan performed the mourning rites, ‘in accordance with the custom of previous years’. He then invited Mir Mohammad to join him in Bijapur’s citadel. When the caravan approached, the sultan ‘walked on foot a long way to receive him, and performed a prostration (sejda) of thanksgiving’, showing particular reverence to the Shi‘i scholar.74 Ebrahim ‘Adel Shah II, just like his uncle ‘Ali I before him, did not conform to the restrictive model. ‘Ali’s Shi‘i inclinations and Ebrahim’s Sunnism did not determine their approach in many ways. On the contrary, instead of a narrative of abrupt changes, and notwithstanding the declaration of changing creeds, both sultans demonstrate a large degree of continuity in all aspects: from language and employment to royal imagery and architecture.75 Even in religious issues, much continuity can be observed: this included veneration of Sufis, and even in Shi‘i rituals proper. It was not only Bijapur that defied the model; in Golkonda, too, the Shi‘i rulers created direct links to the pre-Muslim past by constantly referring to the heritage of the pre-Islamic Kakatiya dynasty, by providing patronage to literary works in Telugu as well as Dakhani, and by maintaining their links with Sufis.76 All this suggests that we

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should reject outright the rigid model of clear distinction between Sunni and Shi‘i rulers and the implications thereof.

Shi‘i States of the Deccan? The direction that the various sultans of the Deccan took in their policies with regard to the local scene, other creeds, the Hindu population and Sufis differentiated them from their contemporaries in Iran. Instead of sectarian schism, as reflected within the Safavid realm and in the relations with their neighbours, the sultans of the Deccan preferred inclusive policies. With continuous patronage of Sufis and Hindus, and without any sign of enforcing their creed over the Muslim population, which remained overwhelmingly Sunni,77 it appears that applying the Safavid standards to the Deccan contributes little to our understanding of the region. This inapplicability derives from the special circumstances which emerged in the early modern Deccan. Unlike the Ottomans and Safavids, the Deccan Sultanates lacked any unified political centre that could impose its ideas on the population. Moreover, facing competition from sister-sultanates and threats from powerful neighbours, first Gujarat and Vijayanagara and later the Mughals, the very survival of the sultanates depended on their ability to secure the cooperation of various elites. Those included Deccani Muslims, Ethiopian military slaves, Hindu military and administrative groups, and Persian-speaking Foreigners. The elites had other options, from non-cooperation to joining the rivals, giving them leverage in their negotiations with the sultans. These circumstances encouraged the political culture of the region to take the opposite direction to that of the contemporary empires: instead of an increasingly authoritative centre with clear ideological preferences, the sultans encouraged the concurrence of multiple voices.78 This polyvocality may be the key to understanding the seeming contradiction between continuity and change. The changes in the political language of Bijapur, or the lack thereof, illustrate this point. Allegedly related to the opposite poles of Bijapur’s courtly culture, in reality ‘Ali I and Ebrahim II were not so different from one another. Both demonstrated keen interest in Indic culture and were involved in literary production in local traditions, either directly or by providing the conditions for them to flourish in their court. Both were associated with patronage of Persian culture and Shi‘i learning and kept cordial relations with the Safavids while maintaining links to Sufi saints; both similarly challenged the neat division of the court into two contradictory and competing traditions. To this we should add the official language used by the sultans towards the Safavids. As we have seen before, this language presents a direct expression of alliance towards the empire, not only politically but also ideologically. A curious example is a letter from Ebrahim II to Shah ‘Abbas I, sent in early 1623:

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The lands of the Deccan form as much a part of the Safavid Empire as the provinces of Iraq, Fars, Khorasan, and Azerbaijan. Accordingly, the names of the Safavid monarchs have been recited in the sermon and will continue to be recited in future. Our forefathers were appointed to rule over these territories and protect them by His Majesty’s ancestors. So our function is to rule the countries on his Majesty’s behalf and defend them against foreign aggression.79 The letter states that the Sunni sultan of Bijapur not only acknowledged the Safavid role in appointing the ‘Adel Shahi sultans (a doubtful statement, considering that the ‘Adel Shahi sultanate emerged before the Safavid Shah Esma‘il I entered Tabriz in 1501), but that he was happy to commit to Safavid sovereignty, expressed by the khotba. The acceptance of Shi‘i khotba by a Sunni ruler made some uncomfortable. Riyazul Islam refers to the ‘absence of any reference to the Shi‘i Imams which is such a prominent feature of letters sent from the Deccan courts in Iran’.80 This tension further highlights a specific view of the meaning of the khotba as a sign of Deccani acceptance of Safavid sovereignty with all its symbols.81 The contradiction, however, reflects a particular understanding of both creed and khotba which, again, may not be applicable to the early modern Deccan. Elizabeth Lambourn argues that, in the early modern period, the idea of khotba was contested. Its concept changed over time and according to place, creating tensions between sovereigns, each with his own understanding of its meaning.82 Sebastian Prange suggests that, on the late-fourteenth-century Malabar Coast, the khotba was not as much a statement of political sovereignty as it was a means for distant communities to cement commercial links.83 More generally, Dariusz Kołodziejczyk comments that the question of sovereignty itself has never been straightforward, but reflects aspects of control and ideology: the position of a local ruler, his ability to assert imperial control or concepts of inside/outside.84 With these reservations in mind, I suggest that the Safavid khotba was, indeed, not necessarily a matter of sovereignty or religious incorporation. Rather, it was intended to link the sultanates to the Safavids as a measure of symbolic protection against the Mughals. In that sense, the Shi‘i references are not so much confessional as a declaration of political association in the polarized conditions of the early modern Muslim world. Reciting the Safavid khotba (or at least declaring a willingness to do so) and describing long-lasting bonds reflect Deccani lack of confidence in the face of the Mughal advance. This understanding of sovereign symbols as signifying a reaction to insecurities can also explain why Deccani minting appeared only in the 1580s. Pushkar Sohoni suggests that the late beginning of minting should be interpreted as a local response to the Mughal advance.85 The symbolic aspect of the khotba is made even clearer when we consider the distance of the Safavids from the Deccan, which meant that no actual help could have been sent. Taken together,

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the evidence supports the view that reciting the Safavid khotba in the Deccan represented an indicative means of demarcating territory in a highly contested environment, while rejecting Mughal designs. Moreover, acceptance of the khotba represents the choice of a distant symbol, which could not in reality curtail Deccani independence. In this case, then, what is the meaning of seeing the Deccan Sultanates as Shi‘i states, if indeed such a state existed at all? It is true that many of the rulers saw themselves as followers of that creed; for the Nezam Shahs and Qotb Shahs it continued throughout the tenure of the sultanate, whereas for the ‘Adel Shahs, only intermittently during the sixteenth century. Furthermore, correspondence between rulers of all three dynasties and the Safavids contained elements of acknowledging both Safavid sovereignty and a Shi‘i following. However, we cannot take the Shi‘ism of the sultanates beyond that. While using creed enables us to position the Deccan within the early modern Muslim world, it also produces certain misunderstandings regarding the meaning of this position. Furthermore, we should ask whether the religious affiliation of the ruler was the sole determinant of the orientation of the state, and even of courtly culture. I propose that it was not. In the Deccan, the majority of Muslims remained Sunni, and no evidence suggests that there was any attempt to impose a new creed on them. Moreover, the Shi‘i sensitivities of some rulers were operating in an environment that encouraged, even endorsed, multiplicity. Even though Shi‘i allegiance was forcefully promoted in official writings, it did not prevent the ruler from pursuing other directions as well. This flexibility highlights the general continuities of courtly culture and its independence of Safavid or any other influence. More so, it emphasizes the flexibility of cultural and religious boundaries which continued in the Deccan into the seventeenth century. The idea that the Deccan Sultanates were solidly Shi‘i in the binary, Safavidinspired way seems to be ill-suited for the Deccani environment. There is no doubt that the Safavid Empire, with its Shi‘i sensitivities and Persianate culture, played a significant role in the shaping of the Muslim sultanates of central India. But the sultanates’ response diverged from the ideas projected from Iran, as sultans fashioned their political and religious identities in a way that was uniquely Deccani.

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Notes: 1. Nezām al-Din Ahmad Shirāzi, Hadīqat al-salātin, pp. 128–29. 2. On his career, which spanned from Iran to Qotb Shahi service and then to the Mughals, see Jagadish Narayan Sarkar, The Life of Mir Jumla. 3. Banātu’n-na‘sh, a term referring to the row of three stars at the tail of both Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. I wish to thank Dr Moya Carey, Chester Beatty Library, Dublin for her assistance in translating this term. 4. Qāsem Tabasi, Enshā-ye Qāsem Tabasi, fols. 131v–132r. 5. Khurshāh b. Qobād al-Hoseyni, Tārikh-e Ilchi-ye Nezām Shāh, pp. 153–54. 6. Mohammad Qāsem b. Hendu-Shāh Fereshta, Tārikh-e Fereshta, vol. II, pp. 218–25. 7. Farhad Daftary suggests that this is a sign that, even in Ahmadnagar, Shah Taher continued to practise taqiya (dissimulation), see Farhad Daftary, The Ismā‘īlīs, pp. 453–54. 8. Edmund Herzig and Willem Floor, ‘Introduction’, p. 2. 9. Moojan Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, p. 121. 10. Juan I.R. Cole, ‘Iranian culture and South Asia’, pp. 25–26. 11. Roger M. Savory, Iran under the Safavids, pp. 203–4. 12. H.K. Sherwani, History of the Qutb Shahi Dynasty, p. 432. 13. M.A. Nayeem, External Relations of the Bijapur Kingdom, p. 54. 14. Justin Jones, Shi‘a Islam in Colonial India, pp. 4–5. 15. See, for example, Cornell H. Fleischer, ‘The lawgiver as messiah’; Stephen F. Dale, The Muslim Empires of the Ottomans, Safavids, and Mughals. 16. Giancarlo Casale, ‘The Islamic empires of the early modern world’, pp. 334–37. 17. Kathryn Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs, pp. 141–60; Colin P. Mitchell, The Practice of Politics in Safavid Iran, pp. 68–87. 18. Said Amir Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam, pp. 109–18; Momen, Shi‘i Islam, pp. 109–11, 213. 19. Rula Abisaab, Converting Persia, pp. 53–87. 20. Cornell H. Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual, pp. 253–72; Boğaç A. Ergene, ‘On Ottoman justice’; Abdurrahman Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans; Heather L. Ferguson, The Proper Order of Things. 21. Hüseyin Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined. 22. Suraiya Faroqhi, ‘Seyyid Gazi revisited’, pp. 90–98; Markus Dressler, ‘Inventing orthodoxy’. 23. Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds, pp. 60–117. 24. This is, of course, not to say that Realpolitik has no role in shaping the relationship. See Martin M. Dickson, ‘Sháh Tahmásb and the Uzbeks’ and discussion on pp. 42– 46; Adel Allouche, The Origins and Development of the Ottoman-Safavid Conflict; Naimur Rahman Farooqi, Mughal-Ottoman Relations. 25. Richard M. Eaton and Phillip B. Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture, pp. 27– 28; Richard M. Eaton, A Social History of the Deccan, pp. 24–26, 37–43; Simon Digby, ‘Before Timur came’; Hiroshi Fukazawa, The Medieval Deccan, pp. 1–48; Sumit Guha, ‘Serving the barbarian to preserve the dharma’, pp. 505–10; Peter Jackson, The Delhi Sultanate, pp. 202–3, 210, 251. 26. Jackson, Delhi Sultanate, pp. 164–65, 207–13, 232, 258–63; Eaton, Social History, pp. 34–43; Mahdi Husain, Tughluq Dynasty, pp. 144–64. 27. David J. Matthews, ‘Dakani Language and Literature’.

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28. H.K. Sherwani, The Bahmanis of the Deccan, pp. 53–120; V. Yashoda Devi, After the Kakatiyas, pp. 65–67; S.K. Sinha, Medieval History of the Deccan, p. 131. 29. Muhammad Suleman Siddiqi, The Bahmani Sufis, pp. 31–70, 95–116. 30. Eaton, Social History, pp. 47–58; Siddiqi, Bahmani Sufis, pp. 31–69, 119–49, 197– 98. 31. Sanjay Subrahmanyam, ‘Iranians abroad’; idem, ‘Of imarat and tijarat’; Sherwani, Bahmanis, pp. 120–50; G. Yazdani, Bidar, pp. 3–9; Muhammad Suleman Siddiqi, ‘The ethnic change at Bidar and its influence’, pp. 65–68. 32. Siddiqi, Bahmani Sufis, pp. 150–87; Siddiqi, ‘Ethnic change’; Peyvand Firouzeh, ‘Sacred kingship in the garden of poetry’, p. 212. 33. Eaton, Social History, pp. 67–70. 34. The sultanates proclaimed their sovereignty, expressed by the introduction of the title shah, only with the death of the last Bahmani sultan, Kalimollah, in 1538. see H.K. Sherwani, ‘The “independence” of Bahmani governors’. 35. Richard M. Eaton and Phillip B. Wagoner, ‘Warfare on the Deccan Plateau’. 36. D.C. Verma, Social, Economic and Cultural History of Bijapur, pp. 21–24. 37. Virtually all known chroniclers who wrote in Persian were Foreigners, with a nesba such as Astarābādi (Fereshta), Shirāzi or Tabātabā’i. Similarly, Persian poets in the Deccan were Iranian migrants, including the celebrated Zohuri and Malek Qommi. See T.N. Devare, A Short History of Persian Literature, pp. 67, 94–98, 186–236, 324–30; E.G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia, vol. IV, pp. 110, 253. 38. Nayeem, External Relations, pp. 52–53. 39. Sherwani, Bahmanis, pp. 131–34, 151–73. 40. S.R. Sharma, ‘A note on the cultural background of political struggles in medieval Deccan’, p. 174. 41. Verma, Social, Economic and Cultural History, pp. 14, 186; Nayeem, External Relations, pp. 55–60; Eaton and Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture, pp. 126– 29; Radhey Shyam, The Kingdom of Ahmadnagar, pp. 80–85. Cole, ‘Iranian culture and South Asia’, p. 25, suggests that the ritual cursing of Sunni sacred figures in Bijapur provoked riots. However, he does not provide any evidence, and I have not encountered cases of this kind. 42. Richard M. Eaton, The Sufis of Bijapur, pp. 70–75; Momen, Shi‘i Islam, pp. 109–11, 213. 43. Eaton and Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture, pp. 125–33. 44. Sumit Guha, ‘Mārgī, Deśī, and Yāvanī’, pp. 134–37. 45. James Mill, The History of British India. 46. See, for example, Eaton, Social History; Phillip B. Wagoner, ‘Sultan among Hindu kings’. 47. Tārikh-e Fereshta, vol. II, pp. 64–65; P.M. Joshi, ‘The ʿĀdil Shāhis and the Baridis’, vol. II, p. 325. 48. Rafi‘ al-Din Ebrāhim Shirāzi, Tadhkerat al-moluk, p. 189. 49. M. Nazim, Bijapur Inscriptions, no. 426, pp. 49–50; Eaton and Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture, pp. 137–38. 50. Nazim, Bijapur Inscriptions, no. 3312, p. 49. Eaton and Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture, p. 137, mention the name of the sovereign but, oddly, ignore the Shi‘i slogan at the beginning of the inscription. 51. Shirāzi, Tadhkerat al-moluk, pp. 56–57.

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52. Deborah Hutton, Art of the Court of Bijapur, pp. 26–47. 53. Yazdani, Bidar, pp. 141–46; Siddiqi, Bahmani Sufis, pp. 78–83. 54. Hutton, Bijapur, pp. 42–51; G. Yazdani, ‘Inscriptions of Shahpur, Gogi and SagarGulbarga District’, pp. 5–9; George Michell and Mark Zebrowski, Architecture and Art of the Deccan Sultanates, p. 88. 55. Enshā-ye Qāsem Tabasi, fol. 131v. 56. Hutton, Bijapur, p. 177, n. 62. 57. Marika Sardar, ‘Golconda through Time’, pp. 105–9. 58. Emma J. Flatt, ‘The authorship and significance of the Nujum al-ulum’; Hutton, Bijapur, pp. 50–69. 59. Flatt, ‘Nujum al-ulum’, pp. 225–29. 60. Eaton and Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture, pp. 134–46. 61. Katherine Butler Schofield, ‘Music, art and power in ‘Adil Shahi Bijapur’. 62. Eaton, Sufis of Bijapur, pp. 89–105; Eaton and Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture, pp. 149–51. 63. Zohuri, Nauras, ed. and trans. Mauammad ‘Abdu’l Ghani, vol. III, text p. 311, trans. p. 340; Hutton, Bijapur, pp. 110–11; Katherine Butler Schofield, ‘Learning to taste the emotions’, pp. 407–10. 64. Nazir Ahmad, Ketab-e nauras, pp. 55–94; David J. Matthews, ‘Eighty years of Dakani scholarship’, pp. 92–94; Navina Najat Haidar, ‘The Kitab-i nauras’, p. 26. 65. Qazvini, Hālāt-e Asad Beg, fol. 170r. 66. Keelan Overton, ‘Book culture’, pp. 93–97, 113–17. 67. Hoseyn b. Gheyās al-Din Mahmud, Kheyr al-bayān, fols. 293v, 319v–322r; Devare, Persian Literature, pp. 67, 94–98, 186–236, 324–30; Browne, A Literary History of Persia, vol. IV, pp. 110, 253. 68. Tārikh-e Fereshta, vol. II, p. 153, and recall his important role in the construction of Nauraspur. 69. Keelan Overton, ‘A Collector and his Portrait’, pp. 44–115; See also Christopher D. Bahl, ‘Histories of Circulation’, pp. 128–35. 70. Tārikh-e Fereshta, vol. II, pp. 153–54. Rowzat al-safā’ (‘Garden of Purity’) is a world history, written in the Timurid court of Herat by Mirkhvānd (d. 1498), completed by his grandson, Khvāndamir. This history was important in the development of Safavid historiographical traditions. See Maria Szuppe, ‘Historiography, V: Timurid period’; Sholeh Quinn, Historical Writing, pp. 13–14, 39–40. 71. Tārikh-e Fereshta, vol. II, p. 156. 72. Golzār-i Ebrāhim, vol. III, text pp. 360–61, trans. pp. 368–70. 73. Verma, Social, Economic and Cultural History, p. 100. 74. Tārikh-e Fereshta, vol. II, pp. 171–74. 75. Deborah Hutton, ‘Carved in stone’, pp. 74–75, suggests that the monumental architecture from Ebrahim’s reign reflects the continuation and codification of his predecessors’ visual language rather than the rejection thereof. 76. See, for example, Sardar, ‘Golconda through Time’, pp. 21–65, 127–28, 132–33; Eaton and Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture, pp. 214–30; Vasumati, ‘Ibrahim Qutb Shah and Telugu poets’, pp. 28–42; idem, ‘Telugu literature’, pp. 54–65; Sherwani, Qutb Shahi, pp. 85–86, 525–40; Philip B. Wagoner, ‘The multiple worlds of Amin Khan’.

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77. Radhey Shyam argues that in Ahmadnagar, with the conversion of Borhan Nezam Shah, Shi‘ism became the religion of the masses, a transition that was achieved peacefully, see Shyam, Ahmadnagar, p. 81. This, however, is far from likely; no evidence supports it other than a short reference in Fereshta, himself Shi‘i. Other sources emphasize that Shi‘ism remained a minority creed throughout the Deccan, marking the region as distinct from Iran. See, Nile Green, ‘Shiism, Sufism and sacred space in the Deccan’, pp. 195–97. 78. This issue is elaborated in my book, Local States in an Imperial World. 79. Nazir Ahmad’s translation of the letter from Makāteb-e zamān-e salātin-e safaviya, Asafiya Library, Hyderabad, Ms. 1214, fol. 404ff., reprinted in Nayeem, External Relations, appendix I, pp. 275–76; facsimile in appendix VII. 80. Riyazul Islam, A Calendar of Documents on Indo-Persian Relations, vol. II, pp. 131–35. 81. Nayeem, External Relations, pp. 52–62; Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, The Mughal State, pp. 33–36. 82. Elizabeth Lambourn, ‘Khutba and Muslim networks in the Indian Ocean (Part II)’. 83. Sebastian Prange, Monsoon Islam, pp. 263–67. 84. Dariusz Kołodziejczyk, ‘What is inside and what is outside?’, pp. 430–31. 85. Pushkar Sohoni,‘The non-issue of coinage’.

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Devare, T.N., A Short History of Persian Literature at the Bahmani, the Adilshahi, and the Qutbshahi Courts, Deccan ([Pune: S. Devare], 1961). Devi, V. Yashoda, After the Kakatiyas (Hyderabad: Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Akademi, 1975). Dickson, Martin M., ‘Sháh Tahmásb and the Uzbeks (The Duel for Khurásán with ‘Ubayd Khán: 930–946/1524–1540)’, doctoral dissertation (Princeton: Princeton University, 1958). Digby, Simon, ‘Before Timur came: Provincialization of the Delhi Sultanate through the fourteenth century’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 47 (2004), pp. 298–356. Dressler, Markus, ‘Inventing orthodoxy: Competing claims for authority and legitimacy in the Ottoman-Safavid conflict’, in Legimizing the Order: The Ottoman Rhetoric of State Power, ed. Hakan T. Karateke and Maurus Reinkowski (Leiden: Brill, 2005), pp. 151–73. Eaton, Richard M., The Sufis of Bijapur, 1300–1700: Social Roles of Sufis in Medieval India (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978). — A Social History of the Deccan, 1300–1761: Eight Indian Lives (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). Eaton, Richard M. and Phillip B. Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture: Contested Sites on India’s Deccan Plateau, 1300–1600 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2014). — ‘Warfare on the Deccan Plateau, 1450–1600: A military revolution in early modern India?’, Journal of World History 25 (2014), pp. 5–50. Ergene, Boğaç A., ‘On Ottoman justice: Interpretations in conflict (1600– 1800)’, Islamic Law and Society 8 (2001), pp. 52–87. Farooqi, Naimur Rahman, Mughal-Ottoman Relations (Delhi: Edāra-ye adabiyāt-e Delli, 1989). Faroqhi, Suraiya, ‘Seyyid Gazi revisited: The foundation as seen through sixteenth and seventeenth-century documents’, Turcica 13 (1981), pp. 90– 122. Fereshta, Mohammad Qāsem Hendu-Shāh Astarābādi, Tārikh-e Fereshta: Tārikh-e salātin-e hendustān, ed. John Briggs and Mir Khoirat Ali Khan, 2 vols (Bombay: Lithographed at the Government College Press, 1831). Ferguson, Heather L., The Proper Order of Things: Language, Power, and Law in Ottoman Administrative Discourses (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2018). Firouzeh, Peyvand, ‘Sacred kingship in the garden of poetry: Ahmad Shāh Bahmani’s tomb in Bidar (India)’, South Asian Studies 31 (2015), pp. 187– 214. Fischel, Roy S., Local States in an Imperial world: Identity, Society and Politics in the Early Modern Deccan (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2020).

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Flatt, Emma J., ‘The authorship and significance of the Nujum al-ulum: A sixteenth-century astrological encyclopedia from Bijapur’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 131 (2011), pp. 223–44. Fleischer, Cornell H., Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire: The Historian Mustafa Âli (1541–1600) (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986). — ‘The lawgiver as messiah: The making of the imperial image in the reign of Süleyman’, in Soliman le Magnifique et son temps, ed. Gilles Veinstein (Paris: La Documentation Française, 1992), pp. 159–77. Fukazawa, Hiroshi, The Medieval Deccan: Peasants, Social Systems and States, Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1991). Green, Nile, ‘Shiism, Sufism and sacred space in the Deccan: Counternarratives of saintly identity in the cult of Shah Nur’, in The Other Shiites: From the Mediterranean to Central Asia, ed. Alessandro Monsutti, Silvia Naef and Farian Sabahi (Bern: Peter Lang, 2007), pp. 195–218. Guha, Sumit, ‘Mārgī, Deśī, and Yāvanī: High language of ethnic speech in Maharashtra’, in Mārga: Ways of Liberation, Empowerment, and Social Change in Maharashtra, ed. M. Naito, I. Shima and H. Kotani (New Delhi: Manohar, 2008), pp. 129–46. — ‘Serving the barbarian to preserve the dharma: The ideology and training of a clerical elite in Peninsular India c. 1300–1800’, The Indian Economic and Social History Review 47 (2010), pp. 497–525. Haidar, Navina Najat, ‘The Kitāb-i nauras: Key to Bijapur’s golden age’, in Sultan of the South: Arts of India’s Deccan Courts, 1323–1687, ed. Navina Najat Haidar and Marika Sardar (New Haven, CT; London: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2011), pp. 26–43. Herzig, Edmund and Willem Floor, ‘Introduction’, in Iran and the World in the Safavid Age, ed. Willem Floor and Edmund Herzig (London: I.B. Tauris, 2012), pp. 1–13. Hoseyn b. Gheyās al-Din Mahmud, Kheyr al-bayān, British Museum, Persian Ms. Or. 3397. Husain, Mahdi, Tughluq Dynasty (Calcutta: Thacker Spink & Co., 1963). Hutton, Deborah, ‘Carved in stone: The codification of visual identity for the Indo-Islamic Sultanate of Bīdjāpūr’, Archives of Asian Art 55 (2005), pp. 65–78. — Art of the Court of Bijapur (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006). Islam, Riyazul, A Calendar of Documents on Indo-Persian Relations, 1500– 1750, 2 vols (Tehran: Iranian Culture Foundation and Karachi: Institute of Central and West Asian Studies, 1979–82). Jackson, Peter, The Delhi Sultanate: A Political and Military History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999).

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Jones, Justin, Shi’a Islam in Colonial India: Religion, Community and Sectarianism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). Joshi, P.M., ‘The ʿĀdil Shāhis and the Baridis’, in History of Medieval Deccan, 1295–1724, ed. H.K. Sherwani and P.M. Joshi (Hyderabad: Government of Andhra Pradesh, 1973–4), vol. II, pp. 289–394. Kafadar, Cemal, Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). Khurshāh b. Qobād, al-Hoseyni, Tārikh-e Ilchi-ye Nezām Shāh, ed. Mohammad Rezā Nasiri (Tehran: Anjoman-e āsār va mafākher-e farhangi, 1379/2000). Kołodziejczyk, Dariusz, ‘What is inside and what is outside? Tributary states in Ottoman politics’, in The European Tributary States of the Ottoman Empire in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, ed. Gabor Karman and Lovro Kuncevic (Leiden: Brill, 2013), pp. 421–32. Lambourn, Elizabeth, ‘Khutba and Muslim networks in the Indian Ocean (Part II), Timurid and Ottoman engagements’, in The Growth of Non-Western Cities: Primary and Secondary Urban Networking, c. 900–1900, ed. Kenneth R. Hall (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2011), pp. 127–54. Matthews, David J., ‘Dakani Language and Literature, 1500–1700 AD’, doctoral dissertation (SOAS University of London, 1976). —— ‘Eighty years of Dakani scholarship’, Annual of Urdu Studies 8 (1993), pp. 82–99. Michell, George and Mark Zebrowski, Architecture and Art of the Deccan Sultanates (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). Mill, James, The History of British India (London[?]: [n.p.], 1817). Mitchell, Colin P., The Practice of Politics in Safavid Iran: Power, Religion and Rhetoric (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009). Momen, Moojan, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam: The History and Doctrines of Twelver Shi‘ism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985). Nayeem, M.A., External Relations of the Bijapur Kingdom (1489–1686 A.D.) (Hyderabad: Bright Publishers, 1974). Nazim, M., Bijapur Inscriptions: Memoirs of the Archæological Survey of India 49 (Delhi: Manager of Publications, 1936). Overton, Keelan, ‘A Collector and his Portrait: Book Arts and Painting for Ibrahim ‘Adil Shah II of Bijapur (r. 1580–1627)’, doctoral dissertation (University of California–Los Angeles, 2011). — ‘Book culture, royal libraries, and Persianate painting in Bijapur, circa 1580–1630’, Muqarnas 33 (2016), pp. 91–154. Prange, Sebastian R., Monsoon Islam: Trade and Faith on the Medieval Malabar Coast (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018). Qazvini, Asad Beg, Ketāb-i hālāt-e Asad Beg Qazvini, British Library, Ms. Or 1837.

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Quinn, Sholeh A., Historical Writing during the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas: Ideology, Imitation and Legitimacy in Safavid Chronicles (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2000). Sardar, Marika, ‘Golconda through Time: A Mirror of the Evolving Deccan’, doctoral dissertation (New York University, 2007). Sarkar, Jagadish Narayan, The Life of Mir Jumla, the General of Aurangzeb (Calcutta: Thacker, Spink & Co., 1951). Savory, Roger M., Iran under the Safavids (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980). Sharma, S.R., ‘A note on the cultural background of political struggles in Medieval Deccan’, Proceedings of the Deccan History Conference, Hyderabad, First Session (1945), pp. 171–77. Sherwani, H.K., ‘The “independence” of Bahmani governors’, Proceedings of the Indian History Congress, Seventh Session, Madras (1944), pp. 256–62. — The Bahmanis of the Deccan (Hyderabad: Saood Manzil, 1953). — History of the Qutb Shahi Dynasty (New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal, 1974). Shirāzi, Nezām al-Din Ahmad, Hadīqat al-salātin, ed. ‘Ali Asghar Bilgrami (Hyderabad: Islamic Publications Society, 1961). Shirāzi, Rafi‘ al-Din Ebrāhim, Tadhkerat al-moluk, Telangana (formerly Andhra Pradesh) Oriental Manuscript Library, Hyderabad, Persian Ms. history 1081. Shyam, Radhey, The Kingdom of Ahmadnagar (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1966). Siddiqi, Muhammad Suleman, The Bahmani Ṣūfis (Delhi: Edāra-ye adabiyāt-e Delli, 1989). — ‘The ethnic change at Bidar and its influence (AD 1422–1538)’, in Medieval Deccan History: Commemoration Volume in Honour of Purshottam Mahadeo Joshi, ed. A.R. Kulkarni, M.A. Nayeem and T.R. de Souza (Bombay: Popular Prakashan, 1996), pp. 33–51. Sinha, S.K., Medieval History of the Deccan, Vol. 1: Bahmanids (Hyderabad: Government of Andhra Pradesh, 1964). Sohoni, Pushkar, ‘The non-issue of coinage: The monetary policies of the postBahmani sultanates’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, third series 28 (2018), pp. 645–59. Subrahmanyam, Sanjay, ‘Iranians abroad: Intra-Asian elite migration and early modern state formation’, Journal of Asian Studies 51 (1992), pp. 340–63. — ‘Of imarat and tijarat: Asian merchants and state power in the western Indian Ocean, 1400 to 1750’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 37 (1995), pp. 750–80. Szuppe, Maria, ‘Historiography v. Timurid period’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. XII, fasc. 4 (2003), pp. 356–63. Tabasi, Qāsem, Enshā-ye Qāsem Ṭabasi, British Library, Ms. IO Persian 18.

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Vasumati, E., ‘Ibrahim Qutb Shah and Telugu poets’, in Qutb Shahi Sultans and Andhra Samskriti, ed. S.M. Qadri Zore (Hyderabad: Idāra-e-Adabiyāte-Urdu, 1962), pp. 28–42. — Telugu Literature in the Qutub Shahi Period (Hyderabad: Abul Kalam Azad Oriental Research Institute, 196?). Verma, D.C., Social, Economic and Cultural History of Bijapur (Delhi: Edāraye adabiyāt-i Delli, 1990). Wagoner, Phillip B., ‘“Sultan among Hindu kings”: Dress, titles, and Islamicization of Hindu culture at Vijayanagara’, Journal of Asian Studies 55 (1996), pp. 851–80. — ‘The multiple worlds of Amin Khan: Crossing Persianate and Indic cultural boundaries in the Qutb Shahi Kingdom’, in Sultans of the South: Arts of India’s Deccan courts, 1323–1687, ed. Navina Najat Haidar and Marika Sardar (New Haven, CT and London: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2011), pp. 90–101. Yazdani, G. ‘Inscriptions of Shahpur, Gogi and Sagar-Gulbarga District’, Epigraphia Indo-Moslemica (1931–32), pp. 1–24. — Bidar: Its History and Monuments (London: Oxford University Press, 1947). Yılmaz, Hüseyin, Caliphate Redefined: The Mystical Turn in Ottoman Political Thought (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2018). Zohuri, Golzār-e Ebrāhīm, in A History of Persian Language and Literature at the Mughal Court, ed. and trans. Mauammad ‘Abdu’l Ghani (Allahabad: The Indian Press, 1930), vol. III, text pp. 347–62, translation pp. 365–422. — Nauras, in A History of Persian Language and Literature at the Mughal Court, ed. and trans. Mauammad ‘Abdu’l Ghani (Allahabad: The Indian Press, 1930), vol. III, text pp. 307–20, translation pp. 323–45.

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15 Safavids and Ozbeks Florian Schwarz (Institut für Iranistik, Austrian Academy of Sciences)

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he walls of the central audience hall of the Chehel Sotun palace pavilion in Esfahan feature six monumental paintings that have intrigued scholars for decades.1 There is a broad consensus that four of the paintings date to the seventeenth century, while two were added in the nineteenth century. Three of the four Safavid period paintings depict festive and amiable receptions of representatives of eastern neighbours of the Safavids, the fourth represents a very grim battle scene. One of the reception scenes certainly represents an encounter between Shah Tahmasp and the exiled Mughal ruler Homayun near Qazvin in the summer of 1544; the other three paintings, including the battle scene, appear to refer to ‘Ozbek’ (actually Chinggisid, more specifically Shibanid–Abu’l-Kheyrid and Toqay-Timurid) rulers of sixteenth and seventeenth-century Central Asia. Taken together, the wall paintings of the Chehel Sotun audience hall offer vivid testimony of the significance of Iran’s north-eastern neighbours for the Safavids.2 Historians of the art, architecture and court culture of Safavid Esfahan have pointed to broader historical implications of these paintings. In an article published in 1994, Sussan Babaie framed the paintings within the political situation and the eastern interests of the Safavids around the middle of the seventeenth century and connected them specifically with the Safavid–Mughal conflicts over the possession of Qandahar around 1650. She describes the Chehel Sotun as ‘an eloquent testimony that the court set out to create an artistic and architectural backdrop to express the Safavid dynasty’s image in the arena of international politics and the court’s own values’, whose paintings in the central hall ‘distill Shah ‘Abbas II’s dynastic vision of power and prestige in relation to his eastern neighbors’.3 Relations with Central Asia have played a relatively minor role in the study of Safavid Iran, compared with Safavid Iran’s relations and interactions with the Ottoman and Mughal Empires – including their borderlands with Safavid Iran – with the Caucasus (often treated as if it were an integral part of Safavid Iran) and with European states, companies and individuals. ‘The Ozbeks’ tend to appear in the modern historiography on Safavid Iran largely as an abstract entity whose principal role in Iranian history was to threaten its northern

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frontier, ‘(p)erenially exposed to Uzbek and Turkmen raiding’, as R. Matthee has put it.4 Even historians of early modern Iran who allot more space and substance to the discussion of Safavid–Ozbek relations tend to do so under the rubric of ‘the Uzbek threat’.5 This attitude to the place of ‘the Ozbeks’ in the history of Safavid Iran echoes a remark by the court historian of Shah ‘Abbas I, Eskandar Beg Monshi: ‘Although Uzbek affairs may be thought to have no place in a history of Iran, since they are relevant to my theme I have no choice but to record them’.6 With few exceptions, this observation could still today serve as a vignette before many accounts of early modern Iran.7 Why is it that ‘Ozbek affairs’ are still relatively peripheral to the historiography of early modern Iran? The long shadow cast by the political configurations of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries still obscures the historiography of the early modern world. Marshall Hodgson’s notions of ‘Nile to Oxus’ or ‘Balkans to Bengal’ regions – the former representing the ‘middle period’ Islamic ‘heartlands’, the latter the early modern to modern ones – while well intended as correctives to notions such as ‘Middle East’, have cemented a contorted yet highly influential academic mental map. Hodgson’s inclusion of (British post-colonial) Timurid (Mughal) South Asia in the ‘central Islamic lands’, while at the same time excluding from them (Imperial Russian/Soviet) Central Asia (and other regions ‘further afield’) appears to be less based on historical arguments than on a matter-of-fact perception of current regional orders.8 Where historical arguments for writing Central Asia north of the Amu Darya into a peripheral position are produced, they tend to be of a religiousconfessional nature (the Shi‘i–Sunni divide), or concerned with literary-cultural (a negatively connotated ‘Turkization’ and cultural ‘quiescence’ if not outright decline of Transoxiana) or economic-mercantile considerations (decline or shifting of Asian–European overland trade). Rather than going into a thorough review of these arguments, it may suffice here to refer to R. McChesney’s brilliant critique of the notion of a Shi‘i–Sunni barrier that disrupted communication and cultural continuities between Central Asia and Iran.9 These are some of the factors that may explain why Safavid–Ozbek relations have received relatively minor attention, despite the dynamic development of scholarship on post-Timurid, early modern Central Asia. One may put the question in reverse: is there any relevance to grasping an ‘Idea of Iran’ in the study of relations between the Safavids and their Central Asian neighbours? The paintings in the Chehel Sotun audience hall offer an affirmative answer: Eskandar Beg’s verdict notwithstanding, ‘Ozbek affairs’ did matter to the Safavids and had a place even in the symbolic centre of power, the main audience hall of the shah in the seventeenth-century capital.

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Safavids and Jochid neo-Chinggisids: A Short Overview of Two Centuries of Troubled Relations in a Multi-polar Region The Safavid and Chinggisid–Shibanid ruling families rose to power almost simultaneously at the turn of the sixteenth century. In 1501, Esma‘il had himself crowned king in Tabriz, and by 1503 he had taken possession of large parts of the Iranian plateau. Mohammad Shibani Khan took Samarqand and Bukhara in 1500 and from there led campaigns in Transoxiana, to Khvarazm (Khorezm) and Khorasan, as far west as Bastam. In 1505, he took Balkh and, in 1507, Herat, the capital of the Timurid Soltan-Hoseyn-e Bayqara (r. 1469– 1506), fell into the hands of the Chinggisid ruler, only to be lost to the Safavids three years later following the death of Mohammad Shibani Khan in 1510.10 While the Shibanids were able to firmly establish control over Transoxiana against Timurid and Chinggisid–Chaghatayid rivals during the crisis following the death of Mohammad Shibani Khan, the possession of Khorasan became the main bone of contention between Safavids and Shibanids. Between 1524 and the 1530s, the Safavid Shah Tahmasp and the Shibanid sultan (khan from 1533) ‘Obeydollah engaged in what M. Dickson dubbed the ‘Duel for Khurasan’.11 But it was not simply a duel. The situation was complicated, especially in eastern Khorasan, by internal competition among members of the Shibanid house, and the enduring Timurid influence in the Khorasanian–South Asian borderlands. Balkh became firmly Shibanid only in 1526, and Timurids maintained a strong presence in Badakhshan until 1584.12 In 1588, taking advantage of the complicated accession of the young Shah ‘Abbas I to the Safavid throne, the Bukharan khan ‘Abdollah b. Eskandar took possession of much of north-eastern and eastern Iran, including Herat and Mashhad. In 1598, the Safavid Shah ‘Abbas regained both cities. For most of the seventeenth century, the region from Herat to the west was under Safavid control, while eastern Khorasan, with its capital Balkh, was dominated by the Ozbeks, interrupted only by a brief Mughal occupation of Balkh from 1641 to 1647. After the troublesome beginnings in the sixteenth century, Safavid– Ozbek relations arrived at a relatively stable state that lasted throughout the seventeenth century. But the Ozbeks remained important to the Safavids, and Safavids continued to interact in various ways with their north-eastern neighbours. So far, I have used the hybrid ‘Safavids and Ozbeks’, a phrase that contrasts the name of a ruling family of Iran with that of tribal elites of Central Asia. This hybrid term has become conventional in modern Safavid historiography, although it does not necessarily reflect the language of the sources nor the historical complexities of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Persian sources of the period tend to label the two sides as ‘Qezelbash’ and ‘Ozbeks’, thus foregrounding the tribal elites rather than the ruling dynasties on both sides, and indirectly also inflating the Shi‘i–Sunni confessional contrast. Yet

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Safavid–Ozbek Ozbek relations were not a straightforward bilateral relationship but involved a complex interaction between several players. 13 There was no single Ozbekk counterpart to the Safavid king. The term Ozbek represents the highly complex and dynamic interactions of Chinggisid families and non-Chinggisid Chinggisid amirs, whose collective designation as Ozbek refers to their background in the fifteenth-century century Ozbek tribal confederation led by Mohammad Shibani Khan’s grandfather Abu’l-Kheyr Kheyr Khan.14 Not just one, but three branches of the Chinggisids ruled over parts of southern Central Asia in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. They belonged to two branches of descendants ants of Chinggis Khan’s eldest son Jochi: the Shibanids and the ToqayToqay 15 Timurids, descendants of Jochi’s sons Shiban and Toqay-Timur. Toqay The Shibanids dominated Central Asia in the sixteenth century, the Toqay-Timurids Toqay in the seventeenth and into the early eighteenth ghteenth century (see Figure 1).

Fig. 1. The descendants of Shiban and Toqay--Timur in Central Asia. After the death of Mohammad Shibani Khan in 1510, his relatives continued to control the central and eastern parts of Central Asia, their principal centres being at Samarqand, Bukhara, Tashkent and, after 1526, also Balkh south of the Amu Darya (Oxus). 16 They are best labelled Abu’l-Kheyrids, Abu’l after Mohammad Shibani Khan’s grandfather, Abu’l-Kheyr Kheyr Khan. Khvarazm, the large oasis formed by the delta of the Amu Darya, became the dominion of another Shibanid family, the ‘Arabshahids, Arabshahids, descendants of Abu’l-Kheyr’s Abu’l great-uncle uncle ‘Arabshah. The ‘Arabshahid domains tended to extend south of the Oxus delta to include the entire region from the south-eastern south Caspian shores along the Köpet Dagh to Marv. Thus, the Abu’l-Kheyrids Kheyrids and Toqay-Timurids in Bukhara or Balkh were not the only Central Asian Chinggisids to dispute Safavid claims on Khorasan. Besides, relations between the various Chinggisid Jochid families were fraught with tensions and prone to conflict. The rivalry between the two Shibanid branches, the Abu’l-Kheyrids Kheyrids and the ‘Arabshahids,

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outlasted the end of Abu’l-Kheyrid rule in 1598. Their Toqay-Timurid successors in seventeenth-century Bukhara faced resourceful and active opponents in Khvarazmian rulers like Abu’l-Ghazi Bahador Khan (r. 1644– 1663/4) and his son Anusha Mohammad (r. from the resignation of his father until 1687). These tensions were not only the simple outcome of internecine competition but also had economic implications: Khvarazm and Bukhara competed for control of important trade routes on which goods were transported between Iran, India, Central Asia and Russia, and for most of the seventeenth century also China. In the presence of those economic realities, it was the political structures, the complex forms of governance and succession in Shibanid and Toqay-Timurid Central Asia, that played a major role in making competing local or regional interests such a high-stakes issue, resulting in conflict managed, for better or worse, at the highest political levels of the ruling Chinggisid dynasties with all their military resources. Moreover, structural problems put internal stress on the eastern neoChinggisid ruling houses. After Mohammad Shibani Khan’s death in 1510, the Abu’l-Kheyrids developed a highly fragmented appanage system with multiple regional power centres. ‘Abdollah II, who ruled as khan from 1583 to 1598, managed to create more coherent and relatively stable structures of governance, but – as McChesney put it – ‘adherence to the appanage principles remained as strong as ever’.17 Even after the change of ruling Jochid lines from Abu’lKheyrids to Toqay-Timurids around 1600, the neo-Chinggisid political structures remained characterized by strong regionalism, and for more than half of the seventeenth century the internal tensions led to an actual division into two autonomous khanates centred on the two major urban poles of Bukhara in Transoxiana and Balkh in Cisoxiana (1612–42 and 1651–81).18 But even when there was no such split, strong competing claims existed within the ToqayTimurid family. A marked rivalry persisted, for example, between two factions, known as the ‘Dinid’ and ‘Valid’ in modern historiography. After 1611, supporters of Din Mohammad Khan’s sons Emam-Qoli Khan and Sayyed Nadr Mohammad Khan (Dinids) were pitched against supporters of the claims of Vali Mohammad Khan’s son Rostam Mohammad (Valids). In the apt phrase of Christine Noelle-Karimi, ‘(f)rom 1611 on, the power struggle between [those] two factions provided the opportunity for Safavid intervention’.19 These interventions were not limited to military or political action in the region, but extended to hosting Toqay-Timurid or ‘Arabshahid princes and providing them with significant resources. For example, Rostam Mohammad received toyul (tax grants) in Sava in Western Iran.20 The ‘Arabshahid Abu’l-Ghazi Khan spent over a decade at the Safavid court of Shah Safi (r. 1629–42) in Esfahan before returning to Khvarazm and ultimately ascending the throne, allegedly continuing to receive payments from the Safavids.21

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The circumstances outlined here with utmost brevity offered many openings for the Safavids, but also for their north-eastern Chinggisid neighbours, to intervene directly and attempt to obtain support and benefits.

Timurid Legacies and Competition over Khorasan The competition over the control of Khorasan was more than a territorial conflict. The legacy of the Timurid Empire was at stake. The claim to be entitled to Timurid Khorasan was perhaps easier to make for the Abu’l-Kheyrid and Toqay-Timurid Chinggisids than for the Safavids. The Abu’l-Kheyrid Mohammad Shibani Khan had conquered the Timurid heartlands and, in many regards, the early Abu’l-Kheyrid state continued the Timurid Empire. But the question to what extent, and if consciously or not, the Abu’l-Kheyrids saw themselves not exclusively as Chinggisids, but also in the Timurid tradition, has no straightforward answer. The Abu’l-Kheyrid takeover of Central Asia from the Timurids in the early 1500s amounted to a ‘restoration of the Chinggisid mandate’, in the words of Robert McChesney, who has coined the term ‘neoChinggisid’ for the period dominated by the various Jochid clans in the sixteenth to early eighteenth centuries. But foregrounding the Chinggisid aspect, as valid and important as it is, may obscure aspects of resilience of the Timurid legacy in Shibanid and Toqay-Timurid Central Asia. It is legitimate to ask, and particularly relevant in the context of Safavid–Chinggisid relations: was the Abu’l-Kheyrid state mainly neo-Chinggisid, or did it also have neo- or post-Timurid aspects?22 Framing Timurid legacy and entitlement in a (neo-)Chinggisid model of Turko-Mongol corporate kingship, the Abu’l-Kheyrids developed during the first half of the sixteenth century a strong notion of a double ChinggisidTimurid heritage.23 The adjustment of Timurid models to the requirements of Abu’l-Kheyrid notions of superiority is illustrated in the adoption of a mythogeographical tradition in ‘Osman Kuhestani’s Tarikh-e Abu’l-Kheyr Khani, a universal chronicle written in Bukhara in 1539–40, when the first phase of open hostilities over Khorasan had just abated. An old tradition going back to preMongol efforts to write Iranian history into an Islamic narrative of universal history personified Iranian regions and integrated them into prophetic lineages. In this tradition, Khorasan and Heytal were the names of two grandsons of Sam, son of Noah. Heytal became lord of Transoxiana and Khorasan lord of the region south of the Oxus or Amu Darya.24 This narrative was taken up by early Timurid authors, e.g. Hafez-e Abru.25 Sharaf al-Din ‘Ali Yazdi’s history of Timur, the Zafarnama, has a small but significant twist to this tradition: not only are Khorasan and Heytal brothers, but ‘Eraq – i.e. Western Iran – is Khorasan’s son, implying a relationship of equality between the regions north and south of the Oxus and a hierarchical gradient that would put Eastern Iran and Central Asia above Western Iran.26 It is this version that Kuhestani adopts in his chronicle of the Abu’l-Kheyrids, underscoring the pretension to

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suzerainty of the Abu’l-Kheyrids as heirs to Heytal and Khorasan over the Safavids as rulers of ‘Eraq.27 Initially, the Abu’l-Kheyrid attitude to the Timurid imperial heritage appears to have been ambiguous, as can be seen from the radically different policies that Mohammad Shibani Khan adopted at the conquests of Samarqand in 1500 and 1501 on the one hand, and of Herat in 1507 on the other. When Mohammad Shibani Khan took Samarqand, the capital of Timur, he systematically persecuted the members of the local Timurid political elite and replaced them with his own Ozbek followers. In Herat, Mohammad Shibani Khan publicly and ostentatiously adopted the habitus of late Timurid court culture, presiding over assemblies of scholars, posing as a painter and calligrapher and honouring the local political elites, whom he left largely untouched.28 He also began using the title saheb-qeran, lord of the conjunction, a title that had become strongly (if not exclusively) associated with Timur. But the symbolic value of Samarqand as Timur’s capital for Mohammad Shibani Khan was also undeniable, and after the initial crack-down on potential Timurid loyalists it became also necessary to reach out to the local elites in Samarqand and to opt into the Timurid imperial legacy. Timurid credentials gained even greater importance in the intra-Abu’lKheyrid rivalries after the death of Mohammad Shibani Khan in 1510. ‘Abdollah b. Mohammad Nasrollahi’s chronicle Zobdat al-asar, written in or shortly after 1525 in Chagatai Turki for the apanage ruler of Tashkent, presents a double genealogy for the Abu’l-Kheyrids: ‘The sultans of the Turks [i.e. the Shibanids] are from two saheb-qeran’s (lords of the conjunction): One is Chinggis Khan, and the other Timur Bek’.29 This background is important in order to put into perspective arguments that were made in an exchange of letters between the Safavid Shah ‘Abbas I and his Abu’l-Kheyrid opponent ‘Abd al-Mo’men to buttress claims to Khorasan by either side during the period of Abu’l-Kheyrid possession of eastern Iran between 1588 and 1598.30 Very early in the affair, ‘Abd alMo’men, the Abu’l-Kheyrid sultan of Balkh on behalf of his father ‘Abdollah II, responded to Shah ‘Abbas by proposing a peace settlement based on the agreement between the Timurid Soltan-Hoseyn-e Bayqara and the Aq Qoyunlu ruler and ancestor of ‘Abbas, Uzun Hasan. Such an agreement was, of course, unacceptable to ‘Abbas, as it would have meant not only accepting the status quo of Abu’l-Kheyrid possession of the region from Sabzavar to Herat and Balkh, but conceding all of Khorasan from as far west as the Astarabad area to the Abu’l-Kheyrids. ‘Abbas flatly denied ‘Abd al-Mo’men’s claim, arguing that the Abu’l-Kheyrids were by no means the heirs of Timur. But the Abu’lKheyrid claim to the Timurid legacy could not be so easily dismissed. It was based not just on an attempt to justify the possession of Khorasan, but had a variety of roots and, by the time of Shah ‘Abbas, was deeply engrained in Abu’l-Kheyrid lore and bolstered by actual genealogical ties with the Timurids

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through the female line, which carried much weight in the Abu’l-Kheyrid context. So ‘Abbas tried to turn the tables and bring a more recent treaty into the picture. This agreement had allegedly been signed in the second quarter of the sixteenth century by ‘Abbas’s grandfather Shah Tahmasp and ‘Abd alMo’men’s grand-uncles Kisten Qara Soltan and Pir Mohammad Soltan. The treaty was said to have divided the respective domains along the Oxus, giving Transoxiana to the Abu’l-Kheyrids and Khorasan to the Safavids.31 There appears to be no evidence for the existence of such an agreement, and one has to consider the possibility that the shah simply made a bold claim to counter ‘Abd al-Mo’men’s dangerous Timurid argument.

Chinggisid Khans at the Safavid Court With the Safavid reconquest of Western Khorasan and the end of open hostilities in 1598, the consolidation of ‘Abbas I’s grip on power in Iran, and the dynastic change from Abu’l-Kheyrids to their Chinggisid cousins, the Toqay-Timurids in Central Asia, Safavid–Chinggisid relations entered into a quieter phase of detente that lasted throughout the seventeenth century. This did not mean, however, the end of interference in each other’s affairs, or a loss of significance of Central Asia for Safavid Iran, but rather a shift of emphasis that appears to be reflected in the wall paintings in the Chehel Sotun pavilion in Esfahan. In her paper, ‘Shah Abbas II, the conquest of Qandahar, the Chihil Sutun, and its wall paintings’, published in 1994, Sussan Babaie convincingly argues that the Chehel Sotun pavilion was entirely built in 1647, and that all four preQajar wall paintings in the banquet hall were created within a short time after the completion of the audience hall.32 She also posited that a common programme connects the four paintings. She interpreted the content of the paintings against the backdrop of Shah ‘Abbas II’s ‘eastern politics’, especially the reconquest of Qandahar, which had been lost to the Mughals in 1638, the same year that Baghdad had to be ceded to the Ottoman Empire. This re-dating and historical re-framing of the paintings provides a promising opening on their interpretation. But while Qandahar might have been on the shah’s mind when he commissioned the paintings, the strong emphasis on relations with ‘Ozbek’ khans – rather than Mughal, or Ottoman for that matter – suggests broader implications. If one accepts Babaie’s identifications of the non-Safavids depicted in the paintings, only one was Mughal, while three were Central Asian Chinggisid khans, only one of whom was loosely connected to the events surrounding the Safavid reconquest of Qandahar. There is broad consensus on the identification of two of the scenes, namely the triumph of Shah Esma‘il I over Mohammad Shibani Khan, and the reception of the fugitive Homayun at Shah Tahmasp’s court. The third one probably represents a reception of ‘Abbas I for the briefly exiled Toqay-

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Timurid khan Vali Mohammad Khan in 1611.33 The fourth scene is the most difficult to interpret. It depicts a reception presided over by ‘Abbas II, but his guests are not as easily identifiable as in the other paintings. Sussan Babaie suggested Nadr Mohammad Khan, who also sought refuge at the court in Esfahan in 1646. It would thus be a parallel scene to the reception of Nadr Mohammad’s uncle Vali Mohammad Khan by ‘Abbas I.34 This identification is at first sight convincing. The short sojourn of the Nadr Mohammad Khan at the court of ‘Abbas II occurred only a year before the Chehel Sotun pavilion was completed, and the memory must still have been fresh. It was a logical continuation of the programme, enhancing the theme of Safavid hegemony in Khorasan, just as in chronicles of this period, the ToqayTimurid khans are generally described as ‘governors of Bukhara’ (vali-ye Bokhara). As a particularly strong argument in favour of Nadr Mohammad Khan as the third guest in the paintings, Babaie cites a letter from ‘Abbas II to Aurangzeb in which the shah specifies Homayun, Vali Mohammad and Nadr Mohammad as three rulers who benefited from Safavid protection. What complicates the matter is the fact that Safavid support for the refugee khans was not very successful in either of the latter cases. Vali Mohammad Khan’s attempt to regain his throne failed quickly. Safavid promises of support for Nadr Mohammad Khan never materialized. After his return to Balkh he was unable to fully consolidate his authority, also because of the failure of the Safavids to live up to their promise of military support, and was forced to step down in 1651 and to embark on the hajj, which was cut short by his death in Semnan.35 So one might ask how such a scene could serve to enhance the prestige of the Safavids as protectors and king makers in Transoxiana. The spin on the events in Safavid chronicles and correspondence emphasizes Safavid hospitality and lays blame for failure at the threshold of the Central Asian guests, who in ill-advised haste went back east before the Safavids could arrange for military support. Thus, Eskandar Beg points out that Vali Mohammad Khan did in fact regain his throne – even though he lost it, and his life, less than a month later. This unfortunate turn of events was, according to the Safavid chronicler, all the fault of the Ozbek amirs, and the impatience of the khan, who had returned to Khorasan and Transoxiana immediately instead of waiting until Shah ‘Abbas could accompany him with strong Qezelbash troops.36 In a letter to Shah Jahan, drafted shortly after Nadr Mohammad Khan had returned from Esfahan to Khorasan, Shah ‘Abbas II underlines the Safavids’ hospitality and the khan’s rejection of the sound advice he received at the Safavid court.37 Thus, in the Safavid narrative, the failure of Vali Mohammad Khan to regain authority in Bukhara did not diminish the Safavid role as protectors of the Ozbeks, but rather highlighted it. Eskandar Beg put an explicit acknowledgment of the importance of Safavid backing in the mouth of Vali Mohammad: ‘Up till now, every Uzbeg and Čaḡatāy prince who has sought

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help from the Safavid house has achieved his ends. My object in coming here was that, through meeting you, my affairs might prosper, and my resolve be strengthened’.38 The two paintings featuring ‘Abbas I and ‘Abbas II could therefore be seen as twin scenes. But there are striking differences. In the ‘Abbas I–Vali Mohammad Khan painting, the two rulers appear on the same level of protocol, even though the gestures of offering and receiving indicate the actual power relations. The guests are fully armed and an Ozbek entourage surrounds the khan. The second painting, with Shah ‘Abbas II and the bearded, white-robed guest, is strikingly different. The symmetry of the central composition is broken by the presence of a person sitting to the right of the guest. He seems to be a high-ranking eunuch, probably the same person depicted – visibly aged – in court scenes from around 1666.39 But who is the man clad in a striking white robe? He is unarmed, as is the young man to his left, the only other recognizable Ozbek in the picture. The gaze of the white-clad man is different from the others’ in the painting: he looks down, without apparently focusing on any specific object. Accepting Babaie’s suggestion that the man in the white robe is an Ozbek khan, I propose that the actual model was not, or not only, Nadr Mohammad Khan as a political refugee in 1646, but his brother Emam-Qoli Khan as a pilgrim in 1642. It is also conceivable that both khans and their visits to the Safavid court were conflated into a single scene. But the friendly reception represented in the painting matches the positive image of the pilgrim khan Emam-Qoli in Safavid sources much better than the extremely negative depiction of Nadr Mohammad Khan.40 The inclusion of a representation of the Safavid king hosting a Central Asian royal pilgrim would substantially broaden the scope of the programme of the paintings beyond that of political supremacy. The hosting of royal pilgrims would highlight the role of the Safavid king as patron and protectors of pilgrims in general and level the gradient of prestige that the control of the Hejaz by the Ottoman sultans and their titles and functions of khadem al-harameyn (Servants of the Two Noble Sanctuaries) entailed. Emam-Qoli b. Din Mohammad was the first of three Toqay-Timurid khans in the seventeenth century actually to perform the pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina.41 Left blind after a long struggle with eye disease, Emam-Qoli abdicated in favour of his brother Nadr Mohammad Khan and embarked on the hajj. In the early summer of 1642, Shah ‘Abbas II, who had ascended the Safavid throne only weeks before, received the pilgrim khan with full honours at Qazvin. The blind khan seems to have made quite an impression on his Safavid hosts.42 The only clearly attributed portrait of Emam-Qoli Khan was painted during his travels through Iran, most probably in Qazvin.43 It shows the khan kneeling, with a long white beard and the robe and turban of a learned man smoking a water pipe, his eyes narrowed to a slit and without a visible

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gaze. The posture is strikingly similar to the man with the white beard and white robe sitting across from ‘Abbas II in the Chehel Sotun painting. The lowered gaze of the guest of Shah ‘Abbas II reminds one of the representation of blindness in the miniature portrait. After the epochal political changes that affected Western, Central and South Asia in the early 1500s, the shared and connecting aspects of Iranian–Central Asian cultures and societies remained strong. They included, in the words of Robert McChesney, ‘venerable trade and pilgrimage routes’, a ‘shared literary culture’, and a ‘common religious and linguistic tradition with Persian and Turkic as lingua francas and Arabic as the language of religion and prestige’.44 But while on the level of public discourse a ‘bilateral factionalism’ (McChesney) existed, Safavid and Ozbek polities were much more closely interconnected even on the political level than the rhetoric of the period might suggest. Moments of strong tension alternated with relatively peaceful phases and intensive encounters in a largely shared cultural and economic space. Looking at such interactions from the vantage point of the Safavid court, one can observe a gradual development that mirrors the evolving political realities. The initial open political rivalry and territorial claims, while never entirely disappearing, increasingly gave way to a patronizing attitude of superiority. On the Safavid side, this pretension to hegemonic political patronage finds expression in a rhetoric of protection as, for example, in a letter ‘Abbas I sent to ‘Abd al-Mo’men in 1000/1592. After alluding to the fates of Mohammad Shibani Khan and ‘Obeydollah Soltan in battles against Shah Esma‘il and Shah Tahmasp, the letter lists a number of Timurids (Babur, Soltan-Hoseyn-e Bayqara’s sons and Homayun), as well as the ruling houses of Shirvan in the Caucasus and Khvarazm in Central Asia, as refugees at the courts of Shah Esma‘il and Shah Tahmasp.45 This letter, drafted in a period of intense conflict over Khorasan between Safavids and Shibanids, anticipates two of the paintings at Chehel Sotun half a century later: the triumph of Shah Esma‘il over Mohammad Shibani Khan and Homayun at the court of Shah Tahmasp. The remaining two paintings, if identified correctly, reflect a further development of the Safavid stance towards their north-eastern neighbours and the role in which the Safavids cast them in the evolving idea of Safavid kingship. The theme of protection and political patronage is still present, especially in the scene with Vali Mohammad Khan, but it opens the door to a wider range of meaning, including that of protector of pilgrims in the scene that might represent EmamQoli Khan or a conflation of Emam-Qoli Khan’s and Nadr Mohammad Khan’s presence at the court. The significance of the paintings goes beyond the depiction of specific events. They represent a genealogy of Safavid royalty from the perspective of Shah ‘Abbas II. The scenes highlight Esma‘il I’s military prowess as the founder of the dynasty, Shah Tahmasp’s success in establishing Safavid Iran among the great powers of the era, the assertion of regional hegemony in the

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reign of Shah ‘Abbas I through the reconquest of Khorasan and, finally, the patronage of pilgrimage, combined with the status of protector of neighbouring rulers and princes, personified in the likely commissioner of the paintings, Shah ‘Abbas II. The necessary counterparts to create this visual story are eastern and, with one exception, Central Asia Chinggisid rulers from the Abu’l-Kheyrid and Toqay-Timurid lines. This outline of broad trends underlines the observation that the complex relationship between the two realms cannot be reduced to dichotomies of creed (Sunni vs. Shi‘i or ‘Ozbek vs. Qezelbash’) or conflicting interests in and claims on Khorasan. Rather, they played out in a largely shared space, on various levels, and in many shades of ideological, political, artistic, religious, intellectual, social and economic interactions. Safavid–Ozbek relations were subject to significant historical change over the more than two centuries of interactions. The mid-seventeenth-century wall paintings in the Chehel Sotun audience hall in Esfahan tell a story of perceived Safavid supremacy, bookended by military superiority and patronage of royal pilgrims, displaying all the splendour of the symbolic centre of Safavid power. They are a reminder of the importance of the ‘Ozbeks’ for the (self-)perceptions and (self-) representations (or, in one word, the Idea) of Safavid Iran, and at the same time highlight the significance of the neo-Chinggisid, post-Timurid domains for the history of early modern Asia.

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Notes: 1. See e.g. Eleanor Sims and Ernst Grube, ‘Wall paintings in the seventeenth-century monuments of Isfahan’; Eleanor Sims, ‘Late Safavid painting’; Jean-Dominique Brignoli, Les palais royaux safavides, pp. 435–37. 2. Sussan Babaie, ‘Shah Abbas II, the conquest of Qandahar’. 3. Ibid., p. 139. See also Eleanor Sims (with Boris I. Marshak and Ernst J. Grube), Peerless Images, pp. 73–75. 4. Rudi Matthee, Persia in Crisis, p. 231. 5. E.g. Hans Robert Roemer, Persien auf dem Weg in die Neuzeit. 6. Eskandar Beg Monshi, Tārikh-e ʿālam-ārā-ye ʿAbbāsi, vol. II, p. 463; trans. Roger M. Savory, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, vol. II, p. 637. 7. Notable exceptions include, for example, studies by Robert McChesney, Audrey Burton and Charles Melville. 8. Thus, by way of example, Ira Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies, p. 424, stated that ‘Transoxania under Uzbek rule was integrated once again into Inner Asia’, as if the region was returning to a natural primordial state. Interestingly, this view converges with Bertold Spuler’s claim that Central Asia (Innerasien) was ‘eliminated from world history’ after 1500. Generally in line with the decline scenario of Islamic (or non-European) history, the conservative German historian’s argumentation is significantly influenced by a political ideal of a strong centralized state, whose absence in post-Timurid Central Asia, in Spuler’s view, ‘turned the fate of Central Asia in 1500’ and condemned the region to a provincial status, wedged between early modern great powers: Mughal India, Safavid Iran and the expanding Russian Empire. Spuler, Geschichte Mittelasiens seit dem Auftreten der Türken, pp. 232, 236. 9. Robert McChesney, ‘Barrier of heterodoxy?’. See also Robert McChesney, ‘Earning a living’; Maria Szuppe, ‘Circulation des lettrés et cercles littéraires’; Scott Levi, The Indian Diaspora in Central Asia; Florian Schwarz, Unser Weg schließt tausend Wege ein, pp. 11–16. 10. Maria Szuppe, Entre Timourides, Uzbeks et Safavides. 11. Martin Dickson, Sháh Tahmásb and the Uzbeks. 12. H.S. Pirumshoev and A.H. Dani, ‘The Pamirs, Badakhshan and the trans-Pamir states’, pp. 230–32. 13. Robert McChesney, ‘Central Asia vi’; idem, ‘Islamic culture and the Chinggisid restoration’. 14. On the fifteenth-century Ozbek confederation and its background in the Noghay horde, see Devin DeWeese, Islamization and Native Religion in the Golden Horde, pp. 336–52. On the relations between Chinggisids, Ozbek amirs and tribal and nontribal population see Robert McChesney, ‘The amirs of Muslim Central Asia in the XVIIth century’. 15. The Toqay-Timurids are often referred to as Janids (after the first Central Asian khan of the family, Jani Mohammad, r. 1599–1603) or Ashtarkhanids (after the city and khanate of Hajji Tarkhan or Astrakhan in the Volga Delta, ruled by ToqayTimurids until the Russian conquest of the Khanate in 1556).

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16. In this chapter, Central Asia is used in the sense of the core region of Shibanid and Toqay-Timurid rule, i.e. an area that largely coincides with the modern republics of Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, plus southern Kazakhstan along the Syr Darya river and northern Afghanistan to the Hindukush. 17. McChesney: ‘Central Asia vi’, p. 182a. 18. Ibid., pp. 186a–191a. 19. Christine Noelle-Karimi, The Pearl in its Midst, p. 50. 20. Mohammad Tāher Vahid Qazvini, ‘Abbāsnāma, p. 22. 21. J. Audrey Burton, The Bukharans, p. 290n. 22. For a discussion of the Chinggisid and Timurid legacy in Persian-language historiography in sixteenth and seventeenth-century Central Asia, see Charles Melville, ‘Perceptions of history in Persian chronicles of the sixteenth–seventeenth centuries in Central Asia’. I thank the author for sending me the pre-publication version of this paper. 23. Schwarz, Unser Weg, pp. 69–72. 24. Ahmad b. Dāwud al-Dinawari, Ketāb al-akhbār at-tewāl, pp. 5–6; Mojmal altavārikh va’l-qesas, p. 115; Christine Noelle-Karimi, ‘Images of Khurasan, Iran and the World in pre-Mongol times’. 25. Dorothea Krawulsky, Ḫorasan zur Timuridenzeit nach dem Tāriḫ-i Ḥāfiẓ-e Abrū, vol. I, Persian text, p. 12. 26. Sharaf al-Din ‘Ali Yazdi, Zafarnāma, vol. I, p. 40. 27. ‘Osmān Kuhestāni, Tārikh-e Abu’l-Kheyr Khāni, fol. 25b. 28. Szuppe, Entre Timourides, p. 161. Szuppe contrasts the Shibanid takeover of Herat with the radical measures taken by the Safavids when they conquered the city. Nevertheless, the long-term effects of Timurid prestige were strongly felt in Safavid Iran as well, see Maria Szuppe, “L’évolution de l’image de Timour et des Timourides’. 29. Translation in Ron Sela and Scott Levi, Islamic Central Asia, p. 204. The Timurid link between the two lineages given by ‘Abdollāh Nasrollāhi is Sevinč Khan’s mother, a Timurid princess. A particular kind of ‘Timurid nostalgia’ appears to have been introduced especially to Bukhara by Herati refugees in the first quarter of the sixteenth century, see F. Schwarz, ‘Remembering Bahā’ al-Dīn Naqshband in 16thand 17th-century Bukhara’. 30. J. Audrey Burton, ‘The war of words between ‘Abd al-Mu’min and Shāh ‘Abbās’. 31. ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Navā’i, ed., Shāh ʿAbbās, vol. I, p. 217; Burton, ‘The war of words’, p. 57; Burton, The Bukharans, p.71; Colin Mitchell, The Practice of Politics in Safavid Iran, pp. 186–88, with a translation of the critical passage; cf. Eskandar Beg, Tārikh, vol. II, pp. 452–53; trans. Savory, vol. II, pp. 625–26; Noelle-Karimi, The Pearl, p. 11. 32. Babaie, ‘Shah Abbas II’, p. 135. 33. Sims et al., Peerless Images, pp. 73–75 and catalogue nos. 43, 191 and 192. Sims cautions about the difficulty of identifying the guest of Shah ‘Abbas II. Cf. also her earlier arguments in favour of the identification of the guest with the ambassador of Aurangzeb, implying a date after 1664 (Sims, ‘Late Safavid painting’, p. 411). 34. Babaie, ‘Shah Abbas II’, pp. 133–34. 35. Burton, The Bukharans, pp. 237–64. 36. Eskandar Beg, Tārikh, vol. II, pp. 840–47; trans. Savory, vol. II, pp. 1048–57.

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37. Riazul Islam, A Calendar of Documents on Indo-Persian Relations, vol. I, pp. 297– 98. 38. Eskandar Beg, Tārikh, vol. II, p. 839; trans. Savory, vol. II, p. 1047. 39. Cf., for example, paintings reproduced and discussed in Negar Habibi, ‘Ali Qoli Jebādār et l’Occidentalisme Safavide, p. 75 (the person in the yellow robe kneeling in the right bottom corner) and p. 83 (the person in the blue robe, brown coat and purple turban standing in the centre of the group of onlookers on the left side). 40. On Nadr Mohammad Khan’s image, see J. Audrey Burton, ‘Nadir Muḥammad Khān’. 41. On the Toqay-Timurid khans as pilgrims, see Robert McChesney, ‘The Central Asian hajj-pilgrimage in the time of the early modern empires’. McChesney includes also Vali Mohammad Khan’s journey to Esfahan in the list of pilgrimages, in this case cut short by his failed attempt to regain his throne in Central Asia. The Safavid chronicles appear to present Vali Mohammad Khan’s trip to Esfahan as exclusively related to his political woes, without making references to the hajj. Emam-Qoli Khan arrived in Mecca in 1643 and died there the following year. Nadr Mohammad Khan died on the way, only reaching Semnan in 1651, and it was his corpse that was later transferred to Medina to be buried in the Baqi‘ cemetery (McChesney, ‘The Central Asian hajj-pilgrimage’, p. 150). ‘Abd al-‘Aziz Khan’s abdication and pilgrimage in 1681 took place under very different circumstances. Planned in advance, well prepared and at a leisurely pace, ‘Abd al-‘Aziz Khan’s journey through Iran amounted to a sightseeing tour. The emeritus khan was particularly interested in gardens and paid, for example, an extensive visit to the Hazar Jarib gardens during his 24-day stay in Esfahan as a guest of Shah Soleyman. Dhekr-e ʿāzem shodan-e ‘Abd al-‘Aziz Khān be-jāneb-e Beyt Allāh, Tashkent, Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies, Ms. 4468/III, fols 132a–135a. 42. See, for example, the account in Qazvini, ‘Abbāsnāma, pp. 32–33, where the theme of sight and blindness is central to the rhetorical treatment of the khan’s sojourn in Qazvin. 43. Mohammad Mosavver, ‘Likeness of Emām Qolikhān, king (pādshāh) of Bukhara, dated 1052 h. (June 1642–March 1643),’ Moscow, Museum of Oriental Art, reproduced e.g. in Wladimir Lukonin and Anatoli Iwanow, Die Kunst Persiens, pp. 228–30; Lukonin and Ivanov, Persian Art, pp. 208, 211, cat. no. 236. 44. McChesney, ‘Earning a living’, p. 91. 45. Navā’i, ed., Shāh ‘Abbās, vol. I, pp. 224–25; see the paraphrases and translations of parts of this letter in Mitchell, The Practice of Politics, pp. 187–88.

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McChesney, Robert D., ‘The amirs of Muslim Central Asia in the XVIIth century’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 26 (1983), pp. 33–70. — ‘Central Asia vi. In the 10th–12th/16th–18th centuries’, in Encyclopaedia Iranica, Volume V: Carpets–Coffee, ed. Ehsan Yarshater (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1992), pp. 176a–193a. — ‘“Barrier of Heterodoxy”? Rethinking the ties between Iran and Central Asia in the seventeenth century’, in Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society, ed. Charles Melville (London: I.B. Tauris, 1996), pp. 231–67. — ‘The Central Asian hajj-pilgrimage in the time of the early modern empires’, in Safavid Iran and her Neighbors, ed. Michel Mazzaoui (Salt Lake City: Utah University Press, 2003), pp. 129–56. — ‘Islamic culture and the Chinggisid restoration: Central Asia in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries’, in The New Cambridge History of Islam, vol. 3, The Eastern Islamic World: Eleventh to Eighteenth Centuries, ed. David O. Morgan and Anthony Reid (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 239–65. — ‘Earning a living: Promoting Islamic culture in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries’, in Afghanistan’s Islam: From Conversion to the Taliban, ed. Nile Green (Oakland: University of California Press, 2017), pp. 89–104. Matthee, Rudi, Persia in Crisis. Safavid Decline and the Fall of Isfahan (London: I.B. Tauris, 2012). Melville, Charles, ‘Perceptions of history in Persian chronicles of the sixteenth–seventeenth centuries in Central Asia’, in Memory and Commemoration in Islamic Central Asia, ed. Gabrielle van den Berg and Elena Paskaleva (forthcoming). Mitchell, Colin, The Practice of Politics in Safavid Iran: Power, Religion and Rhetoric (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009). Mojmal al-tavārikh va’l-qesas, ed. Seifeddin Najmabadi and Siegfried Weber, Mudjmal at-tawārīkh wa-l-qiṣaṣ: eine persische Weltgeschichte aus dem 12. Jahrhundert (Edingen-Neckarhausen: Deux Mondes, 2000). Navā’i, ‘Abd al-Hoseyn, ed., Shāh ʿAbbās: majmūʿa-ye asnād va mokātebāt-e tārikhi, 3 vols (Tehran: Enteshārāt-e bonyād-e farhang-e Irān, 1352/1973). Noelle-Karimi, Christine, The Pearl in its Midst: Herat and the Mapping of Khurasan (15th–19th Centuries) (Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2014). — ‘Images of Khurasan, Iran and the World in pre-Mongol times’, in Khurasan: Heartland of Islamic Art and Culture: From Early Islam to the Mongols and beyond, ed. Lorenz Korn (forthcoming).

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Pirumshoev, H.S. and A.H. Dani, ‘The Pamirs, Badakhshan and the trans-Pamir states’, in History of Civilizations of Central Asia V: Development in Contrast: From the Sixteenth to the Mid-Nineteenth Century, ed. Chahryar Adle and Irfan Habib (Paris: UNESCO, 2003), pp. 225–46. Roemer, Hans Robert, Persien auf dem Weg in die Neuzeit: Iranische Geschichte von 1350 – 1750 (Beirut and Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 1989). Schwarz, Florian, Unser Weg schließt tausend Wege ein: Derwische und Gesellschaft im islamischen Mittelasien (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz, 2000). — ‘Remembering Bahā’ al-Dīn Naqshband in 16th- and 17th-century Bukhara’, in Memory and Commemoration in Islamic Central Asia, ed. Gabrielle van den Berg and Elena Paskaleva (forthcoming). Sela, Ron and Scott Levi, Islamic Central Asia: An Anthology of Historical Sources (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010). Sims, Eleanor, ‘Late Safavid painting: The Chehel Sutun, the Armenian houses, the oil paintings’, in Akten des VII: Internationalen Kongresses für Iranische Kunst und Archäologie (Berlin: Reimer, 1979), pp. 408–18. Sims, Eleanor and Ernst Grube, ‘Wall paintings in the seventeenth-century monuments of Isfahan’, in Studies on Isfahan: Proceedings of the Isfahan Colloquium (Iranian Studies 7), ed. Renata Holod (Chestnut Hill, MA: Society for Iranian Studies, 1974), pp. 511–42. Sims, Eleanor (with Boris I. Marshak and Ernst J. Grube), Peerless Images: Persian Painting and its Sources (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002), pp. 73–75. Spuler, Bertold, Geschichte Mittelasiens seit dem Auftreten der Türken (Leiden: Brill, 1966). Szuppe, Maria, Entre Timourides, Uzbeks et Safavides: questions d’histoire politique et sociale de Hérat dans la première moitié du XVIe siècle (Paris: Association pour l’Avancement des Études Iraniennes, 1992). — ‘L’évolution de l’image de Timour et des Timourides dans l’historiographie safavide, XVIe–XVIIe siècles’, in L’Héritage timouride: Iran – Asie Centrale – Inde, XVe–XVIIIe siècles, ed. Maria Szuppe (Aix-en-Provence and Tashkent: Institut Français d’Études sur l’Asie Centrale, 1997), pp. 313–31. — ‘Circulation des lettrés et cercles littéraires: entre Asie centrale, Iran et Inde du Nord (XVe–XVIIIe siècle),’ Annales HSS 59, nos. 5–6 (2004), pp. 997– 1018. Vahid, Mohammad Tāher Qazvini, ‘Abbāsnāma, ed. Ebrāhim Dehgān (Arāk: Dāvudi, 1329/1950). Yazdi, Sharaf al-Din ‘Ali, Zafarnāma, ed. Sayyed Sa‘id Mir Mohammad Sādeq and ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Navā’i, 2 vols (Tehran: Kitābkhāna, mūza va markaz-e asnād-e majles-e shurā-ye eslāmi, 1387/2008).

16 The Evolution of Safavid Policy towards Eastern Georgia George Sanikidze (Ilia State University, Georgia)

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his chapter depicts the relationship between Iran and Eastern Georgia (Gorjestan) during the Safavid era. The issues for study are as follows: can Gorjestan be regarded an integral part of the Safavid Empire or the Persianate world? If so, how strongly was Gorjestan integrated into the one or the other? What were the reasons for specific aspects of the Safavid policy towards Gorjestan? What part did Georgia play in the Iran–Ottoman conflict? In order to answer these questions, four periods are singled out: the first covers the creation of the Safavid state and the reign of Shah Esma‘il; the second, the reign of Shah Tahmasp; the third, relations between Safavid Iran and Georgia during the Shah ‘Abbas epoch and, finally, those after Shah ‘Abbas and up to the demise of the Safavid dynasty. The similarities and differences between these periods are studied and, also, what caused the continuities and transformations of the Safavid policy towards Georgia. The relationship can be seen as revealing how the Georgians would have viewed the Safavids (and vice versa).

First Encounters By the time of the creation of the Safavid state, Georgia was fragmented into small principalities. In Eastern Georgia, there were the kingdoms of Kartli and Kakheti; in the south, the principality of Samtskhe-Saatabago (Meskheti); in Western Georgia, the kingdom of Imereti and the principalities of Odishi (Samegrelo) and Guria (see Figure 1). These principalities were not ruled topdown. A constant state of strife between the regional rulers was accompanied by regular invasions from the south. In the early sixteenth century, Georgia became a bone of contention between the Ottoman Empire and Safavid Iran. The prevalent view in Georgian historiography is that in order to preserve at least a limited degree of independence, the Georgian kings pursued cautious policies towards the two powers.1 However, manoeuvring was not always possible and the cardinal decisions were made by the neighbouring empires rather than the Georgian principalities themselves.

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Fig. 1. Georgian Kingdoms and Principalities, beginning of the sixteenth century. In order to bolster his position in Iran and restore its territorial integrity, the young Safavid Shah Esma‘il had to defeat Sultan Alvand of the Aq Qoyunlu.2 Shah Esma‘il turned to the Georgian princes for military participation in this warfare and, in exchange, promised to release Georgians from the tribute they paid to the Aq Qoyunlu. The Georgians, who had had a long-standing feud with Alvand, decided to take advantage of the situation and support Esma‘il. An anonymous Venetian describes the Georgians’ valour in the battle against Alvand and their contribution to the victory of the Qezelbash. Such was the Georgians’ military prowess that in 1503, prior to the battle with SoltanMorad, Esma‘il asked the military commanders of the Georgian troops to fight as bravely as they had against Alvand.3 Due to the Ottoman–Safavid tensions, beginning from 1510, Georgia became a top issue on Iran’s foreign policy agenda. David Blow writes, ‘Shah Ismail I had begun the process of bringing eastern Georgia under Safavid control by ordering a number of attacks on the region after his defeat at Chaldiran, with the aim of exploiting its human and material resources and creating a compliant buffer state against the Ottomans’.4 Shah Esma‘il tried to create an anti-Ottoman coalition, of which Atabeg Qvarqvare III of Meskheti (r. 1515–35) was a member. However, the coalition was unable to overcome the Ottoman military might.5 Conversely, primary sources refer to a number of instances of the Georgians turning to Iran in order to beat an adversary and put an end to the strife among the princes. For instance, trying to use the Iranians against the Kingdom of

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Kartli, in 1518, Atabeg Qvarqvare visited the shah and went back to Georgia with some Qezelbash troops. In order to save his kingdom, David X of Kartli (r. 1505–25), who was also the King of Kakheti at the time, sent his son to the Iranian ruler with lavish gifts. The Kakhetians made good use of the situation and enthroned Levan, the prince of Kakheti.6 In Georgian historiography, it is considered that, in 1518, the Eastern Georgian kings and the prince of Samtskhe formally became the vassals of the Safavid state. However, the Qezelbash did not interfere with the internal affairs of the Georgian princes, who, in turn, had to pay a certain tribute, which they collected at their own discretion. On the shah’s request, they were obliged to provide immediate support to the Qezelbash in their military campaigns waged in the vicinity of Georgia. Despite the not terribly stringent nature of this vassalage, the Georgian princes persisted with their attempts to free themselves of it and did not miss a chance to this end. In 1521, even Levan (r. 1518–74), king of the most loyal and ‘peaceful’ Kakheti kingdom, ‘refused to obey and sent an army of infidels to invade the neighbouring Shaki province’,7 a Safavid vassal. The governor of Shaki turned for support to Esma‘il, who sent troops. Qezelbash forces invaded the Kakhetian towns and Levan was forced to submit. After this failed attempt, for the sake of security and non-interference with its internal affairs, up to 1578, the Kingdom of Kakheti unconditionally acknowledged its vassalage to Iran. The economic situation in Kakheti was much better than in the Kingdom of Kartli, the vicinity of the Gilan–Shemakhi–Astrakhan route being favourable to external trade. In Kartli, by contrast, in order to rein in the non-compliant vassal David X, in 1522 (or 1524) the shah sent in troops, who brought Tbilisi under control. Perhaps it was at this time that the Iranians built a mosque in Tbilisi.8 During the first quarter of the sixteenth century, regardless of the Persians’ recurrent military campaigns in the South Caucasus, Iran failed to impose its political control over Georgia. J.L. Bacqué-Grammont emphasizes that it was mainly diplomatic factors that deterred Esma‘il from occupying Georgia.9 Being fully aware of the Ottomans’ prevailing military might at the time, Esma‘il realized that they would react strongly to the annexation of Eastern Georgia. So he had to make do with the tribute paid by the Georgians and clamp down on them if they rebelled.

Steps towards Integration Shah Esma‘il’s death in 1524 gave an impetus to the political instability in Iran. Making good use of it, David X attacked Tbilisi, whose fortress was occupied by Iranians, and liberated the Kingdom of Kartli from the shah’s vassalage.10 However, the victory was short-lived. The new shah, Tahmasp (r. 1524–76),

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who gradually strengthened his position in the country, soon turned against his neighbours. Shah Tahmasp’s policy was totally different from that of his predecessor. Resorting to various means, he actually tried to integrate Eastern Georgia into the Iranian state. As a result of his four military campaigns in Georgia between 1540 and 1554, Iranian control strengthened gradually.11 ‘However, notwithstanding the obvious political and military success of the Safavids, their main objective, i.e. full incorporation of Georgia and her transformation into an ordinary khanate inside the Safavid state, was not achieved’.12 In addition to the tribute, Shah Tahmasp requested the wives, sons and daughters of the Georgian nobility.13 The military campaigns were targeted at appointing loyal people as governors of Eastern Georgia and Islamizing them. Thus, Georgian districts were brought under control with local governors being appointed from, and taxes being paid to, the centre.14 Despite a certain autonomy and regardless of the fact that the majority of the population remained Christian, the transition from vassalage to integration was under way. It is within this context that the resettlement of Georgians in Iran for the purpose of revitalizing its agriculture should be considered,15 as well as the appointment of the Islamized Georgian nobility to high positions at the Safavid court.16 In contrast to the rural population, it did not take the Georgian nobility long to turn to Islam for purely practical career reasons.17 Over time, the Georgians started to play an important part in both the civil administration and the army. Later, Shah ‘Abbas expanded the practice and the Caucasians took on even more important roles in the political and public affairs of Iran. Roger Savory points out that ‘the Caucasian elements’ (or the ‘third force’, distinct from the Turkoman and Persian elements) had already appeared in the Safavid state during the reign of Shah Tahmasp I, after his successive campaigns into the Caucasus, especially in the Georgian kingdoms.18 Although during Shah Tahmasp’s reign, the Georgians did not play a particularly significant part in Iranian politics and military affairs, the Caucasian element had a strong presence in Iran even before Shah ‘Abbas came to power. Therefore, we agree with Hirotake Maeda that ‘the prototype of the ghulām corps of Shah ‘Abbas had been already prepared’.19 The minting of a silver coin bearing the shah’s name in the Kakhetian town of Zagemi after Shah Tahmasp’s military campaigns testifies to Iran’s economic dominance over Eastern Georgia. The coins, minted at the Zagemi zarbkhana, circulated widely across the South Caucasus.20 The Georgian kings realized the fact that the national currency would not bring sufficient revenue to the treasury, as it would circulate merely inside Georgia. Therefore, the appearance of Iranian-style coins (later called the silver of Tbilisi) was prompted by purely economic interests. It should be said that the coins depicting Iran–Georgian relations persisted in Georgia until the late eighteenth century.21

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The Treaty of Amasya (962/1555) temporarily put an end to the Ottoman– Iranian contest for control over the Caucasus. Eskandar Beg Monshi reports that the Amasya peace treaty divided Georgia between Iran and the Ottoman Empire as follows: Kartli and Kakheti and part of Samtskhe went to Iran, while a bigger part of Samtskhe, Imereti, Samegrelo, Abkhazia and Guria went to the Ottomans.22 Thus, Iran acknowledged the Ottoman Empire’s right to Western Georgia, while the latter recognized Iran’s control over the eastern part of the country. As to Samtskhe, the two powers divided it into their spheres of influence. As a result, a certain balance of power between the two contenders was achieved. In fact, the Treaty of Amasya formally confirmed Georgia’s political disintegration and actually ruled out unification of its kingdoms and principalities. Iran would not allow Ottoman-controlled Western Georgia to interfere with the internal affairs of the eastern regions of the country, and vice versa. Shah Tahmasp made use of the post-treaty situation to strengthen Iranian dominance over Eastern Georgia. Iranian political and social institutions were established and the Islamized princes were enthroned in Kartli and Kakheti. Da’ud Khan II (r. 1569–78) was the first of those, heralding 150 years of Iranian dominance over Eastern Georgia. For the same reason of bringing Eastern Georgia into tighter integration with Iran, Shah Tahmasp ordered the issuance of bilingual, Georgian–Persian farmans to make Persian the language of administration.23 Even after the Amasya peace treaty, Luarsab, king of Kartli (r. 1527–56), continued his struggle against the Iranians and, after he was killed, was replaced by his son Simon (r. 1557–69, 1578–99), who pursued his father’s policy. David, King Luarsab’s second son, took a different stance. Driven by the desire to be king, he betrayed his brother and, in 1562, together with some of his loyal nobles he visited the shah in Qazvin. In Iran, David adopted Islam, was given the name of Da’ud Khan and, as a reward, was conferred with ‘raqam of sonhood’ and the governorship of Tbilisi and Lower Kartli. The ‘sonhood’ meant that David became the shah’s servant bearing the title of Khan. Thus, Shah Tahmasp’s accomplishments in Georgia were significant: ‘not only did a representative of the royal dynasty of Kartli become his ally but a subordinate for that matter’.24 Occasionally, an amir would be sent to Kartli in the role of both commander (qotval) of the Tbilisi fortress and Da’ud Khan’s tutor (lala); the amir would also conduct state affairs. Relying on this information, some Georgian historians consider that, during the rule of Da’ud Khan, Iranians compiled the first registry of the Tbilisi and Lower Kartli lands and recorded them in the register (daftar) of Iran’s state divan.25 It was thereafter that the lands were granted to Da’ud Khan, the shah’s servant. Shah Tahmasp also sent a

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commander of 1,000 (minbash), as head of the Qezelbash sentry guard. Control over the fortress symbolized Iran’s political dominance and the duty of the minbash was actually to keep an eye on Da’ud Khan. From the 1570s, the offices of malek and darugha appeared in the civil administration of Georgia in order to strengthen Safavid control over the country.26 The darugha was what is now called the mayor, while the malek managed the merchants’ affairs. The reign of Da’ud Khan in Kartli lasted till 1578, when King Simon of Kartli returned from Iran after the outbreak of the next Iranian–Ottoman war to resume the throne.

The Ottoman Domination After the death of Tahmasp, Shah Esma‘il II decided to cultivate closer relations with the Georgians at his court, regardless of significant discontent in Iranian quarters, because the Georgians wanted to see Heydar Mirza, Shah Tahmasp’s son from a Georgian wife, on the throne.27 ‘Newly incorporated Georgian and Circassian elements now began to appear on the scene, attesting to their rising influence within the polity.’28 As a sign of his benevolence, the shah ordered King Simon and Prince Iese’s release from prison and their invitation to his enthronement ceremony along with the other Georgian nobles.29 Minadoi, a European author, suggests that Esma‘il II had King Simon released from prison because of his great respect for the king of Kartli (they spent eight years in prison together).30 However, Sheref-Khan Betlisi wrote that it was not Esma‘il II but his successor, Shah Mohammad Khodabanda, who released King Simon from jail, made him the governor of Tbilisi and sent him to Georgia.31 Obviously enough it was not due to either of the shahs’ benevolence that King Simon was released from prison. The fact is that, given a looming war with the Ottomans, they wanted him to act in Iran’s interest in Kartli instead of the somewhat passive Da’ud Khan. The Ottomans were displeased with the Amasya peace treaty terms and wanted to take the entire Caucasus, including the Caspian coast, under their control. In 1578, the Ottoman Empire renewed the war and faced no resistance, either from Da’ud Khan or from Alexander, the king of Kakheti. Entering Georgia in 1579, the Ottomans first confronted the joint Meskhetian–Iranian troops, whom they defeated. Afterwards, they invaded Kartli and took Tbilisi under their control. They declared Tbilisi a Pashalik and Gori, another major town in Kartli, a Sanjaq. The Ottomans stationed a garrison in the fortresses and appointed a pasha in Tbilisi.32 It was then that Simon, nominated ‘the [shah’s] brother’, and some other Georgians from Iran entered Kartli together with the Qezelbash troops. It should be said that, in contrast to Da’ud Khan, Simon I was not the shah’s servant but a ‘serf’, who recognized the shah’s supremacy and assumed an

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obligation to pay him tribute. In the battle against the Ottomans, King Simon was supported by the Iranians. The Ottomans came out victorious in the 1590 war. According to the peace treaty, they took the entire South Caucasus under their control. Not only did Iran lose the subordinated countries but their favourable economic position in South Caucasus as well. The successful military campaign allowed the Ottomans to block the Arkhangelsk–Volga– Astrakhan transit route by which the Iranians exported their silk to Europe and imported European goods. The route was also important to Russia, since it strengthened its positions abroad, namely with the western European countries keen to trade with Iran. Understandably, the 1590 Ottoman–Iran peace roused plenty of concern both in Russia and in Europe. Therefore, the German Emperor Rudolph II and Pope Clement VIII initiated the formation of an anti-Ottoman coalition. Since Moscow and Madrid remained unresponsive to the initiative, they turned their gaze to Iran and Georgia, which welcomed it. Thus, Shah ‘Abbas was given an opportunity to form the anti-Ottoman coalition in South Caucasus, backed up by Western Europe. To this end, he attempted to win over the Georgian kings. In 1595, a trio of kings, Simon of Kartli, Alexander of Kakheti and Shah ‘Abbas, agreed on a joint military action against the Ottomans and reported their plan to the Pope, Emperor Rudolph and Felipe II of Spain.33 However, the plan fell through. Sultan Mehmed III (r. 1595–1603) sent a somewhat arrogant letter to Shah ‘Abbas in which he derogated King Simon and blamed Shah ‘Abbas for the Georgian king’s disobedience, referring to the 1595 tri-partite concord against the Ottoman Empire. The sultan warned the shah that with the establishment of peace with the Ottomans, Simon became their vassal and consequently, Iran had no right to him. This letter is further evidence of just how important a role the Georgian kings or princes played in Ottoman–Iranian relations. After the 1590 peace treaty and up until 1604–5, the Ottomans had a tight grip over all the Georgian kingdoms and principalities, with their garrisons stationed in the main fortresses of Kartli. Unable to come to terms with the humiliating conditions of the treaty, in 1602, Shah ‘Abbas launched another war against the Ottomans. The renewal of the treaty of 1555, allowing Iran to regain its standing in South Caucasus, was at the top of Shah ‘Abbas’s foreign policy agenda, which he eventually achieved to a large extent, except for the Georgian principalities that came under only partial Iranian control.

Shah ‘Abbas’s Policy After the resumption of the war with the Ottoman Empire, Shah ‘Abbas turned to Alexander, king of Kakheti and Giorgi X, king of Kartli (1600–6) for military backup. They agreed and were lavishly rewarded: along with a salary of 300 tumans, he granted some villages in the provinces of Gilan and Lahijan to King Giorgi,34 but in exchange the latter had to cede the province of Lore

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and the Debeda River Gorge to the south (see Figure 2, Plate I). In Lore, Shah ‘Abbas created a khanate and appointed the local Islamized noble as khan. He also resettled the Turkic Borchalu tribe to the Debeda Gorge and subordinated the famous Iqjaqala fortress to an Iranian garrison commander. Owing to this astute policy, without resorting to force, Shah ‘Abbas took the strategic area under his control and made Kartli an anti-Ottoman bastion.35 Shah ‘Abbas did the same with regard to Kakheti: he paid Alexander 700 tumans per year.36 In exchange, King Alexander had to cede the Kak-Eniseli (Saingilo) province, in the eastern part of the kingdom, to be governed by an Islamized Kakhetian noble. In 1612, the Iran–Ottoman war in which Shah ‘Abbas gained the upper hand was suspended.37 By that time, the anti-Iranian mood had gained ground in Kartli and Kakheti and the shah reacted by tightening the screws on Eastern Georgia.38 As a result of Shah ‘Abbas’s four military campaigns, Kakheti suffered huge, actually irreversible, damage in terms of casualties and depopulation as people resettled in Iran’s Fereydun, Esfahan, Khorasan and Mazandaran provinces. Shah ‘Abbas resettled the merchants of Kartli, namely Tbilisi, in a suburb of Esfahan, similarly to their Armenian counterparts in New Jolfa. Arakel Davrizhetsi relates that the inhabitants of Kartli ‘were taken and settled in the villages overlooking Esfahan populated with the Armenians’.39 The German traveller Adam Olearius writes that the Georgian merchants and craftsmen were housed in Hasanabad, a district of Esfahan: ‘Hasanabad is a district populated with the Gurji or the Georgian expatriate Christians. They are prominent merchants, who, like the Armenian ones, travel widely for their trade’.40 The Georgian expatriates lived in the city as well. For instance, E. Kaempfer speaks of 20,000 Georgian residents of Esfahan in 1680.41 On the other hand, probably pursuing a policy of assimilation of the indigenous population and liquidation of ethnically homogenous regions, the shah resettled Turkmens in the Kakheti province. ‘The Turkmens resettled in Kakheti were to become the shah’s foothold in the Caucasus, while the Kakhetians relocated to Iran were meant to become agricultural workers and the shah’s loyal warriors’.42 The shah seems to have been looking for ways of effecting the cohabitation of the locals and the Muslim Turkmen tribes resettled in the Christian Kakheti province. There was no uniform policy regarding non-Muslims in the empire. Subject to the situation and political expediency, Shah ‘Abbas applied different approaches. For instance, during the military campaign in Kakheti of 1023/1614, the shah resorted to quite a few punitive operations against the Qezelbash warriors who had appropriated and devastated the Georgians’ houses. After that ‘not a single rogue dared to take away as little as a blade of a Georgian peasant’s grass’.43

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A number of churches were turned into mosques. In this way the shah tried to constrain the ambitions of the military commanders who wished to appropriate the Christians’ property, for the churches-turned-mosques escaped demolition. In 1023–24/1614–16, a huge booty fell into the hands of the Iranians at the Alaverdi Church, one of the largest in Georgia. As a preventative measure, the shah decided to turn it into a fortress and deployed 200 soldiers to protect it.44 The view of the prominent theologian and legal scholar Sheykh Baha’ alDin (Baha’i), regarding the cohabitation of Muslims and Christians, is of particular interest. In his words, the Muslims were not obliged to prevent Christians from eating pork or drinking wine. To the benefit of their faith, the Muslims living among Christians could even pretend to eat pork or drink wine; but this feigning was only acceptable in certain situations. Otherwise, they would bring the good done for the sake of Islam to nothing.45 Baha’i lists the cases when the grape juice, honey or vinegar offered by a Georgian could be regarded as clean in religious terms.46 Although Baha’i’s views regarding the food and goods manufactured by the Christian Georgians are not dated, there is no doubt that they were motivated by the situation created in Kakheti in the wake of Shah ‘Abbas’s military campaigns. In R. Abisaab’s view, by introducing these rules, Shah ‘Abbas hoped to support social integration in the abandoned regions or those where the Christians still formed the majority.47 Baha’i’s postulates make it clear that he deemed the adaptation of the Muslim minority to the Christian majority, including forging social and economic ties, to be necessary. However, it proved to be unattainable. The Georgians gradually came to form the core of Shah ‘Abbas’s army, since he realized that Iran’s economic or political progress, as well as the fortification of its eastern and western borders and, eventually, the security of the country’s integrity would only be possible if the central government was at least partly independent from the Qezelbash troops and the military were directly accountable to the monarch and at his disposal.48 Georgians were regarded as distinguished warriors. Concerning Shah ‘Abbas’s army, Pietro Della Valle, the Italian traveller, wrote that the Georgian soldiers form the greater and best portion of the Persian army.49 Thomas Herbert, an Englishman who visited Shiraz in 1627, points out that, owing to their good looks, willpower and loyalty, the Georgian warriors were held in high esteem by the Persians, so much so ‘that many of them are employed in places of command, especially against their turbulent enemy, the Turk’.50 Later, Artemiy Volinsky, the Russian envoy, who in 1716–17 investigated the situation in Iran, described the Georgians’ military skills and, generally, the part they played in the state as follows: I believe the Georgian military are the best in Iran. They are true warriors. I hear, some 15,000–20,000 army can be mobilized in

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Georgia. For the most part, the Georgian Princes are appointed the military commanders or hold some other high positions in Iran. Earlier, during the reign of Shah ‘Abbas the Great or the predecessors of the present shah, it was owing to the Georgians that the Iranians beat the Turks, Indians etc.51 A number of Shah ‘Abbas’s gholams were descendants of the Georgians resettled in Persia by Tahmasp. Many Georgians, including the nobility and the royal family members, agreed to serve the Safavids of their own free will and achieved high positions. Apart from the royals, other Georgian noble family members (Allahverdi Khan Undiladze and his sons, the Saakadzes and others) played an active part in Iran’s political life.52 Exiled to Iran because of his confrontation with King Teimuraz,53 the former governor of Tbilisi, Giorgi Saakadze, enjoyed the reputation of a great military commander, who brought quite a few victories to the Iranian army.54 However, in 1625, during Iran’s military campaign in Georgia, he betrayed the shah and defected to the Georgian side, which secured the Georgians victory in the battle of Martqopi. In the next battle, however, the Qezelbash took revenge and the shah appointed Simon Khan, the Islamized representative of the Georgian Bagrationi dynasty, as Khan of Kartli. King Teimuraz was close to Da’ud Khan, the son of Allahverdi Khan Undiladze, the Tbilisi minbash and later the beglerbegi of Qarabagh. King Teimuraz sent ‘the book of plea’ to the shah, who agreed to hold talks with him and actually, albeit informally, recognized him as the King of Kartli and Kakheti without forcing Simon Khan to resign. In exchange, Teimuraz declared himself the shah’s vassal. The shah was ready to recognize Teimuraz as the king, albeit a Christian, if he put off the Ottoman robe for that of the Qezelbash. So, a change of policy was evident: the earlier vassalhood was somehow being transformed. At Da’ud Khan’s request, the shah issued a farman of gratitude in the name of Teimuraz: Da’ud Khan went to Georgia, where he met King Teimuraz and made him ‘change the Ottoman outfit for that of the Qezelbash’.55 Shah ‘Abbas’s soft power aimed at the consolidation of control over Kartli and strengthening of the elite’s pro-Iranian mood.

Politics of ‘Compromises’ After Shah ‘Abbas’s death in 1629, up until the end of the century, Eastern Georgia was fully dominated by Persia. The population of Kartli paid tribute and, as a gift (pishkesh), Georgian young men and women, horses and wine, which was especially appreciated, were sent to Iran every year.56 A letter of Shah Soleyman to the vali (a top-ranking provincial official in the Safavid state) of Kartli, in which he expresses gratitude for the wine and asks for some more, is preserved in Tehran’s Golestan Palace archive.57

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There can be no definite assessment of the Georgian–Iranian relations during the reign of Shah ‘Abbas. On the one hand, his military campaigns delivered a severe blow to Eastern Georgia, especially Kakheti; on the other, he failed to achieve his original purpose of Georgia’s full integration into the Iranian Empire. Also, Shah ‘Abbas supported the Islamized Georgians’ promotion in Iran, especially where the armed forces were concerned.58 It is noteworthy that Shah ‘Abbas’s death in 1629 was not followed by a war for the throne, which quite commonly followed a shah’s decease. In this connection should be mentioned the role of Khosrow Mirza Rostom (Rostam, Rustam) Khan, the future monarch of Kartli, qollaraqasi of Iran and darugha of Esfahan, who was the illegitimate son of Da’ud Khan, the former king of Kartli and uncle of Simon Khan. Born in Esfahan, as darugha he ‘built himself perhaps the largest of the city’s mansions’.59 At the shah’s court, Khosrow Mirza stood out for his intelligence and valour. He was soon appointed the commander of the qollar (the shah’s guard). Speaking about him, Eskander Beg Monshi mentions that, ‘due to his bravery and experience, the Commander-inChief [Rostom Khan] made his mark and by taking the right decisions, he established order unheard of before’.60 It was owing to Khosrow Mirza that Shah Safi (r. 1629–42) ascended to the throne. Since the new shah was still a junior, ‘Khosrow Mirza conducted Iran’s affairs for a while’.61 In the early 1630s, there were two factions of the Muslim Georgians at the shah’s court: one led by Khosrow Mirza and the other by Da’ud Khan Undiladze, beglerbegi of Qarabagh. Such was the animosity between the two that Rostom even sent him into exile,62 and thus defeated his greatest adversary. The shah was too busy to interfere actively with Kartli’s internal affairs. Neither was Simon Khan, loyal to Iran, able to pursue the policy that would be approved by the Safavids. Taking advantage of the situation, King Teimuraz had Simon Khan killed in 1631, and even made a temporary compromise with the shah. According to Parsadan Gorgijanidze, ‘The shah granted rule over both Kartli and Kakheti to Teimuraz and sent him the robe and raqam’,63 by which the shah of Iran formally recognized Teimuraz as King of Kartli and Kakheti and, also, proclaimed both to be Iran’s vassals. However, the peaceful relationships did not last long. Da’ud Khan, exiled from Iran, forged ties with King Teimuraz once again and the latter overran Barda‘ and Qarabagh twice, thanks to 700 warriors of the Qajar tribe led by Da’ud Khan. By doing this, Teimuraz rejected Iran’s vassalhood, backed up the shah’s rebellious high official, devastated a swathe of Iranian territory and thus triggered a war. In 1632, Rostom was made the King of Kartli. At the same time, the Qezelbash Selim Khan was appointed governor of Kakheti and they were both sent to Georgia along with an army commanded by Rostom Khan Saakadze, also a native Georgian. In February 1633, Teimuraz gave himself up and went into exile in Imereti, while Da’ud Khan found shelter in the Ottoman Empire.

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The shah responded to Da’ud Khan’s betrayal by ordering the execution of his elder brother Emam-Qoli Khan, the beglerbegi of Fars, and his children, putting an end to the powerful Undiladze family. Returning to Eastern Georgia once again in 1634, Teimuraz drove out Selim Khan and strengthened his position there. He reconciled with Rostom, married his daughter to Shah Safi and recognized Iran’s sovereignty. In return, the shah once again recognized Teimuraz, a Christian, as King of Kakheti.64 However, this peace did not last long either. Teimuraz resumed the confrontation with Rostom. Teimuraz was supported by both the nobility and the rest of the population, eager to be free of Persian domination. He hoped to take control and unify the entirety of Eastern Georgia and, in this regard, was hopeful of gaining Ottoman and Russian support. However, his prospective allies failed him. Abetted by Shah ‘Abbas II (r. 1642–66), in 1648, Rostom invaded Kakheti, forced Teimuraz to leave the country, was appointed king (1648–56) and referred to ‘as the monarch and patron of both Kartli and Kakheti’.65 However, his rule in Kakheti was merely putative; the Persian rulers retained control. Khosrow Mirza was appointed the vali of Kartli and ruled the country under the name of Rostom Khan (1632–58). His pliancy brought Kartli a broad autonomy in contrast to Kakheti, which was ruled directly by Persia. In order to stifle the Kakhetians’ rebellious sentiments, the shah evoked Shah ‘Abbas I’s plan of settling the Turkmen nomadic tribes in Kakheti. After the exile of King Teimuraz, the Iranians entrenched themselves in most of the fortresses in Kakheti, divided it and appointed Qezelbash rulers, who were ordered to resettle Turkmens in the region. Approximately 80,000 Turkmen nomads were rapidly resettled in the lowlands of Kakheti. The Turkmens were mostly cattle breeders and, understandably, needed vast pastures. Therefore, the traditional crops in Kakheti, mainly viticulture, came under grave threat. The Georgians of the mountainous regions, whose main subsistence were the cereals and wine made in the lowlands and who utilized the pastures there, were threatened, too. In 1659, there was a major uprising in Kakheti. The rebels occupied the strategic fortress of Bakhtrioni and managed to drive out a significant number of Turkmens. Although the shah abandoned his Turkmens resettlement plan, Iran retained a tight grip over Kakheti. Later, in 1677–1703, members of the Bagrationi royal family were not appointed as the kings of Kakheti, which Iran regarded as an occupied territory ruled by a Persian governor. During the rule of King Rostom in Kartli, Iran’s ‘compromise policy’ regarding Eastern Georgia, developed by 1625 during the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I, was implemented. By and by, the Georgian nobility realized the advantages of good relationships with Persia. What the compromise policy implied was the preservation of Kartli’s internal system and the Bagrationi dynasty remained in place on condition of Islamization and adoption of the title of vali.66

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In the Georgian documents, Rostom refers to himself as ‘the king of kings and patron’,67 while in those of the Iranian shah, he is called ‘my brother Rostam Khan, the vali of Kartli’,68 indicating that, in the Georgians’ view, Rostom was the king, who recognized himself as the vassal of Iran. As to the shah, he regarded Kartli as an Iranian subjected territory ruled by Rostom, an Iranian vali. This political ‘compromise’, which continued until almost the end of Safavid rule, implied that the Georgian kings were the vassals, who nearly single-handedly conducted the country’s internal affairs. As to the Iranian interest in the compromise policy and close relationship with Georgia, it was prompted by the need to secure the safety of the north-western frontier of the empire. The shah funded Rostom lavishly and granted him broad powers so that he could rule Kartli as efficiently as possible. Numerous Iranian troops were also at his disposal.69 Soon after his arrival in Kartli, Rostom ordered the construction of the fortresses of Metekhi, Gori and Surami and stationed Iranian troops there. Also, he had the environs of the Nariqala fortress in Tbilisi fortified and transferred it to the Iranians. The military measures were not the only steps Rostom took to strengthen the Iranians’ grip over Kartli. He was also determined to create pro-Iranian public sentiment through a number of political and administrative actions. First of all, Rostom Khan returned the estates to the pro-Iranian nobility who had arrived in Kartli from Iran along with him and, by doing so, he bolstered the Persians’ foothold there. On the one hand, Rostom had the churches restored, gave them contributions and protected the top Christian clerics; but, on the other hand, he remained true to Islam and ordered the construction of mosques. In his time, widespread construction works were carried out in Tbilisi. By setting up the Metekhi fortress, Rostom actually divided the city into two parts: that containing the fortress, i.e. the Iranian district, and the one inhabited by the Georgians. The French traveller Jean Chardin marvelled at the palace Rostom had built in Tbilisi.70 For his part, the King of Kartli tried to forge close ties with Western Georgia. He married the sister of Levan Dadiani, prince of the Samegrelo principality. It is noteworthy that, although the principality of Samegrelo recognized the Ottomans’ supremacy, the shah paid Prince Dadiani a salary of 1,000 tumans, which implied that the Iranian ruler regarded him as Iran’s ally and hoped to use him in any future confrontation with the Ottomans. Vakhushti Bagrationi, the Georgian geographer and historian, says that King Rostom changed the Georgian names of a number of public offices into Persian ones. For instance, master of servants (msakhurt’ukhuts’esi in Georgian) was renamed as qurchibashi; housekeeper (ezosmodzghvari) – nazer (steward); master of slaves (monat’ukhuts’esi) – qollaraqasi (commander of the royal guard); the head architects (khurot’modzghvari) – saraydar (palace staff),

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etc.71 Although some of the office duties were changed, the overall state machinery in Georgia remained the same. Also, during the reign of Rostom, some positions characteristic of the Safavid state, such as vazir (adviser, minister), mostowfi (chief financial clerk) or monshi (scribe) were introduced. They all were designed as supervisory posts for the royal court. The positions of malek and darugha, officials in the town administration in Georgia, appear in chronicles of the 1570s and are also connected with the Iranians’ political presence. One of the results of the policy of compromises was the issue of bilingual, Georgian–Persian documents. The first Persian documents in Georgia appeared in the 1540s. As early as the reign of King Simon, the Georgian deeds of gift concerning estates, etc. often had the text in Persian appended. Quite infrequent at first, they became common as the political dependence strengthened. Understandably, most of the bilingual documents were issued during the rule of King Rostom. The establishment of the rule of drawing up Georgian-Persian bilingual documents, the discontinuation or resumption of their issuance, the changes in their outward form as well as in content, phraseological peculiarities – all this was the result and reflection of changes in the form and character of political relations between Iran and Georgia.72 The Georgian texts of the bilingual documents were compiled according to a diplomatic pattern and did not differ from the monolingual documents in Georgian. Not infrequently, the Georgian and Persian texts were independent of each other, for the Persian diplomatic template, created in totally different circumstances, was inadequate for the situation in Georgia.73 The main peculiarity of the bilingual documents is that Iranian terms are used in order to set out the Georgian text in the Persian language. For instance, the Georgian terms for landownership are translated as toyul, molk, soyurghal, vaqf; instances of the social terminology applied: toyuldar, aqa, molazem, nokar; taxation terms: dastandar, tarh, sarshomara, bahra, etc.74 In the Georgian–Persian documents, the Georgian term mamuli (estate) is generally translated as toyul, but in some cases, landownership was expressed by the term soyurghal. Given the fact that the Safavids regarded Eastern Georgia as an Iranian province, usage of toyul for the Georgian word mamuli appears only natural within the context of the landownership reforms carried out by the Safavids. Drawing up the Persian text of the bilingual documents in the Iranian style was prompted by political considerations. Therefore, both toyul and soyurghal remained purely technical terms and failed to express the peculiarities of landownership relationships.75 The bilingual documents were taken out of circulation in the late eighteenth century, when Eastern Georgia effectively slipped out of Iran’s control.

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As was noted, in the Iranian administrative system a Georgian king was also vali, whose office was transferred by right of succession. In the seventeenth century, out of four Iranian valis, one was vali of Gorjestan and belonged to the dynasty of the hereditary rulers. According to the Iranian tradition, the vali of Kartli was granted villages in exchange for his service to the shah. Those were not necessarily in Kartli but may have been in areas of northern Iran. The Georgian nobles were rewarded in the same manner. The vali of Gorjestan was the third of the top-ranking officials not residing at court, of a higher status than the second category of great amirs, those attached to the palace.76 Gorjestan (Kartli) was the focal point for the Safavids due to its strategic, political and economic importance, not only in Eastern Georgia but the entire South Caucasus for that matter: Kartli was the key to the South Caucasus. As K. Kutsia points out, the Safavids’ desire to incorporate it into the Empire and make a Georgian King of the Bagrationi dynasty just an ordinary, albeit a highranking servant, was quite understandable. The Shah-sovereign – the king, King of Gorjestan (Kartli)-vāli ‘the servant’ of the Shah, that was the ideal pattern to follow for the Safavid Shah to create a centralized State.77 The vali of Kartli was paid his annual salary from the yearly income of the Poshkuh, Tarom and Qazvin regions.78 The Georgian sources complement the Dastur al-moluk’s information, stating that the vali of Kartli was also paid from the revenues of Gilan, Khuyin (Zengan province) and Lahijan.79 In order to understand clearly the status of the vali of Gorjestan, we should take into account the fact that, according to the regulations effective in the Safavid state, the affairs of Arabestan and Gorjestan were conducted by the first vizier. Both valis were given the privilege of being able to turn for help to the vizier, if required. The vizier would report to the shah and then, if ordered, would issue raqams and hokms. He was also expected to patronize the persons sent by the valis of Arabestan and Gorjestan and duly report to the shah. Members of the Georgian royal family and the nobility were also appointed to the top administrative positions in the Safavid state. The Muslim royals of the Bagrationi dynasty felt privileged to be Esfahan’s darugha for over 100 years (1618–1722). Although enthroned in Kartli (1632), Rostom Khan was also regarded as Esfahan’s darugha for 40 years and appointed his deputies in the Safavid capital. The Georgians were also the darughas of some other cities, such as Qazvin.80 In his commentaries, published in London in 1943, to the Tazkerat al-moluk compiled by an anonymous author in the 1720s, Prof. V. Minorsky emphasized that, during the Safavid era, the position of darugha of Esfahan was ‘an exclusive prerogative of the members of the Georgian royal family’.81

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After ascending the throne in Kartli, Khosrow Mirza, who was the darugha of the city for 14 years, appointed his na’ebs or deputies to that position in Esfahan. It was his special privilege, recognized by the shah of Iran, who approved a candidate nominated by the King of Kartli. The Georgian candidate had to convert to Islam. Khosrow Mirza and his Georgian successors make it clear that the rule broadly accepted in Iran, that a person could hold the office of darugha for no more than two years, did not apply to the Georgians.82 Jean Chardin points out that ‘Esfahan was to be governed by a native Georgian’.83 Not only did the Georgians govern Esfahan, the largest political and economic centre in the Safavid state, they were also actively involved in Iranian politics. It should be noted that even a quick glance at the relevant passages of the abovementioned Tazkerat al-moluk and the books of The Beneficial of the Tbilisi Governor makes it evident that, in the seventeenth to eighteenth centuries, the Tbilisi governor and darughas of the Iranian cities had nearly the same official duties.84 Evidence attesting to this is provided by the fact that, since the 1770s, the Georgian sources use ‘darugha’ as another name for the governor of Tbilisi.85 In 1658, King Rostom died and was buried in Qom.86 Since Rostom did not have a son, as early as 1653, Vakhtang (later King Shahnavaz, r. 1658–75), representing the Mukhranbatoni collateral line of the Georgian Bagrationi dynasty, was selected as heir. Shahnavaz carried on Rostom Khan’s policy of compromises. He married his daughter Anuka to Shah ‘Abbas II. He also tried to reattach the Kingdom of Kakheti by making Archil II, his son, the king. Despite the adoption of Islam and the name of Shahnazar Khan (r. 1664–75), the plan worked for only a while and eventually failed. It was during Shahnavaz’s reign that Jean Chardin visited Georgia (1670– 71). His impressions of the specific Iran–Eastern Georgia (centre–periphery) relationships are interesting indeed. Speaking about Tbilisi, he writes: ‘Tbilisi is one of the most beautiful cities of Persia’.87 However, in the same context he notes: ‘the Georgian prince is not fully subordinated to the Iranian ruler and does not always fulfil his orders as the other governors of the empire do’.88 Chardin’s information concerning the Islamization of the Georgian nobles is of no less interest: ‘it is only on the face of it that most of the Georgian nobles confess Islam. Some of them adopt Islam for the sole reason of promotion at the court and getting a salary. The others do it in order to deserve the privilege of marrying their daughters to the shah or at least make them maids of the shah’s wives’.89 The fact that Iranian rule in Georgia was limited enough is made evident by their failed attempt at building a mosque in the Tbilisi fortress. Chardin relates: ‘the Persians did their best to build a mosque here but they were unable to bring the matter to a conclusion because of a popular uprising. The citizens destroyed the building and violently attacked the builders. The Georgian princes, who

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secretly supported the public discontent, pretended to oppose it. It was only for governorship that they gave up the Christian faith and acted against their will when encouraging the spread of Islam’.90 Here is another passage from Chardin’s book testifying to Iran’s incomplete control over Christian Georgia: ‘There is a cross at the top of each chapel and, also, quite a few bells. Alongside the other kinds of meat, pork is publicly sold on a daily basis and one sees wine sellers on each and every crossroads. Although disgusted, the Persians can do nothing about it’.91 On the other hand, responding to Chardin’s proposal to collaborate with a French company, Shahnavaz said: ‘I’ll give a free hand and all the possible privileges to anyone arriving in Georgia for trade; my estate spreads up to the Black Sea and as I am held at high esteem in Persia and respected in Turkey as well, the Europeans wishing to go to India via Georgia, would be welcomed’. However, on the very next day, he changed his mind, with the reason explained as follows: ‘The prince must have given a lot of thought to my proposal, namely, to write a letter to the French company about trading in Georgia and using it as a transit route. He is ready to convince the French about the benefits of commercial activities in the country but as an Iranian vassal, he has to exercise restraint. He is concerned that the Persian ruler may regard his business correspondence with foreigners without his permission a crime’. This reveals the Georgian monarch’s wish to be independent, but also the constraints where international relations are concerned (in this case, involving the profit from foreign trade). In the period after the reign of Shahnavaz until the decline of the Safavid state, the policy of compromises, albeit with some changes, continued. The period was characterized by the frequent change of the Kartli monarchs. J.P. de Tournefort, the French traveller who visited Georgia and Iran in 1700–1702, described Eastern Georgia as Georgia of Persia,92 adding that in order to be appointed the vali by the shah, the Georgian king, who is merely the governor of the country, must be a Muslim. De Tournefort also emphasized that the Georgian kings and nobility have to guarantee their loyalty to Iran. In his words, the Persian monarch’s costs for Georgia are much higher than the benefits. In order to secure the loyalty of the Georgian nobility, who are actual patrons of the country and who might just as easily take sides with the Turks, the shah pays them lavish salaries. The salary of the King of Kartli amounted to 300 tumans.93 As to the tax the Georgians and Armenians pay to the Shah, it was 6 abaz per capita.94 A person approved as the King of Kartli or Kakheti was given a high office in the shah’s administration. The appointee was kept in Iran for a trial period, which not infrequently lasted for the whole of his short life. Meanwhile, the country was ruled by his deputy (ja-neshin). In terms of legitimization, it was an efficient method, for if the ja-neshin thought of betrayal, he would confront not only the court but the legitimate monarch of Kartli or Kakheti as well.

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Here we should mention Gorgin Khan, alias Giorgi XII, the commander of the Persian army, who led about 2,000 Georgian warriors into Afghanistan and was killed there.95 Kay Khosrow, his deputy, appointed the King of Kartli, was killed, too.96 The throne of the vali of Gorjestan became vacant once again. The shah decided to enthrone Vakhtang VI.97 Vakhtang, who had adopted Islam, was very popular in Kartli and enjoyed the support of the local nobility, so the shah made him the King of Kartli in 1716. Until 1719, Vakhtang had to stay in Iran to conduct military and administrative affairs, while his son Bakar ruled Kartli. Vakhtang realized the Safavids’ difficult situation and, while still in Iran, started to think of ways to make Kartli slip out of Iran’s control. To this end, he sent a mission to Europe with a letter in which he proposed to introduce Catholicism in his country in exchange for support.98 On the other hand, while still in Persia, Vakhtang made no secret of his pro-Russian sentiments and covertly showed his loyalty to Christianity to the Russian diplomatic mission in Iran.99 After returning to Kartli, Vakhtang pursued a cautious policy, trying to gain as much independence as possible from the largely weakened Safavids. Vakhtang forced Shah Soltan-Hoseyn, who needed the Georgians’ support, to punish a Qezelbash garrison in Tbilisi for resisting him, as a result of which Vakhtang stopped the sale of captives and put an end to the practice of sending young Georgian men and women to the shah’s court.100 Meanwhile, the Afghans once again attacked Iran and besieged Esfahan. After eight months of siege, in 1722 the city fell to the Afghans. During the siege, Rostom, Vakhtang’s brother and the shah’s military commander, was killed. Vakhtang’s son Bakar was appointed the commander of the shah’s guard. He mobilized the Georgian troops and, in May 1722, they headed for Iran. However, disappointed with the Iranians, Vakhtang VI forbade them to go into battle. In D. Lang’s view, the main reason behind Shah Soltan-Hoseyn’s defeat was the lack of support from Vakhtang.101 In late 1722 and early 1723, the situation in Kartli was aggravated gravely. Shah Tahmasp II, the new shah, mobilized the army to punish Vakhtang. For his part, Constantine, the King of Kakheti (Mamad-Qoli Khan, killed in 1723), in trying to seize the throne of Kartli, colluded with the shah. As requested by Shah Tahmasp, the Iranian garrison deployed in Tbilisi sided with Constantine and the latter managed to take the city under his control. Meanwhile, the Ottomans invaded Kartli and, in June 1723, they occupied Tbilisi along with the rest of the country and started introducing their order. The Turks made Iese, Vakhtang’s brother, the King of Kartli. As the Ottomans took the country under their control, Vakhtang VI went into exile to Russia, where he died in 1738. Thus, the Safavids’ domination over Eastern Georgia came to an end. During the fragmentation of the Safavid state, Eastern Georgia remained under

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the Ottomans’ control. Actually, the situation that prevailed immediately after the death of Shah Tahmasp I recurred. Stepping up its efforts, Russia eventually reached an agreement with the Ottomans and temporarily ‘conceded’ Eastern Georgia. The climax of Nader Shah’s reign put an end to the policy of ‘compromises’ characteristic of the Safavid era, which first and foremost meant that the Georgian kings were allowed to preserve their Christian faith and not to pay tribute. Eastern Georgia gradually left Iran’s sphere of influence. Thus, we can single out several crucial points in Iran–Eastern Georgia relationships during the Safavid era: the early sixteenth century up until the 1630s is mainly the period of confrontation, which began with the vassaldom of Eastern Georgia and was followed by the Safavids’ constant, albeit only partly successful, attempts to integrate it into their empire. Along with the confrontation, both the Georgian kingdoms/principalities and Iran tried to use each other to further their own interests (for instance, the Georgian princes in their mutual rivalry and in the Safavid–Ottoman confrontation). The early seventeenth century is marked by the Georgian diaspora’s increasing influence in Iran. However, the Georgians there were also closely engaged in the developments in their native country. In the 1630s, the Iran–Georgia relationship is marked by the policy of compromises. Although nominally an Iranian province, Kartli was largely independent in terms of its internal affairs. While both sides were relatively satisfied with the situation, the princes of Kartli strove for greater independence, which, in some cases, they achieved. As G. Beradze and K. Kutsia point out, vassalage restricted the Georgian king’s autocratic rights, but it left him with the right to preside over all (or almost all) domestic problems of his country. Thus, e.g. in the period of compromises the granting of land, the restoration and confirmation of the ownership rights of Georgian feudal lords, as well as deciding on matters of taxation, appointment, etc., were the prerogative of the Georgian king …. Supervision on behalf of the Safavid government devolved on an Iranian supervisory body at the Georgian royal court, comprising a wazīr, a mustaufī, and a munshī.102 It can be concluded that, in general, the Safavids and the Georgians perceived their interactions quite differently. From the Iranian point of view, Eastern Georgia was the part of the Safavid state (even not fully integrated) governed by the Islamized member of the Georgian royal family, appointed by the shah and supervised by Iranian officials. The aim of the Safavid rulers was to guarantee the loyalty of the appointed king (vali) and that of the Georgian feudal elite was to receive regular income. The first steps during the sixteenth century and the beginning of the seventeenth century towards the total islamization of Eastern Georgia, its full integration in the Safavid realm and the

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total substitution of the Georgian institutions by Iranian analogues, were abandoned during the late 1620s and replaced by the abovementioned ‘politics of compromise’. The Georgians were also satisfied with this situation, providing as it did various opportunities both within Georgia and in Iran, but the Georgian kings tried to use any favourable opportunity to obtain greater independence from the Safavid court.

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Notes: 1. See, for example, Mamia Dumbadze, Sak’art’velos istoriis narkvevebi, pp. 85–89. 2. The Italian narrative sources contain important information concerning the early sixteenth century (Caterino Zeno, Giovanni Maria Angiolello, anonymous merchant); see A Narrative of Italian Travels in Persia; for a Georgian translation of these sources, see Eldar Mamistvalashvili, ‘Italiel mogzaurt’a ts’nobebi XVI s-is dasatskhisis iran-sak’art’velos urt’ert’obis shesakheb’. 3. Ibid., p. 151. 4. David Blow, Shah Abbas, p. 9. 5. See Nana Gelashvili, Iran-sak’art’velos urt’ert’obis istoriidan, pp. 97–98. 6. Vakhushti (Prince), Aghts’era samep’osa sak’art’veloisa, p. 395. 7. Hasan Rumlus ts’nobebi sak’art’velos shesakheb, p. 21; cf. Hasan Beg Rumlu, Ahsan al-tavārikh, p. 1118 (sub anno 927 AH). 8. In 1951, during Communist rule, the so-called ‘Blue Mosque’ in Tbilisi was destroyed on the pretext of building a highway. According to different sources, the mosque must have been built during the reign of either Shah Esma‘il or Shah ‘Abbas I. 9. Jean-Louis Bacqué-Grammont, ‘Sur quelques problèmes de l’histoire de la Géorgie’, p. 194. 10. Vakhushti, Aghts’era samep’osa sak’art’veloisa, p. 399. 11. Eskandar Beg Monshi, Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, vol. I, pp. 84–90; trans. Roger M. Savory as History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, vol. I, pp. 139–50; MarieFelicité Brosset, Histoire de la Géorgie, vol. II, pp. 445–530. 12. Grigol Beradze and Karlo Kutsia, ‘Towards the interrelations of Iran and Georgia’, p. 122. 13. Eskandar Beg Monshi, Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, vol. I, p. 87; trans. Savory, vol. I, p. 146. 14. See, for example, H.R. Roemer, ‘The Safavid period’, p. 245. 15. Eskandar Beg Monshi reports that, as a result of his final military campaign in 1554, Tahmasp resettled 30,000 people from South Caucasus to Iran. Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārāye ‘Abbāsi, vol. I, p. 88, trans. Savory, vol. I, p. 146. 16. This chapter does not deal with the service of the Georgian diaspora in Iran. However, we should touch upon the topic of how they influenced the developments in Eastern Georgia; for further reflections, see Giorgio Rota, ‘Caucasians in Safavid service in the 17th century’, and various articles by Hirotake Maeda, such as ‘’Exploitation of the frontier’, esp. pp. 475–85. 17. By Nader Shah’s farmān of 1739, along with the other non-Muslims, the Georgians of Iran were exempted from the per capita tax (jezya), which testifies to the fact that Christian Georgians lived in Iran at the time; see Karlo Kutsia, ‘Nadir-Shahi da sak’art’velo’, p. 127. 18. Roger M. Savory, ‘The principal offices of the Ṣafawid state’, pp. 84–85. 19. Hirotake Maeda, ‘Hamza Mirza and the “Caucasian Elements”’, p. 165. 20. As to Kartli, the Tbilisi zarbkhāna (mint) started issuing Iranian-style silver coins in the early seventeenth century. The earliest such coin minted in Kartli is dated 1013 AH (1604–5). See Tinatin Kutelia, Gruzija i Sefevidskii Iran, p. 109. 21. David Kapanadze, K’art’uli numizmatika, pp. 140–41.

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22. Iskander Munshis ts’nobebi sak’art’velos shesakheb, p. 20; cf. Eskandar Beg Monshi, Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, vol. I, p. 79, trans. Savory, vol. I, pp. 130– 31. 23. See Karlo Tabatadze, ‘К voprosy istochnikovedcheskoi kharakteristiki dvuiazicnykh gruzino-persidsdkikh istoricheskikh dokumentov’, pp. 262–63, and Beradze and Kutsia, ‘Towards the interrelations’, pp. 125–26, with an extensive bibliography. 24. Gelashvili, Iran-sak’art’velos urt’ert’obis istoriidan, p. 108. 25. Valerian Gabashvili, K’art’uli p’eodaluri ts’yobileba XVI–XVII saukuneebshi, pp. 31, 389. 26. Karlo Kutsia, Aghmosavlet’ amierkavkasiis k’alak’ebi XVI–XVIII saukuneebshi, p. 40. 27. Karlo Tabatadze, Sheref-khan Bitlisis ts’nobebi, p. 176; Iskander Munshis ts’nobebi sak’art’velos shesakheb, p. 26. 28. Andrew J. Newman, Safavid Iran, p. 59. 29. Beri Egnatashvili, ‘Akhali k’art’lis ts’khovreba’, p. 407. 30. Giovanni Tommaso Minadoi, Historia della guerra fra Turchi, et Persiani, p. 185. 31. Tabatadze, Sheref-khan Bitlisis ts’nobebi, p. 182; see also Rota, ‘Caucasians in Safavid service’, p. 119, citing W.E.D. Allen, A History of the Georgian People, p. 156. 32. Mikhail Svanidze, ‘Lala Mustapha pashas lasqroba amierkavkasiashi’, pp. 393–94. 33. See Valerian Gabashvili, ‘K’art’uli diplomatiis istoriidan’, pp. 93–96. 34. Vakhushti, Aghts’era, p. 578. 35. Nikoloz Berdzenishvili, ‘Ruset’-sak’art’velos urt’iert’obis istoriidan XVI–XVII saukunet’a mijnaze’, p.127. 36. Vakhushti, Aghts’era, p. 578. 37. Gülchara, a member of the Georgian royal family, was actively involved in the peace talks. See Mikhail Svanidze, ‘Une ambassadrice Géorgienne’. 38. Shah ‘Abbas invited Luarsab II (r. 1606–15) and Queen Ketevan, mother of Teimuraz, King of Kakheti, to Iran and then executed them. Both of Teimuraz’s sons also died in Iran after being tortured; see Grigol Beradze, ‘On the history of the political relations of Safavid Iran and Georgia’, esp. pp. 459–63. 39. Arakel Davrizhetsis ts’nobebi sak’art’velos shesakheb, p. 36. 40. Shot’a Revishvili, ‘XVII saukunis germaneli mts’erali sak’art’velos shesakheb’, p. 89; Bezhan Javakhia, ‘K’art’velebi iranis samkhedro da politikur asparezze’, p. 169. 41. Engelbert Kaempfer, Amoenitates exoticae, p. 204. 42. Nikoloz Berdzenishvili, ‘Shah Abasis meore lashqroba sak’art’veloshi’, p. 302. 43. Eskandar Beg Monshi, Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, vol. II, p. 873; trans. Savory, History of Shah ‘Abbas, p. 1087. 44. Ibid., p. 874, trans. Savory, p. 1088. 45. Bahā’ al-Din, ‘Pāsokh-i Bahā’i bā Shāh ʿAbbās, fol. lr; quoted by Rula J. Abisaab, Converting Persia, p. 65. 46. Ibid. 47. Ibid., p. 66.

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48. Karlo Kutsia, ‘Kavkasiuri elementi sep’iant’a iranis politikur sarbielze’, p. 67. There is a report that, in 1588, Shah ‘Abbas formed a personal guard of 12,000 Georgian warriors. In 1608, there were 25,000 warriors in the Georgian cavalry. See David M. Lang, ‘Georgia and the fall of the Safavi dynasty’, p. 525. All in all, at various times in the seventeenth century, between 8,000 and 40,000 cavalrymen were enlisted in the Persian army; idem, The Last Years of the Georgian Monarchy, p. 95. 49. Pietro Della Valle, Voyages dans Turquie, vol. IV, p. 69, as cited by Lang, The Last Years, p. 94. 50. Ibid., p. 95, quoting Thomas Herbert, Some years travels into divers parts of Africa, and Asia the great, p. 155. 51. Piotr Bushev, Posol’stvo Artemiya Volinskogo v Iran, p. 259. 52. See for example, Rota, ‘Caucasians in Safavid service’, pp. 118–19. 53. Teimuraz was the King of Kakheti in 1606–48 and the King of Kartli in 1625–35. However, not infrequently, he was just a nominal monarch. 54. Givi Jamburia, Giorgi Saakadze, p. 84. 55. Eskandar Monshi, Abasis qvey’nis damamshvenebeli istoriis gagrdzeleba, p. 50; cf. Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, vol. II, p. 1061, trans. Savory, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. II, pp. 1285–86, sub anno 1036/1627. 56. Berdzenishvili, Sak’art’velos istoriis sakit’khebi, vol. VI, pp. 252–54. 57. Golestan Palace archive, F. Majmu‘a-ye Nāseri, #283. Rudi Matthee, The Pursuit of Pleasure, p. 43, notes: ‘There can be little doubt that their [Georgians’] natural penchant to drink alcohol infiltrated Iranian society and above all court culture … There were many ghulāms among those who drank. The role of the royal harem …, where beginning with Shāh ‘Abbās I’s successor, Safavid rulers grew up surrounded by mostly Georgian women, cannot be ignored either. It is quite likely that the fondness for wine displayed by many rulers originated in this environment’. At first, Shah Soltan-Hoseyn agreed with the clergy and banned wine drinking (approximately 6,000 Georgian and Shiraz wine bottles kept in the shah’s wine cellar were smashed). This act was more symbolic than practical, Abisaab, Converting Persia, p. 126. Eventually, the eunuchs and princes convinced the shah of the wholesome properties of wine. Tadeusz Krusinski, The History of the Late Revolutions of Persia, pp. 74–75. 58. For the policy of reasonable compromise, see also Beradze and Kutsia, ‘Towards the interrelations’, pp. 123–25. 59. Stephen Blake, Half the World, p. 39. 60. Eskandar Monshi, Abasis qvey’nis damamshvenebeli …, p. 60; cf. Eskandar Beg Monshi Torkamān and Mohammad Yusof, Zeyl-e Tārikh-e ‘ālam-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, p. 114. 61. Parsadan Gorgijanidzis, Istorija Gruzii, p. 30. 62. Ivane Javakhishvili, K’art’veli eris istoria, vol. IV, p. 60. 63. Gorgijanidzis, Istorija Gruzii, p. 238. 64. Ibid., p. 240. 65. K’art’ul-sparsuli istoriuli sabut’ebi, p. 231. 66. Dumbadze, Sak’art’velos istoriis narkvevebi, vol. IV, p. 312; cf. above, n. 58. 67. K’art’ul-sparsuli orenovani istoriuli sabut’ebi, p. 106. 68. Sparsuli istoriuli sabut’ebi, p. 48 and others. 69. Berdzenishvili, Sak’art’velos istoriis sakit’khebi, vol. VI, p. 255.

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70. Jean Chardin, Voyages du Chevalier Chardin en Perse, vol. I, p. 133; see also, Chardenis Mogzauroba. Ts’nobebi sak’art’velos shesakheb, p. 317. 71. Vakhushti, Aghts’era, pp. 23–24. 72. Beradze and Kutsia, ‘Towards the interrelations’, p. 126; cf. above, n. 23. On bilingual Georgian–Persian documents, see also Nana Kharebava, Regesten der zweisprachigen georgischpersischen Urkunden der Safavidenzeit. 73. Tamaz Abashidze, ‘Gruzino-persidskie dvuiazichnie dokumenty kak diplomaticheskoe iavlenie’, p. 5. 74. Gabashvili, k’art’uli p’eodaluri ts’yobileba, p. 370. 75. Abashidze, ‘K’art’ul-s-spasruli orenovani sabut’ebis sasoiurghalo sigelebi’, p. 114. 76. Tadhkirat al-mulūk, trans. V. Minorsky, Persian text, fols 7a–7b; trans. p. 44. 77. Karlo Kutsia, ‘Gorjestanis vali’, p. 82. 78. Mohammad Rafi‘ā Ansāri, Dastur al-moluk, p. 22. 79. Vakhusti, Aghts’era, p. 420. 80. Karlo Kutsia, Sotsial’no-ekonomcheskaja struktura i sotsial’naja bor’ba v gorodakh Sefevidskogo Irana, p. 95. 81. V. Minorsky, Tadhkirat al-mulūk, p. 149. 82. Chardin, Voyages, vol. II, p. 410. 83. Ibid., vol. V, p. 334. 84. Karlo Kutsia, ‘T’azqirat’ al-muluk’is ts’nobebi saqart’velos shesakheb’, p. 264. 85. Shota Meskhia, Goroda i Gorodskoi stroi v feodal’noi Gruzii, p. 246. 86. Egnatashvili, ‘Akhali k’art’lis ts’khovreba’, p. 435; cf. Mohammad Tāher, Tārikh-e Jahān-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, pp. 649-52. 87. Chardin, Voyages, vol. I, p. 131; Chardenis Mogzauroba, p. 313. 88. Chardin, Voyages, p. 135; Chardenis Mogzauroba, p. 319. 89. Chardin, Voyages, p. 129; Chardenis Mogzauroba, p. 310. 90. Chardin, Voyages, p. 132; Chardenis Mogzauroba, p. 315. 91. Chardin, Voyages, p. 133; Chardenis Mogzauroba, p. 316. 92. Joseph Pitton de Tournefort, Voyage d’un botaniste, vol. II, p. 191; see also J.P. de Tournefort, Mogzauroba aghmosavlet’is k’veqnebshi, p. 55. 93. De Tournefort, Voyage, vol. II, p. 197; Mogzauroba, p. 55. 94. De Tournefort, Voyage, p. 198; Mogzauroba, p. 55. 95. Dumbadze, Sak’art’velos istoriis narkvevebi, vol. IV, p. 491. 96. Lang, ‘Georgia and the fall’, pp. 530–34. 97. Sekhnia Ckheidze, Istoria Gruzii (‘Zhizn’ Tsarei’), p. 36. 98. Marie-Felicité Brosset, ‘Documents originaux sur les relations diplomatiques’, pp. 347–48. 99. Piotr G. Butkov, Materialy dlia novoi istorii Kavkaza, s 1722 po 1803 god, vol. II, pp. 16, 51. 100. Vakhushti, Aghts’era, p. 486. 101. Lang, The Last Years, p. 113. 102. Beradze and Kutsia, ‘Towards the interrelations’, p. 127.

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Mohamed t’aheris ts’nobebi sak’art’velos shesakheb (Mohammad Tāher’s information concerning Georgia), text with translation and commentaries by Vladimer Puturidze, Masalebi sak’art’velosa da kavkasiis istoriisat’vis (Materials for the History of Georgia and the Caucasus) 30 (Tbilisi, 1954), pp. 375–425. Newman, Andrew J., Safavid Iran: Rebirth of a Persian Empire (London: I.B. Tauris, 2006). Parsadan Gorgijanidzis istoria (History by Parsadan Gorgijanidze), ed. Sargis Kakabadze (Tbilisi, 1926). Revishvili, Shot’a, ‘XVII saukunis germaneli mts’erali sak’art’velos shesakheb’ (An XVII c.- German author on Georgia), Ts’iskari 12 (1971), pp. 87–91. Roemer, H.R., ‘The Safavid Period’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6, The Timurid and Safavid Periods, ed. Peter Jackson and Laurence Lockhart (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 189–350. Rota, Giorgio, ‘Caucasians in Safavid service in the 17th century’, in Caucasia between the Ottoman Empire and Iran, 1555–1914, ed. Raoul Motika and Michael Ursinus (Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 2000), pp. 107–20. Savory, Roger M., ‘The principal offices of the Ṣafawid state during the reign of Ṭahmāsp I (930–84/1524–76)’, BSOAS 24 (1961), pp. 65–85. — ‘The Safavid state and polity’, Iranian Studies 7, no. 1–2, Studies on Isfahan: Proceedings of the Isfahan Colloquium (Winter–Spring, 1974), pt. 1, pp. 179–212. Sparsuli istoriuli sabut’ebi (Persian Historical Documents), vol. I, p. 1, translated and edited by Vladimer Puturidze (Tbilisi, 1960). Svanidze, Mikhail, ‘Lala Mustapha pashas lasqroba amierkavkasiashi (1578)’ (The Campaign of Lala Mustapha Pasha in Transcaucasia (1578)), Works of the Tbilisi State University, vol. 116, Oriental Studies Series, 5 (1965), pp. 383–400. — ‘Une ambassadrice Géorgienne (sur l’histoire du traité de paix Turco-Persan de 1612)’, Revue des études Géorgiennes et Caucasiennes 4 (1988), pp. 109–25. Tabatadze, Karlo G., ‘Sheref-khan Bitlisis ts’nobebi sak’art’velos shesakheb’ (Sheref-Khan Bidlisi’s information on Georgia), Kavkasiurakhloaghmosavluri krebuli (Caucasian and Near Eastern Studies) 2 (Tbilisi: Academy of Sciences, 1962), pp. 159–86. — ‘К voprosy istochnikovedcheskoi kharakteristiki dvuiazicnykh gruzinopersidskikh istoricheskikh dokumentov’ (Regarding the characteristics of the bilingual Georgian–Persian historical documents as sources), in Istochnikovedcheskie rozyskaniya (Researches on Primary Historical Sources), ed. Revaz Kiknadze (Tbilisi: Mets’niereba,1988).

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Tournefort, Joseph Pitton de, Voyage d’un botaniste, vol. II, La Turquie, la Géorgie, l’Arménie. Notes and bibliography by Stéphane Yerasimos (Paris: François Maspero, 1982). — Mogzauroba aghmosavlet’is k’veynebshi (Travel to the Eastern Countries), translation from French into Georgian with introduction and commentaries by Mzia Mgaloblishvili (Tbilisi: Mets’niereba, 1988). Vahid, Mohammad Tāher Qazvini, Tārikh-e Jahān-ārā-ye ‘Abbāsi, ed. Sayyed Sa‘id Mir Mohammad Sādeq (Tehran: Pezhuheshgāh-e ‘olum-e ensāni va motāle‘āt-e farhangi, 1383/2004). Vakhushti (Batonishvili, Prince), Aghts’era samep’osa sak’art’veloisa. K’art’lis Ts’khovreba, vol. IV (Description of the Kingdom of Georgia. The Georgian Chronicles, IV), ed. Simon Qaukhchishvili (Tbilisi: Mets’niereba, 1973).

17 Flora in Safavid Paintings from Shah Tahmasp’s Shahnama and Later Works Sheila R. Canby (Curator Emerita, Metropolitan Museum of Art)

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or the past few years I have been working on the Shahnama produced for Shah Tahmasp between around 1524 and 1537. This grand manuscript, now dispersed, contained 258 illustrations by two generations of at least 11 artists. Art historians from Stuart Cary Welch1 to Abolala Soudavar2 have focused on identifying the artists of these paintings and developing an understanding of their oeuvre, while Robert Hillenbrand3 has investigated the iconography of the paintings in the early Safavid context. More recently, I have written on the multitude of objects represented in the paintings and how they reflect the actual material culture of Tahmasp’s early reign.4 The aim of that study was not only to match the vessels, musical instruments and arms and armour, etc. to surviving examples in museum and private collections, but also to investigate the degree to which the Safavid artists were reproducing objects familiar to them from the court of Shah Tahmasp and their own environs, as opposed to basing their imagery on works of art. The artists of Tahmasp’s Shahnama illustrations consistently approach the representation of the manmade objects anachronistically, depicting the stuff of early Safavid times rather than trying to replicate ancient Iranian costumes, weapons and the like.5 Similarly, the plants in the Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp presumably reflect what was actually growing in Iran at the time the manuscript was produced. The first aim of this chapter is to consider the extent to which the depiction of plants in Tahmasp’s Shahnama accurately records the flora of Iran and/or depends on earlier pictorial prototypes. While certain plants and flowers have been symbolically important in Persian poetry for centuries,6 this inquiry concerns itself more with questions of artistic licence versus the desire to reproduce known plant species accurately. I will then briefly consider how artists’ attitudes to plants changed in the seventeenth century. From their beginnings, Persian paintings of the Islamic era have included flowers, shrubs, trees and grasses. Scientific manuscripts, such as De Materia Medica by Dioscorides, including a thirteenth-century Persian example with its image of a wild cucumber,7 were richly illustrated with pictures of plants and animals that were either useful or a threat to mankind. In the Northern

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Mesopotamian Dioscorides manuscript from the third quarter of the twelfth century, now in the Astan-e Qods in Mashhad, most trees and flowers are depicted descriptively with carefully drawn leaves, stems or trunks and roots silhouetted against an unpainted ground and rarely overlapping. One exception is the illustration of the blue iris, in which the flowers’ petals are pointed and curl in irregular ways, unlike actual irises.8 Landscape or garden settings in illustrations to a range of fourteenth and early fifteenth-century manuscripts and their frontispieces contain trees and flowers, as in ‘Ardashir with his wife, who throws down the cup of poison’,9 or ‘King Keyd of Hend telling his dream to Mehran’10 from the Great Mongol Shahnama. Yet, in most illustrations to that manuscript, except for the latter one, few flowers appear and the species of trees are rarely identifiable. As with many other conventions of Persian painting, the ultimate pictorial antecedents to the naturalistic approach found in the Tahmasp Shahnama are from the Jalayerid period (1336–1432).11 In ‘Prince Homay and Azar Afruz find Behzad drunk, sleeping under a cypress tree’ from the Divan of Khvaju-ye Kermani of 798/1396, a variety of flowers, flowering bushes and trees enhance the garden within its wall.12 Unlike earlier fourteenth-century paintings, the flowers in this one mostly replicate the shape and hue of known varieties. Thus, in the foreground next to a stream, red lilies grow beside a pink hollyhock, what appears to be a cockscomb (Celosia) and perhaps a variety of vinca. Rosebushes are dotted around the garden, along with what is apparently one of the many varieties of ranunculus. The regular shapes of the fruiting trees make them difficult to identify, though they could well be pomegranate and apple trees, while the smaller trees with white blossoms are most likely to be almonds. All of these flowers and trees appear in fifteenth-century works as well as in the Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp. Without equal for the representation of flora in early Timurid painting is the image of Homay’s dream of his encounter with Homayun in a luxuriant walled garden.13 Dating from around 1425, this detached page, subsequently mounted for inclusion in an album, contains a profusion of hollyhocks, lilies, roses and flowering prunus trees. In addition, purple irises border the stream near the garden wall. This early appearance of iris in an idyllic garden introduces a preference that prevails in royal Persian manuscript illustration well into the sixteenth century. Despite being native species, the abundance of flowers in this garden, strategically placed between the figures, suggests that they do not represent an actual early fifteenth-century garden, but are both effective compositional elements and the embodiment of an ideal or even paradise garden. Closer in date to the Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp, the works of Behzad, the leading artist at the late fifteenth and early sixteenth-century Timurid court in Herat, incorporate a variety of vegetation. Even a simple garden scene, such as ‘The elders pleading before Hormozd on behalf of the young Khosrow’ from

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the 1495 Khamsa of Nezami in the British Library (Figure 1, see Plate IIa), contains several of the most common trees and plants in Timurid and Safavid painting: the cypress, the poplar and the almond, as well as the hollyhock. The tall, straight trunk of the white poplar fulfils one’s expectations; its leaves are simplified but consistent with the ‘Pyramidalis’ variety. Plants in manuscript illustrations are rarely entirely accurate likenesses; even so, one can identify specific plants in the works of artists like Behzad, known for their skill at portraiture and accurate depictions of flowers.14 The flowering almond tree (Prunus amygdalus dulcis) bears the pink and white flowers and lanceolate leaves typical of the tree. Through the gate from the terrace to the outer garden is a flowering hollyhock (Alcea). This plant recurs often in Safavid painting and, like the three trees, is native to Iran and Afghanistan. In fact, 39 species of hollyhock grow in Iran, so it is likely that Behzad and the artists at Tahmasp’s court in Tabriz would have been familiar with one or several of its varieties.15 A double-page composition in the Golshan album in Tehran, attributed to Behzad, represents Soltan-Hoseyn-e Bayqara in a country garden with the women of his court inside the enclosure and men on the outside.16 The setting is a verdant mountainside with a stream winding through it. Seated directly on the grass, the sultan offers a rose to a woman who proffers a, now faded, wine bottle to him. The profusion of flowers and trees and shrubs in bloom announce spring and evoke lovely scents and gentle breezes. The inner surface of the fabric ‘wall’ mimics the natural setting, with flowers and trees painted or woven onto its surface. Next to the almond tree, under which the sultan sits, is a rose bush full of pink blossoms, while on either side of the two women on a carpet, who are apparently sprinkling rosewater on a robe, are two flowering trees of the Prunus family and, between them, another tree with small white buds. Unlike the painting from the Khamsa, this composition abounds with flowers, including red hollyhocks, red and yellow day lilies, primroses in various colours, purple iris near the stream in the left-hand page and other flowers that resemble Chionodoxa and other spring-blooming varieties. No doubt the plants are based on actual species and not generic colourful ground cover. Unlike the painting of Homay and Homayun, the flowers are not placed regularly between the figures in the painting, although the tree over SoltanHoseyn serves as a canopy that protects and draws attention to him. While the flowering plants may appear to be scattered randomly across the mountainside, both written and later pictorial evidence suggest that their presence, if not their arrangement, was intentional. Well before these paintings were produced, Clavijo described, in 1404, how Timur’s gardens in the outskirts of Samarqand were ‘enclosed by walls of cloth’ when the court was going to visit.17 This suggests that gardens had several definitions, and were not simply walled spaces with architectural features and trees, bushes and flowers planted in rows. The very first painting in the Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp represents a further development in the representation of Iranian flora. The scene depicts

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Ferdowsi, the author of the Shahnama, encountering the court poets of Ghazna at a garden outside the Afghan capital of Sultan Mahmud, whose patronage he was seeking (Figure 2, Plate IIb). Despite its position in the manuscript, the painting was probably completed at least five years after the manuscript was begun and has been attributed to Aqa Mirak, one of the project’s second generation of artists.18 Not only is the scale of the figures larger than in the manuscript’s earlier paintings, but also the details are rendered with an even higher level of specificity than in Behzad’s paintings. As with the painting of Soltan-Hoseyn, the ebullient blossoming trees and flowers herald the arrival of spring. The familiar poplar and cypress are here, along with three willows, two of whose boughs extend into the left margin. The trunks of these two trees have been cut so the branches appear as shoots rising from the remaining stumps of the trees. Presumably, the cut wood was used for firewood and, in order not to kill the tree, the woodsman spared the young shoots at the tree’s base. The willows grow near the stream or pond, and a waterfall, now black, falls next to one of them. The flowering trees all appear to be different varieties of Prunus – cherry, almond and possibly apricot, while the flowering plants are also familiar from Timurid paintings. At the lower left-hand side, a small pool is ringed by rocks and clumps of primula, a blue aster, small yellow, red and blue flowers and an orange day lily. Separating Ferdowsi from the poets is a large blue iris, what is possibly a young hollyhock and a sizable and healthy shrub rose. Red tulips in bud grow next to this rose, while other types of red, yellow and blue flowers are dotted around the grass. This scene corresponds to what Penelope Hobhouse has described as ‘a brief but exciting explosion of innumerable bulbs, wild flowers, and blossoming trees in the spring’ that occurs in most of Iran’s climates, but she notes that ‘almonds, apricots, plums, pears, pomegranates and wild cherries bloom in succession’, not all at once, as in this painting.19 The simultaneity of plants in blossom and trees losing their leaves is a feature of some of the paintings in Tahmasp’s Shahnama. In the ‘Feast of Fereydun and Kondrow’ (Figure 3, see Plate IIIa), the grass is carpeted with flowers and an almond tree in bloom, but the leaves of a grand chenar, or oriental plane tree, at the upper left are turning yellow and orange, as if the season were early autumn. Although this is not a unique occurrence, I have identified only five other paintings out of the 258 in the manuscript in which autumn leaves appear on a chenar while iris, hollyhocks and smaller flowers are in bloom.20 Since the artists to whom these works have been attributed were all either established in Tabriz from an early age or were from areas of greater Iran with similar terrain and climates, this mixing of the seasons cannot be the result of a lack of familiarity with the flora of the Safavid capital and its region. Moreover, in most of the paintings the flowering plants are limited to hollyhocks, irises and a few low-growing, flowering clumps of green foliage. Even if a prunus in blossom stands next to the autumnal chenar in ‘Bahram Gur

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negotiates for the throne’ (Figure 4, see Plate IIIb), the landscape is suitably barren for the season to be autumn. Presumably, the juxtaposition of flora out of seasonal synch in the painting was intentional. One is left wondering about its message. Does it support the narrative or is it entirely an artistic choice meant to bind the composition through colour, or set a mood rather than make an overt statement? If the former, perhaps the chenar symbolizes the passing of the evil Yazdegerd, Bahram’s father, while the iris, prunus, hollyhocks and other flowers reflect the promise of a new era under Bahram. Two types of gardens appear in the illustrations to the Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp, those without visible built architecture and those that are adjacent to pavilions and terraces, such as that in ‘Nushirvan receives an embassy from the King of Hend’.21 In the foreground, the Indian Ambassador’s party lead horses ahead of men bearing precious gifts, including parrots in a cage, as an elephant ridden by a monkey enters from a gate at the left. The eyvan (vaulted niche) of Nushirvan’s pavilion opens onto this veranda while a walkway between two red fences connects it to another pavilion occupied by women. Between the two buildings is a garden in which a bearded gardener is digging. While a plane tree, complete with a bird’s nest, dominates the garden, hollyhocks and a bearded iris grow beneath it, next to a winding stream. Additionally, a flowering tree can be seen through the window behind Nushirvan. Much of the literature on Persian gardens concentrates on the chahar bagh (‘four garden’) layout, in which straight water channels intersect rectangular plots, but in the Tahmasp Shahnama none of the gardens conforms to the chahar bagh arrangement. Despite that, the presence of a gardener strongly reinforces the idea that what may appear to be wild is actually a cultivated plot of land. Chahar bagh gardens depend on water channeled to them by way of qanats (underground channels) whereas the gardens in the Shahnama are watered by natural streams. Perhaps this reflects the pattern of land ownership, by which the king owned tracts of land, including mountain- and hillsides, where sources of water ran freely. On rare occasions in the Shahnama, trees or plants play a role in the plot of a particular story. In the tale of Rostam’s demise, his half-brother Shaghad devises a plan to bring Rostam to Kabul, where Shaghad’s father-in-law reigns as king, and murder him. Rostam arrives and Shaghad invites him to go hunting in an area where Shaghad has dug several pits, lined with spears and concealed by brush. Rostam and his horse Rakhsh fall into a pit and are impaled (Figure 5, see Plate IV). As he bleeds to death, Rostam asks Shaghad for a bow and arrow so he can protect himself from lions. Shaghad accommodates his request and then hides behind a nearby tree to watch his nemesis die. With his last breath Rostam shoots the arrow, piercing the trunk of the tree and the heart of Shaghad. Described by Ferdowsi as ‘An ancient plane still boughed and leaved but hollow’,22 the tree in the painting is depicted instead as a young tree and not hollow. If the artist had chosen to paint an old tree, the figure of Shaghad would

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have been hidden from our view behind it. The artistic choice serves the narrative in spirit, if not in precise detail. Another story in which a tree, or specifically its fruit, plays a central role concerns the daughter of Haftvad, who spared a worm that she found in an apple she was eating.23 The worm spun so much thread that Haftvad became very rich and his town’s power grew until it came to the attention of Ardashir. To win back the town, Ardashir disguised himself as a merchant, befriended the worm’s keepers and poisoned the worm with molten lead. In the painting, ascribed to Dust Mohammad, Ardashir rides out of the town gate on a mule while, at the lower left-hand side, a group of young women seated around a square pool spin. One of them, in a red robe, holds an apple. The tree next to her is an apple tree, probably Malus sieversii, the Central Asian progenitor of the apples grown in the rest of the world. Unlike other apple trees, the leaves of this variety turn red in autumn, as can be seen in the painting. In ‘Haftvad and the worm’ the strangely bent tree to the right of the spinners bears the scars of sizable branches that have been cut off it, starting at the lower right and including the point of the bend and the end of the lower branch that extends to the left. Although this is rather unsightly, the limbs have been harvested without killing the tree. At the upper right, one woodsman prunes a small conifer while another piles up the pieces of wood. At the lower left, a cook stokes her fire with even smaller pieces of firewood. Together with a few other paintings in the manuscript, this one sheds light on the uses of plants in the towns and rural life of Safavid Iran. Many compositions in the Shahnama are enlivened by small or mediumsized evergreens with dramatically bent trunks. Some of these resemble Juniperus excelsa, also known as the Greek juniper, while others may be distinct types of juniper with a different needle and leaf structure. In ‘Eskandar slays the Fur of Hend’,24 a tree of this type grows out of a rock on the mountainside above the battle. Silhouetted against a promontory, the tree’s branches twist in an S-shaped curve while its foliage writhes as if in sympathy with the ferocity of the battle below. Likewise, in ‘Kay Khosrow slays Shida in single combat’ (Figure 6, see Plate V), a tree with wind-whipped foliage appears below the crest of the hills along the horizon, echoed by the curved rocky outcrop and willow branches along the bottom of the illustration. The bend of the trunk and downward curve of the foliage are both dramatic and forlorn, reflecting the poignancy of the moment when Kay Khosrow stabs the son of his arch-enemy, Afraseyab. In rare instances, the paintings in the Tahmasp Shahnama exhibit sitespecific vegetation. On the first of his seven courses or trials on the way through Mazandaran to rescue Kay Kavus, Rostam lies down in a meadow to sleep and a lion attacks Rakhsh, his horse.25 Situated along the southern shores of the Caspian, Mazandaran has a varied topography with more rain and forests than other parts of Iran. Despite that, the only plants in this image that differ

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from those in many other illustrations in the manuscript are the reeds in the lower left corner and the plant with red berries next to Rakhsh’s rear legs. While lions and boars are traditionally depicted in reeds in Arab and Persian painting,26 reeds are also native to the Caspian shore, even if the artist’s frame of reference was another work of art rather than familiarity with Mazandaran. The shrub with the spiky branches and red berries appears to be a cotoneaster (nummularioides). This plant is not restricted to Mazandaran and therefore could have been known to the artist even if he had never travelled to the Caspian littoral. The painting of ‘Bizhan slaughtering the wild boars of Arman’27 includes a setting brimming with vegetation. Landholders from Arman, or Armenia, had journeyed to the court of Shah Kay Khosrow to appeal for help in ridding them of a herd of wild boars that had been trampling their fields and ruining their crops. Bizhan volunteered to rid Arman of its destructive boars and in the painting he is doing just that. The tusked creatures rampage over the hillside and through reeds in the foreground. While the depiction of hunting boar in reeds has a long history in Iranian art, appearing, for example, in the fourthcentury reliefs at Taq-e Bustan, this scene contains a profusion of other plant life. Prunus trees with white and pink blossoms grow in the midst of a field of variously coloured flowers of the primula family. The greenery suggests natural abundance, making Bizhan’s mission all the more crucial. However, the artist has made no effort to represent the actual crops or orchards that the boars were destroying, choosing instead to suggest the earth’s bounty and the havoc wrought by the boars. In a stark departure from the inclusion of vegetation in the paintings of Tahmasp’s Shahnama, the illustration of ‘Bahram Gur before his father Yazdegerd I’28 contains only widely spaced tufts of grass. The scene represents the reunion of father and son, who had not seen each other since Bahram’s birth because he had been sent to Arabia to be reared. Although Ferdowsi specifies the location of the meeting as Estakhr, the artist has depicted the setting as if it were the wastes of Arabia rather than the area around Estakhr, which is barren but not without greenery and ground cover. The painter to whom the work is attributed, Dust Mohammad, also painted ‘Haftvad and the worm’, so he was clearly sensitive to the environment in which the stories of the epic took place. He is known to have left Iran for India and to have worked in Afghanistan at the court of Kamran Mirza, the rebellious brother of the Mughal emperor Homayun.29 Dust Mohammad may never have been to Estakhr and may have been relying on verbal descriptions, since the scene does not appear to have been illustrated in earlier Shahnamas. Alternatively, as in ‘Bahram Gur negotiates for the throne’ (Figure 4, Plate IIIb), the landscape may reflect the sterility and evil of Yazdegerd and his reign. In this case, the absence of vegetation makes both a daring artistic and a strong narrative statement that anticipates developments in the treatment of landscape in later sixteenth-

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century Persian painting. While artists of the second half of the sixteenth century did not immediately cease to incorporate recognizable native species in their paintings, the trend away from naturalistic depictions of plants accelerated toward the end of the century. Two paintings by Seyavosh from the Shahnama produced for Shah Esma‘il II reveal how one artist could approach the rendering of the same tree or flower, in this case the chenar, differently in two separate works. In ‘The infant Zal presented to his father’,30 the leaves of the chenar are blue and sparse, whereas in ‘Lohrasp hears from the returning paladins of the vanishing Kay Khosrow’,31 the tree has an abundance of green leaves. The blue leaves are probably intended to harmonize with the blue flowers and garments in the composition below but do not correspond to the actual foliage of the oriental plane tree. However, the flowers that border the stream emanating from the pink mountainside have been carefully drawn, and at least the poppies are easily recognizable. The blue, red and yellow five-petalled flowers, on the other hand, appear more generic. They also grow next to the stream at the bottom edge of the composition, along with hollyhocks and a blossoming almond tree. By the 1570s, these trees and flowers have become standard and appear wherever spring is the season depicted. Following the death of Shah Esma‘il II in 1577, his former artists turned increasingly to producing single-page images of individuals or groups of figures, either painted or drawn. This is not to say that the flowers, trees and shrubs found in many early Safavid paintings do not appear in paintings from the last quarter of the sixteenth century, but they often repeat the same species found in the Tahmasp Shahnama illustrations. The right half of the frontispiece of the Divan of Soltan-Ebrahim Mirza, dated 1582, features a flowering almond tree and a prunus behind the prince’s pavilion, each next to a cypress.32 Behind the two youths, standing at the left are several red tulips. In the foreground grows a small willow, while to the left are asters or daisies and a poppy and, nearer the ‘oud player, a few blue violets poke out of the rocks. Not only are all these plants native to Iran, they had also become standard in Persian painting. Nevertheless, in the hands of highly talented artists, such as the young Reza-ye ‘Abbasi, the chenar tree that appears in so many sixteenth-century Persian paintings more than complements the composition. With its trunk canted to the left and its large orange, red and green leaves forming a natural arch over Fereydun as he spurns the envoy of Salm and Tur in a painting from the 1590s,33 the chenar has a highly architectonic function. Reza has taken pains to employ modelling on its trunk so one senses the tactility of its surface. Although the tree has no explicit narrative purpose, it is a key compositional component of the painting. Overall, in Reza’s oeuvre, he produced more single-page drawings and paintings than manuscript illustrations. In tinted drawings, such as the ‘Kneeling scribe’ from about 160034 and ‘Sheykh in a brown coat’ from about

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1605,35 Reza uses local vegetation either to fill in blank space around the sitter or to suggest a state of mind. To the left and right of the scribe are branches of a willow, painted in gold, with a small stalk at the lower left of the page. In the drawing of the Sheykh, the figure stands in a rocky landscape with lowgrowing plants sprouting next to some of the rocks and in the dirt near other plants. The nearly square leaves of the small tree or shrub at the right-hand side do not correspond to any of the trees of Iran commonly found in paintings and the plants are equally generic. While the flowering plant growing out of the stone at the left may be some form of primula, the others may or may not be a hollyhock and some form of bulb. Instead of suggesting an environment that man has cultivated, these plants springing from rocks appear to be weeds that have propagated in the wilderness. In this drawing, the plants and clouds crowd inward towards the figure, whose gesture and gaze towards something beyond the frame of the picture imply a less than settled state of mind. The role of plants is that of props and, although they may resemble known varieties, their identity is unimportant in this situation. In the work of Reza’s son, Shafi‘ ‘Abbasi, flowers are the subjects, in their own right, of a group of drawings in an album in the British Museum and some similar drawings in other collections. A drawing of a mallow includes the flower, bud, stem and leaves of the plant, as one would expect to find in a European botanical print.36 At the lower left, however, the inscribed word reads ‘khetr’, which means woad or indigo. Since the woad plant and its flower do not resemble the drawn example, whoever wrote the inscription may have had no knowledge of the difference between woad blossoms and mallows. The inscription at the upper right gives the date of the drawing, 1050/1640. Shafi‘ ‘Abbasi, the artist of the mallow, was not the only Persian artist in the first half of the seventeenth century to depict a flowering plant on its own, not in a natural or garden context and not as an accoutrement in a portrait or manuscript illustration. Ostad Morad, a seventeenth-century artist, signed the picture of a primrose plant which shares an album page with a drawing by Mohammadi of Herat and a calligraphy by Shah Mahmud al-Nishapuri, who died around 1565.37 Since painting individual plants marked a real departure from the genres of Persian painting and drawing practised up to the end of the reign of Shah ‘Abbas I in 1629, it is worth considering what stimulated Shafi‘ ‘Abbasi and Ostad Morad to take the leap into flower painting. One possibility is that the Safavid court painters had learned about the commission in 1620 by the Mughal emperor Jahangir of an album of one hundred images of flowers of Kashmir to be produced by one of his star painters, Mansur.38 Even if the Safavid artists or their patrons had not seen the album, the idea may have inspired them to treat Iranian flowers as fitting subjects for their attention. Unfortunately, we have no proof that the Iranian artists knew about the album or its paintings, so the likelihood is small that this is where to look for the seed of their idea. On the other hand, Europeans had been travelling to the Safavid

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court in Esfahan since the end of the sixteenth century and bringing with them printed materials of all kinds. As Basil Gray noted in 1959, in the album containing the drawings of flowers by Shafi‘ ‘Abbasi is a drawing based on John Dunstall’s Therd Booke of Flowers, Fruits, Birds, Beastes and Flies, published in 1661, and drawings of tulips in the album appear to derive from Crispin de Passe’s Hortus Floridus, a botanical treatise published in Arnheim in 1614.39 Pictures such as the mallow appear to have been drawn very freely and may not have been copies of European prototypes. Rather, the idea of isolating a single flower as in European botanical prints may have led Shafi‘ ‘Abbasi and Ostad Morad to develop the new category of flower painting in Persian art. While at least some of Shafi‘’s flowers may have served as drawings for textile designs, they also may have played a role in the early development of the bird and flower fashion that prevailed in eighteenth-century Iran. Before that, and still before the end of the Safavid dynasty, a flower painting by the later Safavid artist Mohammad Zaman may also derive ultimately from flower drawings like those of Shafi‘ ‘Abbasi.40 Dated 1074/1663–64, the painting focuses on the flower and buds of a purple iris and omits the leaves and the ground out of which the flower grows. As previously mentioned, in many illustrations to the Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp purple irises grow in gardens and wild landscapes. In ‘Fereydun enthroned in the palace of Zahhak’,41 a large bearded blue iris appears just beyond the wall in proximity to two cypress trees and some flowering prunus. Although the iris might seem to be disproportionately large, it is most likely an Iris kashmiriana, which can grow as high as four feet tall. While it was introduced into Iran from Kashmir, the similarity of climate and altitude to those of Kashmir have made it a successful flower in Iran. In ‘Fereydun disguised as a dragon tests his sons’,42 another blue iris grows from a rock below Iraj, who will die at the hands of his brothers. This raises a question of whether, in the sixteenth century, the iris had a symbolic connection with death. In the present-day literature on irises in Iran and South Asia, authors note the preference for planting irises in graveyards,43 but do not mention how long this practice has been followed. In my future research I will investigate this subject further. With Mohammad Zaman’s iris, the sensitivity of the rendering of its petals and the variety of ways in which they curl suggests that the artist was painting them from life. Yet, a European print may still come to light that puts paid to this theory. What the paintings in Shah Tahmasp’s Shahnama imply is that large purple iris was common in Iran and favoured for gardens as a perennial flowering plant. That the iris in the Shahnama paintings should be a precursor to Mohammad Zaman’s portrait of the same plant underscores the continuing admiration for this aromatic, impressive flower over at least 150 years. As is abundantly clear, Persian poetry abounds in floral and arboreal imagery. In the Shahnama, situations and people are compared with trees and

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flowers, and the cycles of life parallel natural cycles of growth and dormancy. Certainly, like other agrarian societies, Safavid Iran was profoundly mindful of local flora in its many manifestations. What we might suspect is that Safavid viewers of Tahmasp’s Shahnama, namely Shah Tahmasp himself, his brothers, sisters, wives, children and courtiers, understood the flora in the manuscript’s illustrations not only in the framework of the narrative but in their fuller symbolic context, born of familiarity with the range of Persian poetic expression and the works of such poets as Hafez, Nezami and Sa‘di. While I have assumed that most of the plants and trees in the Shahnama illustrations grew in Azerbaijan province and the region around Tabriz, some paintings include reeds or other plants that are not strictly local to that area. For certain situations, such as depicting the habitat of lions, the painters follow wellestablished artistic prototypes. Yet, one cannot rule out the possibility that in a workshop such as Shah Tahmasp’s a number of the artists came from other centres, such as Shiraz, with a different topography to that of Tabriz. What is striking about the paintings in Tahmasp’s Shahnama with regard to flora is the specificity afforded most plants and trees. Even if many later artists from other schools did not attain this level, the leading painters, such as Rezaye ‘Abbasi, applied their skill to depicting trees, for example, as carefully as to portraying people. With the impact of European art on Safavid painting from the early seventeenth century onwards, Safavid artists adopted the idea of painting individual flowering plants. While the ones that appear in Shafi‘ ‘Abbasi’s album are native to Iran, their types were also known in Europe, so their works could have had the effect of showing the familiar in a new and different way. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, Iranian court artists used the land of Iran and its flora as the backdrop against which to depict the dramas of Persian literature. Their fidelity to actual landscapes, whether fertile or arid, suggests a profound knowledge of the variety of Iran’s terrain, from deserts to mountains, forests to seashores. Artists’ biographies that appear in Safavid sources refer to the cities from which they hailed, often far from the capital in Tabriz. Thus, one can assume that many artists were personally familiar with different regions of Iran. Moreover, travelling with the court on campaign or between regional capitals, the artists could have observed areas and famous landmarks that they had previously known only from the written word. In the seventeenth century, as the interest in depicting single flowers grew, some artists turned away from painting landscapes. Instead, their works glorify the beauty of much-loved plants that function as a synecdoche for Persian gardens, with their symbolic role as an earthly paradise and place of music, poetry, love and fellowship; in short, the mainstays of a well-lived life. Despite a certain amount of idealization, Safavid artists provide a window onto the world around them in which flowers could bloom thanks to the management of water and the reliability of spring’s timely arrival. As they had for thousands of years, Persian

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gardens could provide an idyllic refuge from the elements outside the wall or a breezy mountainside respite from worldly cares. In an era of unpredictable political events, the Iranian landscape with its flowers, grasses and trees remained central to the idea of Iran and identity of its people, as expressed in the works of its most talented painters.

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Notes: 1. Stuart Cary Welch, A King’s Book of Kings; idem, Wonders of the Age; Martin B. Dickson and Stuart C. Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh. 2. Abolala Soudavar, Reassessing Early Safavid Art and History. 3. Robert Hillenbrand, ‘The iconography of the Shāh-nāma-yi Shāhi’, pp. 53–78. 4. Sheila R. Canby, The Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp, pp. 21–60. 5. Sheila R. Canby, ‘The anachronistic role of Safavid manuscript illustrations’, pp. 32–41. 6. Annemarie Schimmel, A Two-Colored Brocade, pp. 162–76; Julie Scott Meisami, ‘Allegorical gardens in the Persian poetic tradition’, pp. 229–60. 7. Walters Art Gallery, W.750, at https://manuscripts.thewalters.org/viewer.php? id=W.750#page/8/mode/2up [accessed 25 June 2020]. Pedanius Dioscorides, a physician born in Anatolia, wrote De Materia Medica, the widely used pharmacopeia, in AD 774. 8. Florence E. Day, ‘Mesopotamian manuscripts of Dioscorides’, p. 280, b & w illustration. Interestingly, in De Materia Medica blue iris is one of the ingredients in a wine-based potion for treating catarrh and other ailments. 9. Freer Gallery of Art, Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, at https://www.freersackler.si.edu/object/S1986.106/#object-content. Oleg Grabar and Sheila Blair, Epic Images and Contemporary History, pp. 142–43. 10. Chester Beatty Library, Dublin, Per 111.5, at https://viewer.cbl.ie/viewer/object/ Per_111_5/1/LOG_0000/. Grabar and Blair, Epic Images, pp. 114–15. 11. Patrick Wing, The Jalayirids, pp. 185 ff, discusses the question of whether a Jalayerid school of painting actually existed, given the paucity of artists’ names and known works that would connect them with Jalayerid rulers, as proposed by Sheila Blair and Christiane Gruber (see ibid., notes 13 and 14, p. 199). However, this assessment misses the point that the style of Persian painting that developed in the second half of the fourteenth century, whether in paintings for kings or not, had evolved away from the limited palette and horizontal compositions of Ilkhanid illustrations and the repetitive and unnaturalistic treatment of landscape of Mozaffarid painting. The elongation of the human form and increasing verticality of the mise en page are just two of many Jalayerid features that were maintained in later Persian painting. 12. Joneyd, ‘Prince Homay and Azar Afruz find Behzad drunk, sleeping under a cypress tree’ from the Divān of Khvāju-ye Kermāni of 798/1396, see at http://www.bl.uk/ manuscripts/Viewer.aspx?ref=add_ms_18113_f003v, for British Library, Ms. Add. 18113, fol. 3v [accessed 18 July 2020]. 13. Eleanor Sims, Peerless Images, no. 82. Teresa Fitzherbert, ‘Khwājū Kirmānī (689– 753/1290–1352)’, p. 145, identifies the scene and notes that Princess Homayun likens Homay to ‘a lily which is all tongues and nothing more’. The painting is also discussed by Eleanor Sims, ‘The Timurid book’, pp. 142–45 [ed.]. 14. Thomas W. Lentz and Glenn D. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision, p. 290, for the account of the minister Mir ‘Ali-Shir Navā’i being shown a painting depicting ‘a blooming garden with many different species of trees with beautiful variegated birds in the branches, while on every side there were flowing streams and blossoming rosebushes …’. When Mir ‘Ali-Shir asked one of his companions to describe the

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15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29.

30.

31.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

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painting, he stated ‘Master, when I saw those blossoming flowers, I wanted to stretch out my hand, pick one and stick it into my turban’. Maneezhe Pakravan, ‘A new species and a new combination in Iranian Alcea (Malvaceae)’, p. 133. Mohammad Ali Rajabi, Iranian Masterpieces of Persian Painting, colour reproduction, pp. 432–33. Donald N. Wilber, Persian Gardens and Garden Pavilions, p. 65. Welch, Wonders, p. 43; Dickson and Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, vol. I, p. 108. Penelope Hobhouse, Gardens of Persia, p. 34. Folios 279v, 402r, 555r, 638r and 654r. Canby, Shahnama, p. 305, fol. 638r. Firdausi, The Shahnama of Firdausi, trans. Arthur George Warner and Edmond Warner, vol. V, part IV, no. 4, pp. 271-72, verse 1739, at https://persian.packhum. org/main [accessed 9 May 2019]. Canby, Shahnama, p. 280, fol. 521v. Ibid., p. 275, fol. 496r. Ibid., p. 148, fol. 118r. See https://www.qdl.qa/en/archive/81055/vdc_100023645726.0x00000d, British Library, Ms. Or. 2784, Ketab na’t al-hayawan, fol. 100v, Baghdad?, thirteenth c. [accessed 16 August 2019]; ‘Lion and lioness’, from the Manāfe‘ al-hayawān of Ebn Bakhtishu, Maragha, 1298 and ‘Lion killing a bull’, from the Kalila va Demna of Baysonghor, Herat, 1430, see Basil Gray, Persian Painting, pp. 20, 84. Canby, Shahnama, p. 232, fol. 299r. Ibid., p. 287, fol. 551v. For Dust Mohammad, see Dickson and Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, vol. I, pp. 118–28; Chahryar Adle, ‘Les artistes nommés Dust-Mohammad au XVIe siècle’, pp. 239–76; Sheila R. Canby, ‘The Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp and its impact on Mughal painting’ (forthcoming 2020). See https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/449008?&searchField=All &sortBy=Relevance&ft=34.72&offset=0&rpp=20&pos=1 [accessed 16 August 2019]. See https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/449020?&searchField=All &sortBy=Relevance&ft=35.48&offset=0&rpp=20&pos=1 [accessed 16 August 2019]. See https://www.agakhanmuseum.org/collection/artifact/folio-from-a-double-pagefinispiece-akm282.86 [accessed 29 June 2020]. See https://viewer.cbl.ie/viewer/object/Per_277_7/1/LOG_0000/ [accessed 16 August 2019]. Sheila R. Canby, The Rebellious Reformer, p. 74, cat. 38. Ibid., p. 78, cat. 41. Sheila R. Canby, Shah ‘Abbas, the Remaking of Iran, p. 234, no. 113. The serrated leaves of the plant in the drawing suggest that it is Malva neglecta. See https://asia.si.edu/?s=F1946.15a-d [accessed 18 July 2020]; Esin Atil, The Brush of the Masters, pp. 45–46.

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38. Robert Skelton, ‘A decorative motif in Mughal art’, pp. 151–52, notes that only three works are extant of the 100 paintings of flowers by Mansur, produced for the Mughal emperor Jahangir after his 1620 visit to Kashmir. On the basis of these, Skelton proposes that Jahangir had previously seen European herbals and commissioned Mansur to paint the Kashmiri flowers along the same lines as the European printed ones. He also mentions Nicholas Wilford, an English artist who ‘was sent by Charles I on an East India Company ship to Persia in 1637 to collect and study the antiquities of that country’. Although Wilford died in Bandar ‘Abbas, a book of flower prints was found among his belongings. More likely than copies of Mansur’s flower paintings reaching Iran is the arrival of printed herbals with the Europeans in the early seventeenth century. 39. Basil Gray, ‘An album of designs for Persian textiles’, pp. 219–25. 40. See https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/objects/4868 [accessed 16 August 2019]. 41. Canby, Shahnama, p. 83, fol. 34v. 42. Ibid., p. 91, fol. 42v. 43. Touseef Hussain Trak and Ravi Upadhayay, ‘Ethnobotanical and taxonomic study of members of Iridaceae family of Kishtwar’, p. (B) 785.

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Bibliography: Adle, Chahryar, ‘Les artistes nommés Dust-Mohammad au XVIe siècle, Studia Iranica 22 (1993), pp. 239–76. Atil, Esin, The Brush of the Masters (Washington, DC: Freer Gallery of Art, 1978). Canby, Sheila R., The Rebellious Reformer: The Drawings and Paintings of Riza-yi ‘Abbasi of Isfahan (London: Azimuth Editions, 1996). — Shah ‘Abbas, the Remaking of Iran (London: British Museum Press, 2009). — The Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp (New York: Metropolitan Museum Press, 2014). — ‘The anachronistic role of Safavid manuscript illustrations’, in In the Fields of Empty Days, ed. Linda Komaroff (Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 2018), pp. 32–41. — ‘The Shahnama of Shah Tahmasp and its impact on Mughal painting’, in The Art and Culture of Mughal India: New Studies (New Delhi: Niyogi Books, forthcoming 2020). Day, Florence E., ‘Mesopotamian manuscripts of Dioscorides’, Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, New Series 8, no. 9 (May 1950), pp. 274–80. Dickson, Martin B. and Stuart C. Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, 2 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981). Firdausi, The Shahnama of Firdausi, trans. Arthur George Warner and Edmond Warner (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1905–25), online at https://persian.packhum.org/main [accessed 9 May 2019]. Fitzherbert, Teresa, ‘Khwājū Kirmānī (689–753/1290–1352): An éminence grise of fourteenth century Persian painting’, Iran 29 (1991), pp. 137–51. Grabar, Oleg and Sheila Blair, Epic Images and Contemporary History (Chicago, 1980). Gray, Basil, ‘An album of designs for Persian textiles’, Aus der Welt der islamischen Kunst, Festschrift für Ernst Kuhnel (Berlin, 1959), pp. 219–25. — Persian Painting (Geneva: Skira, 1977). Hillenbrand, Robert, ‘The iconography of the Shāh-nāma-yi Shāhi’, in Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society, ed. Charles Melville (London, I.B. Tauris, 1996), pp. 53–78. Hobhouse, Penelope, Gardens of Persia (San Diego: Kales Press, 2004). Lentz, Thomas W. and Glenn D. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision (Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art and Smithsonian Institution, 1989). Meisami, Julie Scott, ‘Allegorical gardens in the Persian poetic tradition: Nezami, Rumi, Hafez’, International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 17, no. 2 (May 1985), pp. 229–60).

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Pakravan, Maneezhe, ‘A new species and a new combination in Iranian Alcea (Malvaceae)’, Annales Botanici Fennici 45, no. 2 (30 April 2008) pp. 133– 36. Rajabi, Mohammad Ali, Iranian Masterpieces of Persian Painting (Tehran: Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art, 2005). Schimmel, Annemarie, A Two-Colored Brocade (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1992). Sims, Eleanor (and Boris Marshak, with a contribution by Ernst J. Grube), Peerless Images: Persian Painting and its Sources (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002). — ‘The Timurid book: Golshan-e naqsh-o tazhib. A garden of painting and illumination’, in The Timurid Century. The Idea of Iran, vol. 9, ed. Charles Melville (London: I.B. Tauris, 2020), pp. 135–59. Skelton, Robert, ‘A decorative motif in Mughal art’, in Aspects of Indian Art, ed. Pratapaditya Pal (Leiden, 1972), pp. 147–52. Soudavar, Abolala, Reassessing Early Safavid Art and History: Thirty-five Years after Dickson and Welch 1981, online at http://www.soudavar.com/ CSW%2093%20600x2%20lulu.pdf [accessed 22 August 2019]. Trak, Touseef Hussain and Ravi Upadhayay, ‘Ethnobotanical and taxonomic study of members of Iridaceae family of Kishtwar, (Jammu and Kashmir) India’, International Journal of Pharma and Bio Sciences 6, no. 2 (April– June 2015), pp. 779–93. Welch, Stuart Cary, Wonders of the Age: Masterpieces of Early Safavid Painting, 1501–1576 (Cambridge, MA: Fogg Art Museum, 1979). — A King’s Book of Kings: The Shahnameh of Shah Tahmasp (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1982). Wilber, Donald N., Persian Gardens and Garden Pavilions (Rutland, VT and Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle, 1962). Wing, Patrick, The Jalayirids: Dynastic State Formation in the Mongol Middle East (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2016).

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18 The Making of New Art: From the Khazana to its Audience at the Court of Shah Soleyman Negar Habibi (Université de Genève) Introduction1

L

ate seventeenth-century Safavid artists selectively chose and adapted the most striking and fascinating aspects of the Western world, using their semantic meanings, combining them with their own tastes, aesthetics and techniques, and created a new genre in Iranian painting: Safavid Occidentalism.2 Representing a wide range of Western mythologies, biblical subjects and European figures, these paintings employ distinctively European techniques, such as chiaroscuro and atmospheric perspective. Mostly signed by royal artists such as ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar (active between 1649 and 1674) and Mohammad Zaman (active between the 1670s and 1701), the majority of these paintings are dated to the reign of Shah Soleyman (r. 1666–94), although the use of shading techniques and a limited range of Western subject matter had already appeared earlier in the seventeenth century. The production of such paintings seems to have ceased under Shah Soltan-Hoseyn (r. 1694–1722). The short lifespan of the creation of such paintings is thus one of their particularities. The circulation of Europeans and Western cultural materials in the multicultural Esfahan of the seventeenth century has so far been considered the main reason for the brief flourishing of Safavid Occidentalist paintings. One of the chief aims of this chapter, however, is to examine the details in the paintings and other written sources, in order to gain a better idea about the local milieu in which the Safavid Occidentalist paintings were inspired and created. We may search for the raison d’être of the paintings not by focusing on the ways in which Western objects arrived in Iran, but rather on their reception by Iranians. However, as it is not always possible to establish a direct link between the Iranian and foreign artists, we focus instead on the more particular contacts between the Iranians and Western objects themselves, by investigating the places, such as the different sections of the royal treasury, where the foreign artefacts were stored, conserved and observed by Iranian patrons and artists.

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Did the patrons – called the sarkar-e navvab in the inscriptions on some of the paintings – confronted by European artistic styles and techniques begin to see their own culture in a different way? Or, by requiring the artists to represent transregional people, would they, the royal patrons, not have attempted to mirror their own positions in the Safavid state? Focusing on a number of Safavid Occidentalist paintings, and particularly their inscriptions, we delve into Shah Soleyman’s court hierarchy in search of the patrons, those unknown local consumers of several exotic novelties, such as European images in cosmopolitan Esfahan, whose wishes may be seen as one of the driving factors and iconic features of the Occidentalist paintings in late seventeenth-century Iran.

On the Reception and Accumulation of Artefacts in the Khazana European sources constantly report the presence of various Western objects in the Safavid royal treasury, in the noble houses and even in the bazaars during the seventeenth century. Jean Chardin, a French jeweller and traveller visiting Iran during the second half of the seventeenth century, gives a vivid account of different Western materials in the royal treasury, where the stores were filled with gold chains, precious boxes, bracelets and other kinds of jewellery, weapons, mirrors, clocks, paintings, etc. Generally, however, the exact number of European prints and paintings circulating in Safavid Iran cannot be identified easily. We may assume that these reached Iran by way of European missionaries, ambassadors, merchants, artists or simple travellers. Missionaries brought numerous Western pictorial objects in various forms, such as paintings, book illustrations or decorative artefacts – religious or pagan – as diplomatic gifts for the Iranians. The establishment of the Dutch East India Company (VOC) in 1602 led to several Dutch painters visiting Iran. They were in the service of the Persian shahs in almost every decade between 1605 and 1656.3 Simultaneously, Dutch paintings and prints, those from the school of Prague (such as the works of the Sadeler family) and French engravings (including those of Mazot) were found in some numbers in seventeenth-century Iran. The best examples of the famous series the ‘Five Senses’ or ‘Four Seasons’ are especially visible in the works of Iranian artists such as ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar, who was active in the second half of the seventeenth century.4 We should also remember the importance of more commonplace Western objects, such as watches, clocks, mirrors, etc., which are not always considered artwork but could transmit an artistic concept or image. Being small and light, merchants or travellers could transport such objects easily. Chardin describes how the people of Esfahan had access to all kinds of Western objects of varying quality; he pinpoints some 200 watches and clocks in the possession of Mirza Razi, the blind grandson of Shah ‘Abbas I. A watch enthusiast and mathematician, he showed Chardin ‘a watch with an enamelled gold box (…);

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painted on the box [were] the Tempest Battles by an Italian painter, a very delicate work’.5 An enamelled montre à gousset, illustrated with a scene of the ‘Holy Family with the Infant John the Baptist’, apparently became a source of inspiration for Mohammad Zaman, one of the late seventeenth-century artists.6 The very specific dimensions (4 cm × 4 cm) of a painting of Mary Magdalene, attributed to ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar, also bring to mind the paintings of enamelled French or European pocket watches.7 How were the Western objects received in the royal court? European texts provide detailed accounts of the ceremonies in which the offerings were presented to the court and king. Raphael du Mans, running a convent in Esfahan and often acting as translator for the Europeans, wrote in 1660, for instance, that the court was not so much concerned about the diplomatic business as with the gifts, which were laid before the king one after the other. He describes ‘a long line of officers, tail to tail like messenger horses, each holding his item displayed on plain wood for more radiance’.8 Engelbert Kaempfer, the German doctor who visited Iran between 1684 and 1688, also confirms that the presents brought by the envoys were shown in a long line. ‘A chief of the yasavols [guards] saw to it that the porters walked slowly and were stationed at the entrance of the hall, so that the Shah might look at the presents’.9 Kaempfer continues by remarking that ‘as the viewing took place at a distance of 70 paces it could only be superficial, but I don’t doubt that the king, who very much appreciates presents, will have inspected [them] thoroughly later’.10 In effect, Kaempfer recalls that in the presence of the ambassadors, the king indiscriminately dignified everything that was brought to him from afar with a friendly face. When they had been dismissed after the banquet, he examined with the greatest attention, after having rejected the rest, the really wellconstructed things that he praised, but he set aside only those that were of gold or of a precious metal, and kept these himself.11 Raphael du Mans also mentions this, describing how in the court the most acceptable presents were silver coins, jewels and pearls, since the Iranians considered other materials to be chub-e katan or linen wood!12 The majority of European written sources show the desire of the Safavid shahs for golden or precious objects. Persian chronicles have broad discussions of the subject, using repetitive formulations such as aqmasha-ye farangi (Western textiles) among all other various objects, when describing diplomatic gifts from the Indian, Ottoman and European envoys. We may not be able to acquire more visual information than this about the appearance and reception of Western artefacts at the royal court in either group of sources. It is, however, remarkable that Farangi (European) representations, artistic techniques and subject matter increased significantly in the visual language of Persian paintings from the second half of the seventeenth century. Did the

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European artisans and artists living in Iran influence the development of the Iranian royal artists? We know, for instance, that around 1662, two watchmakers, two gunsmiths and a French engraver met Mgr Pallu, the Bishop of Heliopolis in Esfahan. Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, a French traveller, also mentions the names of five Frenchmen in the service of the royal court around 1665: Marais (writer and harquebusier), Jean Bernard (armourer), Sain (goldsmith) and Didier Lajisse and Varin (two watchmakers). Kaempfer identifies seven Frenchmen who came to Iran at the request of Shah Soleyman in 1684.13 Ambroise Bembo, a Venetian traveller, notes in 1671 the presence of European goldsmiths and watchmakers working for Shah Soleyman.14 In 1668–69, the shah asked Charles II of England (r. 1660–85) to send him a talented painter, though it may not be possible to recover more details concerning the artist’s arrival or activity in Iran.15 We may, however, note that according to the records of the Safavid administration, foreign artisans were employed by the court mainly when there was a shortage of skilled Iranian craftsmen.16 Chardin, on the other hand, highlights the fact that the European artisans in Esfahan were mostly left without commissions and created almost no art or craftwork.17 Moreover, we know that there were no Dutch communities in which an artist could set up shop and work for local Dutch patrons in Safavid Iran.18 As Amy Landau also mentions, ‘the majority of Dutch artists remained on the periphery, having minimal talent and limited understanding of local languages and limited access to the court’.19 Furthermore, the Safavid Occidentalist paintings do not really respect either Western scientific or artistic rules according to the doctrines of European classicism, and besides, in no particular instance did European travellers find common features between the art of their countries and of Iran.20 Thus, any direct contact between European and Iranian artists is not easily detected and is in need of further inquiry. There was, however, a rather direct interaction and contact between Western objects and Iranian artists and their patrons. According to Safavid texts such as chronicles and tazkera (biographies) and European travelogues, all objets de valeur, whether Iranian, European, Indian or of any other foreign origin, given as a gift to the royal court or considered as bounty, and all other important and unique treasures were conserved either in the Khazana (royal treasury) or in the Jebakhana (royal armoury).21 According to Pedros Bedik, an Armenian traveller visiting Iran between 1670 and 1675, Shah Soleyman’s treasuries comprised at least four sections, all supervised by eunuchs.22 The fourth section was the royal arsenal – the Jebakhana – where many precious weapons made in Europe and other countries were kept and which, unlike the first three sections, was not located in the royal palace ‘but in the citadel of the city of Isfahan, where it is enclosed in an immense palace’.23 Chardin completes the picture by stating that the Safavid court had indeed two Jebakhanas; the smaller one located beside the royal harem.24 The larger one

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was in the palace just outside the city, named Qal‘a-ye (castle of) Tabarak. Kaempfer does not give more details, but mentions that military equipment as well as all kinds of objects, such as mirrors, paintings, telescopes and other things of the same sort, were stored in the Jebakhana, situated in the small Qal‘a-ye Tabarak.25 Chardin points out that this castle seems much more like a prison than a fortress, as indeed it was, since there are several accounts of rebels being imprisoned there. One entered this dungeon only very rarely and by great favour, because the keys were held by three different people: the governor of the palace, the vizier of Esfahan and the person in charge of the smaller arsenal or Jebadar. One required all three in order to be able to visit the place.26 Contrary to Kaempfer’s report, however, some travellers did visit the castle; Bedik was accompanied by Raphael du Mans, and Chardin even managed it twice and gives a vivid account of its treasures. His second time was just a day before the visit of Shah Soleyman and his women to the place. The building consists of three large stores each of which includes a round Salon, covered with a Dome (…) two feet high, fifteen deep (…) In the first store I saw an infinity of arms, large piles of swords, bows, quivers, arrows. As the air in Persia is too dry to fear rust, we find no harm in keeping the arms piled one on top of the other (...).27 Chardin mentions that the most precious weapons were in large chests, such as those damascened, chiselled and garnished with gold and jewels (…) among which was recognized an indefinable number of pieces from Europe, admirably beautiful, which were presents to the Kings of Persia two hundred years before. I saw in this first store an infinity of clocks all fine and curious (…) a large number of cabinets and tables, the most beautiful books and the finest materials of the Universe, brought from Germany, Italy, China and all places.28 We know that each piece held in the treasury bore a label showing its place of origin, who offered it, the date of reception and its value, except for pieces made in the king’s workshops.29 The Grand Master in charge of the Qal‘a-ye Tabarak assured Chardin that ‘nous avons le compte de chaque pièce, mais on ne se soucie pas de savoir à quoi le tout monte’ (we have the record of each piece, but we do not care how much it all adds up to), when the latter sought to know the value of the treasures.30 Moreover, the e‘temad al-dowla (‘Pillar of the State’, prime minister) had an inventory of the presents, in order to be able to identify donors at the king’s demand.31 The nazer, or chief of the royal workshops, had also to be aware of the precise valuation of each European gift, ‘because for all the presents that are received by the court the double in value is given in return as a present’.32 So, every object had to be audited with

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precision, including the European gifts that were assessed in great detail and ‘they came to prepare the return presents according to their value, of a value twice as high!’.33 Curiously, though, these treasures were often concealed from the public. After describing the royal library as containing the greatest treasures of all, Bedik specifies that even though this treasure, like all others, is considered by the Persians themselves particularly worthy to be seen, admired and remembered, I don’t know for which secret reason, for which excessive zeal, neither they nor especially foreigners, whose mouth might publicize around the world the praises of such a remarkable institution, are permitted to see these astonishing and very precious things, contrary to the sensible custom of Europeans who, in welcoming foreigners, amiably show them their books, which one can rarely see in Persia without risking danger.34 I believe, however, that at least some of the royal artists visited these treasuries. ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar, one of the iconic Iranian artists of the late seventeenth century, who specialized in Occidentalist paintings, was working at the Jebakhana, if he was not himself actually its supervisor, since Jebadar signifies the ‘keeper of the armoury’.35 We know that this title was added to the artist’s name during the reign of Shah ‘Abbas II, probably in 1658–59.36 He kept it during the reign of Soleyman, while also bearing other royal titles, such as Gholam zada-ye qadim (lit. son of a former servant).37 Being active in the Jebakhana, ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar probably did have occasion to be in direct contact with European artworks and crafts held in the royal treasuries and the Jebakhana. Although no written text testifying to this assumption is yet known to us, the artist’s Western-inspired paintings should be taken as valuable evidence. ‘The portrait of Louis XIV’ by Robert Nanteuil (1623–78), for instance, offered to Shah ‘Abbas II in May 1665, reappears in a single-sheet painting signed ‘Ali-Qoli Jobbeh Dar around 1666–70.38 A copy of Rubens’ ‘Susana and the elders’ was also executed by ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar some time around 1673.39 He also found inspiration in a copy of ‘Reclining Venus’ after the Venetian artist Odorado Fialetti (1573–1638),40 as well as in the portraits of Europeans, especially ladies of nobility, from the school of Van Dyck and the aforementioned ‘Four Seasons’ Dutch prints.41 Mohammad Zaman, another late seventeenth-century royal artist, seems also to have been in direct contact with European images, since his work includes several Western-based paintings; the portrait of Queen Henrietta Maria of France is used, for instance, for the Indian princess beside Bahram Gur in a folio added by the artist to the famous Khamsa of Shah Tahmasp.42 The portraits of Charles I and his wife, Henrietta Maria, were offered to Shah Safi (r. 1629–42) in April 1638.43 Mohammad Zaman was inspired also by ‘Satyr lifting Venus’ veil’, an engraving of Raphael Sadeler (1560–1628) after

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Maerten de Vos (1532–1603).44 He also executed several paintings based on biblical stories, as we see below. Considering that both ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar and Mohammad Zaman were royal artists and executed the orders of their patrons, the role played by the treasuries where Western objects and artworks were held seems significant. Qal‘a-ye Tabarak, the Jebakhana and other parts of the royal treasury became, indeed, the new audience hall for some privileged people: the Iranian patrons.

Sarkar-e navvab: The King’s Department and the Question of Patronage Almost 16 signed Occidentalist paintings from the second half of the seventeenth century are known to us.45 Among them, four are particularly interesting as they bear inscriptions concerning their patrons. These are all dated and signed by Mohammad Zaman. ‘Venus and Cupid’, dated 1087/1676, clearly presents a Western myth as the main subject, but several profound modifications in the figures, landscape and composition significantly alter the eventual meaning of the painting (Figure 1, see Plate VI). Whereas the original model presents Venus reclining in an indoor space with a heavy curtain covering the wall, Zaman’s painting represents a nude woman reclining near a lake under a strong tree in a green landscape, just like Shirin taking her bath, as in Nezami’s Khamsa, illustrated in Persian manuscripts for several centuries.46 In the blue sky and in the middle of the puffy clouds, a golden inscription reads hasb al-amr-e navvab-e kamyab-e ashraf-e aqdas-e a‘la, which literally means ‘[done] on the order of his prosperous, noblest, most pious, exalted [Majesty]’, meaning the person of the king. The artistic and architectural patronage of Shah Soleyman is well known to us; he built the Hasht behesht (Eight paradises) palace in Esfahan, and he was the principal subject of ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar’s numerous paintings representing the royal court.47 A pen-case (qalamdan), now in a private collection, painted and signed by Mohammad Zaman also mentions the king by name: be amr-e Soleyman Zaman zad raqam ra (on the order of Soleyman, Zaman signed this).48 Three other annotated paintings, ‘The Virgin and Elizabeth’ (1089/1678), ‘Abraham’s sacrifice’ (1094/1683) and ‘The return from Egypt’ (1100/1689), however, are not done at the command of the person of the king, as they are inscribed jehat-e sarkar-e navveb-e kamyab-e ashraf-e aqdas-e arfa‘-e homayun-e a‘la. This phrase is composed of jehat (for), sarkar, which is either a royal department49 or the chief of a section or department, and navvab-e kamyab-e ashraf-e aqdas-e arfa‘-e homayun-e a‘la, which are the formulaic honorific titles of the Safavid kings as the prosperous, noblest, most holy, loftiest, exalted Majesty.

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Curiously, these inscriptions have rarely intrigued or been questioned by scholars. Discussing the life and career of Mohammad Zaman, Anatoly Ivanov is one of the rare authors who pondered the subject and suggested that sarkar-e navvab is indeed the royal treasury, though without giving further explanation.50 The Safavid texts also mention the term sarkar-e navvab very rarely, although it can be found in some sources, such as Qesas al-khaqani of ValiQoli Shamlu, written between 1666 and 1674 on the history of the Safavids. Here, the title of sarkar-e navvab is employed in two distinct contexts: one is used for an individual person while the other refers to a royal department. Qesas al-khaqani presents Khalifa Soltan, for instance, the sadr (head of the Safavid clergy) and second grand vizier of Shah ‘Abbas II, as the sarkar-e navvab Soltan al-‘olama’i.51 Kaempfer mentions also that the title of navvab (and not sarkar-e navvab) is given both to the sadr and e‘temad al-dowla of the kingdom, i.e. the supreme royal vice-regent.52 We do not currently have any documentary evidence dealing with the artistic patronage of Soleyman’s Sadr, Mirza Abu Taleb Razavi. The three annotated paintings mentioned above were executed between 1678 and 1689, which corresponds with the long tenure of Sheykh ‘Ali Khan Zangana, the powerful e‘temad al-dowla of Soleyman (1669–89).53 One may note that the use of the title sarkar-e navvab for Sheykh ‘Ali Khan Zangana has, to date, not been encountered. His architectural and artistic patronage is, however, well known. Not only were several architectural projects, such as the construction of a caravanserai, madrasa (‘college’ of religious learning) and mosque, undertaken in his name,54 but also at least one of ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar’s paintings could have been executed at his command. ‘The presentation of the horses to the king in the presence of amir-e akhor bashi’ highlights the prestigious position of having charge of the royal stables. Sheykh ‘Ali Khan Zangana, as well as his father and brother, were in the service of the royal stables and Safavid kings since the early seventeenth century.55 Nevertheless, any attribution of our annotated paintings to Sheykh ‘Ali Khan’s patronage must be treated cautiously, as ‘The Virgin and Elizabeth’ and ‘The return from Egypt’ both have inevitable Christian connotations. According to several texts, Sheykh ‘Ali Khan Zangana was a zealous Muslim, unfavourable to the Christians and mistrustful of European politics.56 Qesas al-khaqani mentions elsewhere that the sarkar-e navvab-e saheb qeran pays several dues each year to Sayyed Mo‘ezz, one of the famous dervishes of the period.57 This phrase highlights another honorific title for the king as the ‘lord of the planetary conjunction’, the formula most famously associated with Timur. Similar to the inscriptions on our paintings, sarkar-e navvab may be understood in this context as an institution or department associated with the king.

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We know that the Safavid kings, especially after Shah Safi (r. 1629–42), had their own private department with a very precise financial administration remit, generally called the khassa.58 As of the seventeenth century, there is indeed ‘a distinct tendency towards a further extension of the demesnes to the detriment of the state administration’.59 As such, the sums figuring under the khassa (crown lands) went directly into the shah’s private department.60 The noteworthy point is that, as V. Minorsky states, ‘the khāṣṣa branch of administration was frankly that of the Royal Household’.61 The royal household, a very complex institution within the royal court, had many inhabitants and officers; particularly noteworthy are the important roles played by the eunuchs, who held the most crucial posts. The physical weakness of Soleyman and his long stays in the andaruni (inner palace) increased the importance of the harem and the roles played by the eunuchs. Several Persian chronicles and European travellers describe the king’s long periods of seclusion, which lasted from some weeks to several months, or even years.62 Some of the most important khvajas (eunuchs) – whose numbers reached almost 3,000 at the court of Soleyman – were called moqarrab al-khaqan, those who had the privilege of being close to the king and his family. Due to the shah’s frequent withdrawals from public life, this complicity grew to the point of making some eunuchs indispensable intermediaries between the sovereign and the outside world, and thus the true leaders of the state. According to the Dastur al-moluk, an early eighteenth-century administrative manual, the khvaja’s institution, especially the high-ranking eunuchs including the treasurer, bypassed Sheykh ‘Ali Khan the e‘temad al-dowla, governors, amirs and other men of the court in various state matters.63 One of the most powerful khvajas in the courts of Soleyman and SoltanHoseyn was Aqa Kamal, who was in charge of the khazana-ye ‘amera (royal treasury), while being also the rish sefid or chief of the royal harem.64 He was the one who had the total authority of the monarchy during Soleyman’s illnesses and his long seclusions in the seraglio.65 Interestingly, we do have a vaqfnama (endowment deed) for the Madrasa-ye Soltaniya built in Esfahan around 1696 by Aqa Kamal, presenting him as sarkar-e navvab-e ‘alijahi, insisting on his ‘high rank’ both in the court and in the household.66 The chief treasurer was a powerful and rich officer, Saheb jam‘-e khazana, who supervised tax collections and, as Rudi Matthee states, ‘nothing of financial import was done without his knowledge and participation’.67 Shah Soleyman would not decide on any issues of importance before consulting with his treasurer. The chief of the royal treasury led architectural patronage too and had access to the treasures, aqmasha-ye nafisa (exquisite textiles) and other valuables articles, including the very prestigious illustrated Persian manuscripts dating from earlier centuries. The royal treasurers may then be considered among the decision-makers in the enrichment of the royal collections and in the

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choice of both the themes and the style of these new paintings. Very close to the king, the treasurers could have commissioned Iranian artists to produce the artworks based on the European objects and images held in the treasury, when these were relevant to the daily life and ceremonies of the court and society. Documenting Safavid ‘real life’ was indeed in vogue at Shah Soleyman’s court. As I have discussed elsewhere, ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar executed several paintings in the new style while presenting some documentary aspects of the royal court and its ceremonies, such as giving an audience and hunting.68 One may add to this list feasts such as royal banquets and religious ceremonies. ‘Abraham’s sacrifice’ and the famous ‘Eyd-e Qorban, for instance, hold a special place in Iranian Muslim culture, especially among the Safavids.69 Tavernier gives a remarkable description of ‘Eyd-e Qorban or the Camel Feast and its ceremonies,70 whereas Kaempfer affirms that no other feast is celebrated with such great ovations and acclamations of joy.71 As such, Mohammad Zaman’s copy of ‘Abraham’s sacrifice’ should be seen not only as the illustration of a very long and cherished Iranian-Muslim tradition in the new mode of art highly appreciated in Shah Soleyman’s period, but also as testimony to the continuity of the court’s artistic approach to recording the most important rituals, feasts and events (Figure 2, see Plate VIIa). The choices of other annotated paintings – as well as those not annotated – indeed highlight the fact that the process of choosing the subject matter of the non-Iranian paintings and ordering their Iranian versions, had a rational and deliberate purpose. The depiction in many late seventeenth-century paintings based on Western models of females, such as biblical saints, mythological goddesses or European ladies in different costumes and postures, can be considered from this point of view. Signed Ya Saheb al-Zaman and attributed to Mohammad Zaman, a copy of ‘Judith and Holofernes’ is neither annotated nor dated but could be contemporary with other Occidentalist paintings realized between 1674 and 1689 (Figure 3, see Plate VIIb). The Book of Judith in the Old Testament states how a young widow saved her beleaguered people in Bethulia by slaying the Assyrian general Holofernes. When Judith came back to her land with the severed head of the enemy, she showed it to her people and cried: ‘Here is the head of Holofernes, the general-in-chief of the army of Assur! The Lord struck him down by the hand of a woman!’.72 Judith is praised in the Bible for her intelligence and wisdom. She was the private adviser of the governor and, at the time of turmoil and famine, all the sages gathered at her place (makan), asking her to find a solution. Judith’s story and her decisive role in governing the city are reminiscent of Soleyman’s royal harem: one of the most influential power centres in his court. In a very precise hierarchy, the king’s mother took the role of head of the royal harem, followed by the favourite concubines and high-ranking eunuchs. Describing the political economy under Shah Soleyman, Chardin declares that:

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what causes most difficulties for the ministers of Persia, is the harem, the women’s palace, where is held a private counsel that usually prevails over anything and gives law to everything. This is maintained by the king’s mother, the great eunuchs, and the most devoted mistresses. If ministers do not know how to accord their request with the passions and interests of these cherished people who occupy most of the king’s hours, they run the risk of seeing their request rejected, and often turn to their own ruin.73 Other European travellers also mention several times the presence and importance of this ‘private’ state within the royal harem and, emphasizing its role, Kaempfer indicates that while the grand vizier – Sheykh ‘Ali Khan Zangana – officially controls the country, he does, however, what the shah, his mother and the high-ranking eunuchs desire.74 The Persian illustration of Judith may not then be read merely as a biblical story but seen as a reference to the royal harem and the status of women in the shah’s quarters and their roles in various affairs of state. Judith, herself adviser to the governor, could indeed represent – in artistic language – the new centre of power at the court of Shah Soleyman. The existence of a privy council within the royal harem is not exclusive to the reign of Shah Soleyman. Pari Khan Khanom, sister of Shah Tahmasp (r. 1524–76), at the end of the sixteenth century and the mother of ‘Abbas II in the middle of seventeenth century were also counsellors to the kings.75 However, Shah Soleyman’s private council was considered to be a true parallel state within the court, holding a more decisive and crucial place. Its hold on power was particularly blatant during the second half of the king’s reign, since from the end of 1679 and beginning of 1680 the balance of power turned decisively in favour of the seraglio. Shah Soleyman, mistrustful of the men of the court, not only subjected his grand vizier and his nazer (Najaf-Qoli Beg) to the bastinado, but also blinded his divanbegi (the minister of justice).76 Significantly, between 1673 and 1688–89, several paintings with female subject matter were realized by the royal artists, such as ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar and Mohammad Zaman, including our inscribed biblical paintings. Biblical subjects occur frequently in Persian painting from the late thirteenth century (many stories, of course, being common to the Qur’an as well).77 From the sixteenth century onwards, the tendency to represent biblical prophets increased significantly, especially with the various reproductions of books such as Falnama (The Book of Divination) and Qesas al-anbiya’ (Stories of the Prophets). Nevertheless, it is not always evident whether a confessional context should be attributed to the biblical illustrations, as some may convey political intentions by serving as models for the ruling power. They operate occasionally to impart historical messages concerning the legitimacy of a dynasty, religious controversy or political struggles. The Ilkhanids’ biblical illustrations, for instance, consonant with the khans’

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historiographies, deal with questions of power and religion or with significant political events, such as enthronements, wars, etc.78 As for the reign of Shah Soleyman, the dominant presence of women in the biblical illustrations is indeed a peculiarity, as the majority of biblical pictures in Persian paintings concern men. Eve is represented in some paintings, the Virgin Mary often in the ‘Annunciation’, while Zuleykha is shown in episodes of the life of Yusof. However, neither Eve nor Zuleykha are represented in Occidentalist paintings. The key element of these images is actually the representation of women hitherto absent from Persian painting: Elizabeth, Suzanne, Judith and Mary Magdalene. Unlike Eve or Zuleykha, with their particular moral weakness, the women chosen in Occidentalist paintings are appreciated in the Bible as examples of morality, courage and holiness. The Virgin is represented three times in these paintings, two of which bear the aforementioned inscriptions. But these representations are not in the same tradition as earlier examples. Instead of a passive and surprised Virgin in the ‘Annunciation’, we see her in ‘Virgin and Elizabeth’ as an active person, visiting Elizabeth to announce the news (Figure 4). Besides, although in traditional Persian painting John the Baptist was sometimes represented in episodes of Jesus’s life, his mother had never been a subject of representation. In ‘The return from Egypt’, the artist has completely modified his original model (based on Peter Paul Rubens)79 by changing the place and size of the characters (Figure 5, see Plate VIII). The voluminous Virgin on the left of the painting, higher and more robust than Joseph, draws attention directly to herself not only because of her colourful clothes, with a bright pink dress covered with a dark blue cloak, but also because of the palm tree just behind her. In the original model, this palm is indeed behind Jesus, accentuating the triangular composition centred upon the latter. In Zaman’s copy, the attention is no longer on Jesus, but rather on his mother. Representing famous biblical stories, these two paintings seem to shift the emphasis onto motherhood and the mother’s role rather than focusing on episodes of Jesus’s life. Considering the absence of Islamic saints’ representation in Persian painting, one may wonder if the Christian Virgin Mary is not a substitute for Fatema, daughter of Mohammad and mother of Hasan and Hoseyn, the ultimate progenitor of the Twelver Shi‘i imams so highly praised and honoured in the Safavid period. Fatema is as virtuous as the Virgin but not to be represented and could be substituted by the figure of Mary by a shift of meaning and merging of themes close to each other. Could this archetypal mother, representing both the mother of Jesus and the mother of Shi‘i imams, be an allusion to the influential, powerful and beloved mother of Shah Soleyman? The Queen mother’s seal, visible on numerous vaqfs (endowments) that she gave to the religious sanctuaries and shrines, actually bears the name of Fatema: az Fatema madar-e Soleyman, darad dar

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hashar chashm-e ehsan (Mother of Soleyman awaits Fatema’s kindness on the day of Resurrection).80

Fig. 4. ‘Virgin and Elizabeth’, Mohammad Zaman, 1678-79, Private Collection, current whereabouts unknown.

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There is not much information about the Queen Mother,81 but we know that the king had extreme respect for his mother who was, according to the texts, more than a counsellor for him. She spoke to him more freely than anyone and made him understand that she mingled with the government officials.82 She engaged in endless intrigues with most of the ministers and the state’s officers, of greater or lesser importance according to the individual’s genius and credit.83 Nobles and governors obtained their jobs not only by dint of presents given to ministers of state and eunuchs, but especially to the king’s mother. She took care of all state affairs and asserted herself as the real power behind the throne.84 In one of her vaqfs to the shrine of Ma‘suma in Qom, dated 9 Jomada al-avval 1098 (23 March 1687), she is referred to as ‘the woman of trust and confidence, the one who is the governess of both the harem and state, the most precious jewel of the king’.85 Kaempfer attests this by declaring that the e‘temad al-dowla explained to the king what needed to be done, modified and ordered in matters of war and peace, and of course added his own recommendations. But all matters would be examined in depth in the harem by His Majesty’s mother and by the eunuchs of the first rank.86 It is important to note that a part of the treasury was located just beside the royal harem and the king often visited the place accompanied by the women of the harem, especially when there was something new to see.87 It is also noteworthy that, following Aqa Kamal’s appointment to the royal treasury and as chief of the royal harem, the Queen Mother visited the Qal‘a-ye Tabarak at least once. Shah Soleyman ordered a qoroq (exclusion) specifically for his mother, who, without the participation of any other woman of the seraglio, wished to visit this castle of Esfahan and its treasures.88 One may then wonder if the majority of Occidentalist paintings with female subject matter might not have been realized to please the Queen Mother and others of the shah’s women as the important actors at the sarkar-e navvab-e kamyab-e ashraf-e aqdas-e arfa‘-e homayun-e a‘la; the king’s privy department. I believe that the honorific titles in the paintings’ inscriptions refer to the king’s privy department rather than to any one individual. In a general way, it is suggested that we consider that the creation of the Occidentalist paintings did not entirely depend on one single and specific person, but rather on a set of people and institutions directly attached to Shah Soleyman, and also on the societal, economic and political events and situations with which this group of people was associated. We know, for instance, that the Queen Mother was still alive after Soleyman’s death, as she bestowed a vaqf on her son’s tomb on 2 August 1694, just five days after he died. Aqa Kamal, to whom total authority was given in matters of state, continued to be the most influential officer of state under Shah

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Soltan-Hoseyn until at least 1716,89 but no more Occidentalist paintings were created in this period. The most significant point about these paintings is actually the brevity of their lifespan. They were more prolific during a period of Shah Soleyman’s reign than in the reigns of Shah ‘Abbas II and Shah Soltan-Hoseyn together. This is not a question of the quantity of European works in Iran or the Persian artists’ access to them, but rather concerns a change within the patronage itself; a change of context related to historical, political and governmental factors and not exclusively to artistic influences. Soleyman’s reign coincides not only with a major dual functionality between the court and the palace but also with several economic crises and epidemics, as discussed by Matthee. In 1668, famine broke out followed by plague, in 1679 an epidemic struck Esfahan and, by 1685, the plague was rampant in the country; this was followed by a plague of locusts in 1688, and so on. These disasters all entailed enormous costs to Shah Soleyman’s treasury, which had to handle diverse financial and monetary reforms and crises, which continued until the last days of Soltan-Hoseyn’s reign.90 These economic pressures as well as the deaths of the great masters (Jebadar around 1674 and Zaman in 1701), would have contributed significantly to the fading of Occidentalist painting, without considering the dissolution of the shah’s privy council, for which we do not have any exact date. We only know that it was Soleyman’s aunt, Maryam Beygom, who became the power in the harem at the end of his reign, and especially during Soltan-Hoseyn’s. Although she is known to have built a madrasa, we may not be able to trace her further artistic patronage.91

Conclusion The Occidentalist paintings are one of the remarkable results of Safavid global mercantile and diplomatic exchanges, especially with the Europeans. These paintings are mostly dated to a precise period during Shah Soleyman’s reign, even though various Western artefacts and images had been held in sections of the royal treasury, such as Qal‘a-ye Tabarak and Jebakhana, since the early seventeenth century. ‘Ali-Qoli Jebadar and Mohammad Zaman, the most iconic Occidentalist artists, did have access to these objects as they created the paintings, which reflect the Iranian gaze towards the Western world, its people, customs and artistic techniques. These artists, as well as their patrons, were neither simple admirers of European art, nor passive towards Western cultural novelties. The emergence of the new subjects in Occidentalist paintings effectively results from a conscious selection and choice of the imported images in order to achieve a synthesis. The patrons who commissioned these works undoubtedly had a semantic understanding of Western images.

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Analysing some paintings’ inscriptions, this chapter has argued that the title of sarkar-e navvab-e etc. alludes to the ‘Patron’ not as one single person but rather as an entity, as a set of high-ranking people acting under the name of the shah, or active in his privy department. The subject matter of the paintings indeed accentuates the influential nature of the roles played by this group of people in Shah Soleyman’s government. Addressing a new audience, the Safavid Occidentalist paintings give us a fresh idea of Safavid Iran and may be considered as a remarkable interpretation of the social, political and economic positions of some of the most influential men and women at the court of Shah Soleyman.

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Notes: 1. I would like to thank Charles Melville and also Rudi Matthee, who gave me valuable comments on the earlier versions of this chapter. My gratitude goes also to Willem Floor for his remarks on this present version. 2. For the meaning of Occidentalism and its difference from the (expression of) farangi-sazi, see N. Habibi, ʿAli Qoli Jebādār et l’occidentalism safavide, pp. 33– 51. 3. For Dutch artist-merchants, such as Van Sichem, Joost Lampen, Philippe Angel and many others, see A Chronicle of the Carmelites, vol. I, p. 404. See also W. Floor, ‘Dutch painters in Iran’, pp. 145–63; G. Schwartz, ‘Safavid favour and Company scorn’, pp. 133–44; G. Schwartz, ‘Terms of reception’, especially table 2, p. 39. 4. N. Habibi, ‘A Sāheb Mansab painter?’, pp. 143–58. 5. J. Chardin, Voyage de monsieur le chevalier Chardin, vol. III, p. 65. 6. Museum of Asian Civilization, 2011-02267, Singapore. For more information see A. Langer, ‘European influences on seventeenth-century Persian painting’, pp. 198– 201. 7. Mary Magdalene, ‘Ali Qoli Jebādār (attributed), ca. 1670–1690, Indian Drawings 6, John Rylands Library, Manchester, UK. 8. R. Du Mans, Estat de la Perse en 1660, p. 31. 9. E. Kaempfer, Exotic Attractions in Persia, p. 195. 10. Ibid. 11. Ibid., p. 45. 12. Du Mans, Estat, p. 32. 13. For a list of French artists in Safavid Iran, see J. Calmard, ‘The French presence in Safavid Persia’, p. 315. 14. A. Welch, ‘Safavid Iran seen through Venetian eyes’, p. 105. 15. The letter is published in L. Fekete, Einführung in die persische Paläographie, pp. 529–33. See also R. Matthee, ‘Between aloofness and fascination’, p. 236. 16. M. Keyvani, Artisans and Guild Life in the Later Safavid Period, pp. 182–83. 17. Chardin, Voyage, vol. III, p. 16. 18. Schwartz, ‘Terms of reception’, pp. 25 and 40. 19. A.S. Landau, ‘Reconfiguring the Northern European print’, p. 65. However, one may add here that Van Hasselt, Philip Angel or Lockhorts seem to have had close connections with the court and the nobles. For Dutch painters’ activities see note 3 and G. Schwartz, ‘Between Court and Company’. 20. Schwartz, ‘Terms of reception’, p. 44. 21. For the royal treasury, see Mirzā Rafi‘ā al-Din Ansāri, Dastur al-moluk, p. 213; see also A. Ivanov, ‘The life of Muhammad Zaman’, p. 69. For the Jebākhāna, see Mirzā Rafi‘ā, Dastur al-moluk, p. 303; Du Mans, Estat, p. 18; Keyvani, Artisans and Guild, p. 182; Habibi, ‘A Sāheb Mansab’, p. 147; N. Habibi, ʿAli Qoli Jebādār, pp. 26–27; see also Muhammad Ismail Marcinkowski, ed. and trans., Mīrzā Rafī‘ā’s Dastūr al-Mulūk, pp. 137-40, for the Arsenal and Treasury posts. 22. P. Bedik, A Man of Two Worlds, pp. 261–63; Mirzā Rafi‘ā, Dastur, p. 213. 23. Bedik, A Man of Two Worlds, p. 262. 24. Chardin, Voyage, vol. III, p. 15. 25. Kaempfer, Exotic Attractions, pp. 64, 105 and 200. 26. Chardin, Voyage, vol. III, p. 50.

440

27. 28. 29. 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.

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Ibid. Ibid., p. 51. Ibid., p. 52. Ibid., p. 51. Kaempfer, Exotic Attractions, p. 196. Ibid., p. 195. Ibid. Bedik, A Man of Two Worlds, p. 263, slightly modified. See Habibi, ‘A Sāheb Mansab’, pp. 153–55; eadem, ʿAli Qoli Jebādār, pp. 26–30. Habibi, ʿAli Qoli Jebādār, p. 147. For many years, several scholars considered this latter as an expression referring to the father of the artist as a gholām (slave) of the Safavid shahs. However, gholām zāda qadimi is indeed a royal title given to the men of nobility serving the royal court or to viziers. According to the Alqāb va mavājeb-e dowra-ye salātin-e Safaviya, pp. 12, 20, 26, 30 and 35, several men loyal to the king and royal court were honoured with this title. See also Habibi, ‘A Sāheb Mansab’, pp. 148–49. ‘Portrait of Louis XIV’, ‘Ali Qoli Jobbeh Dar (Musée national des arts asiatiquesGuimet, MA2478, Paris). Although the signature is not the same as ‘Ali-Qoli Jebādār, this painting is probably by him, with the signature added later. For more details, see Habibi, ‘A Sāheb Mansab’, pp. 151–52. ‘Susana and the elders’, ‘Ali Qoli Jebādār, private collection. ‘Reclining Venus’, ‘Ali Qoli Jebādār, 1085/1674 (Rijksmuseum). See, for example, ‘A lady standing, holding a glass of wine’, ‘Ali Qoli Jebādār, 1085/1674 (Collection of Hossein Afshar, London), which is inspired by ‘Spring’, published by Peter Aubry the Son, between 1621 and 1669 (Herzog Anton UlrichMuseum, Landes Kunstmuseum Niedersachsen, JMMoscherosch AB 3.1, Brunswick). ‘Bahram Gur and the Indian princess’, Mohammad Zamān, 1086/1675, Khamsa, British Library, London, Ms. Or. 2265, fol. 221v. A Chronicle of Carmelites, vol. I, p. 344. ‘Venus and Cupid’, Mohammad Zamān, 1087/1676, Institute of Oriental Manuscripts, Russian Academy of Sciences, St Petersburg, Album E-14, fol. 86r. The numbers of some of the paintings are published in Habibi, ʿAli Qoli Jebādār; for a more general survey, see Langer, ‘European influences on seventeenth-century Persian painting’. See N. Habibi, ‘Zan-i Farangi, a symbol of Occident’, pp. 233–35. For Soleyman’s patronage, see N. Habibi, ‘ʿAli Qoli Jebādār et l’enregistrement du réel’. See L. Diba and M. Ekhtiar, Royal Persian Painting, pp. 117–18. V. Minorsky, Tadhkirat al-Mulūk, p. 217. Ivanov, ‘The life of Muhammad Zaman’, p. 40. Vali-Qoli Shāmlu, Qesas al-khāqāni, vol. I, p. 293; the Sadr was the chief of the Safavid clergy, the senior priest dealing mostly with the mowqufāt (donations) and other religious matters. Kaempfer, Exotic Attractions, pp. 55–85. See R. Matthee, ‘Administrative stability and change’, pp. 77–98. Habibi, ‘Ali Qoli Jebādār, p. 86.

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55. Habibi, ‘‘Ali Qoli Jebādār et l’enregistrement du réel’, p. 208. 56. See, for instance, R. Matthee, ‘Iran’s Ottoman diplomacy during the reign of Shah Sulayman I (1077–1105/1666–94)’, pp. 153–56. 57. Shāmlu, Qesas, vol. II, p. 195. 58. For the khāssa, see W. Floor, ‘Ḵāṣṣa’. 59. Minorsky, Tadhkirat, p. 25. 60. Ibid., pp. 26 and 176. 61. Ibid., p. 25. 62. See, for example, Mohammad Mohsen Mostowfi, Zobdat al-tavārikh, p. 113; N. Sanson, Estat présent du royaume de Perse, p. 37. 63. Mirzā Rafi‘ā, Dastur al-molūk, p. 211. 64. S.‘A. Khātunābādi al-Hoseyni, Vaqā’e‘ al-senin va’l-a‘vām, p. 550. 65. Sanson, Estat, p. 105. 66. ‘Ālijāh (lit. ‘high rank’) is a royal title; R. Ja‘fariyān, Safaviya dar ‘arsa-ye din, p. 947. 67. R. Matthee, Persia in Crisis, p. 60. 68. Habibi, ‘‘Ali Qoli Jebādār et l’enregistrement du réel’. 69. See J. Calmard, ‘Shi‘i rituals and power II’, pp. 151–54. 70. J.-B. Tavernier, Les six voyages de J. B. T. en Turquie, en Perse et aux Indes, pp. 429–30. 71. Kaempfer, Exotic Attractions, p. 133. 72. Le Livre de Judith, pp. 15–13. 73. Chardin, Voyage, vol. II, p. 213. 74. Kaempfer, Exotic Attractions, p. 25. 75. For the mother of ‘Abbas II and the secret council in his seraglio, see Tavernier, Les six voyages, p. 514. 76. Matthee, ‘Administrative stability’, p. 90. 77. For further reading see, for example, M.R. Ghiasian, Lives of the Prophets. 78. See R. Milstein, La Bible dans l’art islamique, pp. 122–23, 126. 79. See ‘The return from Egypt’, 1620, Lucas Vorsterman I (Flemish, Zaltbommel 1595–1675 Antwerp) after Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, Siegen 1577–1640 Antwerp), Metropolitan Museum, New York, 24.63.848. 80. See, for example, Hoseyn Modarres Tabātabā’i, Torbat-e pākān, vol. I, p. 168. 81. Some Persian texts, such as Mer’āt al-kheyāl, name her as Khorram Beygom; Shir‘Ali Khān Lowdi, Mer’āt al-kheyāl, p. 279. 82. J. Chardin, Le Couronnement de Soleïmaan, p. 378. 83. Chardin, Voyage, vol. II, p. 278. 84. Chardin, Le Couronnement de Soleïmaan, p. 378. 85. This concerns the vaqf endowment note on a Qur’an kept in the shrine of Ma‘suma in Qom; the original text reads parda neshin-e haram-e saltanat va shahriyāri-ye mahjuba-ye hejāb-e azemat va bakhtiyāri, akema-ye sarparda-ye dowlat va kāmrāni, haviya-ye asbāb dowlat-e du jahāni, gerāmi darj gowhar-e gerānbahā-ye shāhi, zibanda-ye borj-e mehr-e ‘ālam afruz-e shāhanshāhi. Modarres Tabātabā’i, Torbat, vol. I, p. 168. 86. Kaempfer, Exotic Attractions, p. 25. 87. Chardin, Voyage, vol. II, p. 257. 88. Chardin, Le Couronnement de Soleïmaan, p. 331.

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89. N. Ahmadzādegān, Qom dar dowra-ye safaviya, p. 130. 90. For further reading, see Matthee, Persia in Crisis, pp. 139–73. 91. Maryam Beygom built a madrasa and a mosque in Esfahan and made a vaqf for her madrasa in 1703. See L. Honarfar, Ganjina-ye āsār-e tārikhi-ye Esfahān, p. 662.

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Index: A Abarquh · 92 abaz (currency)· 391 ‘Abbas I, Shah · 5, 37, 49, 55, 56, 57, 63, 64, 66, 69, 83, 89, 95, 108, 116, 117, 130, 133, 157, 188, 189, 217, 268, 272, 292, 315, 334, 359, 363, 364, 367, 395, 397, 402, 433, 437, 441 absolute power of · 132, 134, 135 development of Esfahan · 36, 108, 112-114 epitome of Safavid Iran · 36, 49, 83 centralization of power · 51, 68, 70, 76, 134 images of · 137, 138 commisions religious scholarship · 215, 292 piety of · 62 policy towards Georgia · 381386 resettlement policies · 113, 381, 382, 386 silk monopoly · 275, 280, 281 ‘Abbas II, Shah · 7, 108, 113, 120, 134, 140, 143, 151, 155, 189, 268, 282, 297, 300, 301, 319, 357, 368, 386, 390, 430, 433, 437 portrait of · 140 relations with Chinggisid khans · 364-368 ‘Abbasabad · 113, 213 ‘Abbasnama · 55 ‘Abd al-Hoseyn Tusi · 53, 59, 61 ‘Abd al-Mo’men (sultan of Balkh) · 363 ‘Abdi Beg Shirazi · 4, 36, 39, 92, 118

‘Abdollah Qotb Shah · 331 ‘Abdollah b. Eskandar (khan of Bukhara) · 359 ‘Abdollah b. Mohammad Nasrollahi · 363 ‘Abedin Beg Tovachi · 18 Abisaab, R. · 164, 213 Abkhazia · 379 absolute power · 135, 140 Abu Bakr · 220, 223, 297 Abu’l-Fazl (Akbar’s historian) · 57, 186, 187, 201 Abu’l-Ghazi Bahador Khan · 361 Abu Horeyra · 223 Abu’l-Kheyr Khan (Ozbek Khan) · 360 Abu’l-Kheyrids · 357, 361, 362, 363, 364, 368 Abu Ma‘shar · 198 Abu Moslem · 214, 232 Abu Soleyman al-Sejestani · 186 Abu Taleb Beg (brother of Hatem Beg) · 54, 67 Abu Taleb Khan · 59, 139 Abu Torab Beg (brother of Hatem Beg· 54 Abu Yusof, Ya‘qub b. Ebrahim alAnsari · 221 Achaemenids · 29, 82 Ada’i Shirazi, Mowlana Mohammad (poet) · 310 Adam · 194, 195, 200, 201 ‘Adel Shahis · 315, 333, 338, 340, 244 Aden · 271, 279 Adham Beg (brother of Hatem Beg) · 54, 59 Afghans · 82, 89, 146, 157, 158, 161, 164-166, 168, 180, 283, 408, see also decline Afghanistan · 13, 47, 392, 407, 411 Afraseyab · 410 agriculture · 267, 293, 378

448

Ahar · 51, 52 ‘Ahdi · 249, 256, 257 Ahi (poet) · 250 ahl al-beyt · 216 ahl al-qalam · 49 ahl-e khelaf · 16 ahl-e nazm (poet) · 247 ahl al-valaya · 200, see also Sufis Ahmad I ·336 Ahmad b. Mohammad Mohaqqeq Ardabili · 215 Ahmadnagar · 199, 332, 333, 336, 338, 339, 341, 346, 347, 349, 354 Ahmet Paşa (poet) · 243, 244, 245, 247, 249 Ahsan al-tavarikh · 40, 87 ‘ajam · 295, 296, 297, 300 Akbar (Mughal emperor) · 5, 57, 186, 189, 199, 201, 202 Akbarnama · 187 akrasia · 188 al-Andalusi, Sa‘id · 186, 207 al-Anwar al-No‘maniya · 158, 218 al-Asfar al-arba‘a · 191, 195, 196, 197 Alaverdi (church)· 383 Alborz Mountains · 88 Albuquerque, Alfonso de · 271 alcohol · 160, 397 Aleppo · 64, 274, 278, 295, 302, 320 Alevi · 212, 225, 232, 237 Alevi-Bektashi · 225 Alexander the Great · 82, 91, 200 Alexander (King of Kakheti) · 380, 381, 382 ‘Ali b. Abi Taleb ·192, 201, 214, 215, 220, 223, 224, 227, 228, 300, 331, 339, 342, see also Emam ‘Ali ‘Ali ‘Adel Shah I · 334, 338, 339342, 344 ‘Ali Keya (brother of Hoseyn Keya) · 21

INDEX ‘Ali Morad Khan, son of Ganj ‘Ali Khan · 116 ‘Ali Qapu Palace, Esfahan · 113 Allahverdi Khan, Undiladze · 384 Allahverdi Khan bridge · 113 ‘Allamah al-Helli · 84, 234 almond · 407, 408, 412 Alvand b. Yusof (Aq Qoyunlu sultan) · 15, 16, 17, 21, 24, 32, 33, 376 Alvand Mountains · 19 Amasya, Treaty of · 217, 379, 380 Amini Haravi, Sadr al-Din (Safavid historian)· 4, 14, 27, 38, 44 Fotuhat-e shahi · 14, 16, 38, 39 amir akhor (master of the stables) · 59, 430 Amir Beg Mowsillu · 33 Amir Khan, Haj Mosleh al-Din · 217 Amir Khosrow (poet) · 6, 249, 250, 251, 256, 258, 320 Amir Mahmud b. Khvandamir (Safavid historian) · 23 Amir-Moezzi, M.A. 161, 167 amir-‘ayan · 213 amir-e shekar (master of the hunt) · 59 Amu Darya (Oxus river) · 254, 358, 360, 362 Anatolia · 15, 17, 31, 33, 34, 48, 63, 212, 216, 229, 230, 231, 232, 237, 242, 243, 245, 265, 417 Anaxagoras · 195 Anaximenes · 195 Anderson, Benedict · 100 Anisi · 254 Ankara, Battle of · 21 anthropomorphist (mojassem) · 224 Anvari (poet) · 6, 249, 250, 256, 258, 313 apple · 406, 410

449

INDEX apricot · 408 Aq Qoyunlu · 4, 15, 16-22, 29, 3235, 40, 41, 48, 53, 61, 254, 256, 363, 376 aqa · 388 Aqa Kamal · 431, 436 Aqa Mirak · 408 Aqa Shah ‘Ali (mostowfi) · 58 Aqa Zeyn al-Din · 56 aqmasha-ye farangi · 425 Arabestan · 63, 299, 389 Arabia · 411 Arabian Sea · 91, 286, 288, 289 Arabic scholarly texts · 5, 47, 48, 67, 157, 158, 159, 190, 197, 200, 222, 223 Arabs · 84, 186, 272, 279,291 ‘Arabshah · 360 ‘Arabshahids · 360, 361 Arakel Davrizhetsi · 382, 396, 399 Arcadia · 99, 103, 203, 210, 324, 325, 329 Ardabil · 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 215 Ardashir · 91, 200, 410 Ardashir with his wife · 406 ‘aref · 192 Arkhangelsk · 381 Armenia · 47, 63, 69, 93, 411 Armenians · 113, 137, 143, 167, 274, 275, 277, 281, 282, 285, 382 Asaf b. Barkhiya (Solomon’s counsellor)· 49 Asafi · 254 Ashraf · 117, 124 Ashraf Mazandarani (poet) · 322 Asian trade · 270, 273, 274, 277, 279, 280, 281, 283, 285, 358 ‘Aşık Çelebi · 242, 243, 245, 253 Astarabad · 314, 363 Astrakhan · 369, 377, 381 ‘Atiq ‘Ali, Khvaja · 53 Aubin, J. · 2 Avicenna (Ebn Sina) · 50, 186, 189, 190, 209, 265

A‘yan al-Shi‘a · 166 Azerbaijan · 16, 17, 22, 31, 34, 35, 47, 48, 51, 54, 63, 64, 66, 91, 189, 201, 215, 314, 344, 415 B Babaie, Sussan · 75, 126, 153, 326, 372 Babur · 367 Babylonians · 186, 201 Bacqué-Grammont · 377, 395, 399 Badakhshan · 359, 369, 374 Bafqi, Mohammad Mofid, Mostowfi · 4, 7, 91, 93, 94, 293, 309 Jame‘-e Mofidi · 91, 94 Mokhtasar-e Mofid · 93, 94, 96, 99, 102 Baghdad · 33, 105, 122, 185, 186, 207, 208, 222, 268, 319, 364, 418 Bagrationi (dynasty) · 384, 386, 389, 390 Bahmani Sultanate · 336, 338, 340 bahra · 388 Bahrain · 89, 272 Bahram Gur · 408, 411, 428, 440 Bahram Gur before his father Yazdegerd I · 411 Bahram Gur negotiates for the throne · 409, 411 Bakar, son of Vakhtang VI · 392 Bakhtrioni · 386 Baki (poet) · 247, 248, 249, 250, 255, 256 Balkh · 359, 360, 361, 363, 365, 372 Baluchestan · 91 Baluchis · 146 Bandar ‘Abbas · 89, 272-278, 282285, 320, 419 Bantam · 278 Barda‘ · 312, 385

450

Bashir, Shahzad · 27, 75 Basra · 106, 107, 272, 273 Bastam · 359 Bastingh, Willem (Dutch factor) · 281 Batavia · 270, 274, 282, 288 Baudoin, Jean · 134 Bayandor clan · 32, 33 Bayezid I · 21, 22, 245, 250 Bayezid II · 22, 245, 250 bazaars · 113, 117, 118, 302, 424 Bedik, Pedros · 90, 98, 100, 426, 443 Bedlisi (Betlisi), Edris · 26, 256 Bedlisi (Betlisi), Sharaf al-Din (Sheref-Khan) · 26, 27, 380 beglerbegi · 384, 385, 386 Beheshti Haravi, ‘Abdollah (poet) · 293, 294, 301, 302, 319, 321 Behişti · 253 Behzad (artist) · 406, 407, 408 Bektash Khan · 55, 67 Bembo, Ambroise · 426 Bengal · 277, 282, 283, 285, 286, 288, 289, 358 Beradze, G. · 393, 395, 396, 397, 398, 399 Bernard, Jean · 426 Bestam Aqa-ye Torkman · 58 Bethulia · 432 Beyani · 246 Beyhaqi, Abu’l-Fazl · 50, 186 Bia-Pas, Gilan ·58 Bidar · 336, 340, 347, 348, 351, 354, 355 Bijapur · 333, 334, 336, 338-344, 346-348, 350-353, 355 al-Biruni · 186 Bizhan slaughtering the wild boars of Arman · 411 Blow, David · 75, 153, 399 body, of the kingdom · 7, 14, 22, 23 Bonvalot, Gabriel · 100 Borchalu (tribe) · 382

INDEX Borhan Nezam Shah · 332, 349 Bosse, Abraham (artist) · 23 Bostan al-seyaha · 160 Bosworth, C.E. · 75, 100 Botero, Giovanni · 153 Bourdieu, Pierre · 100 Bozorgmehr · 200, 202 Bozüyük · 217 bridges · 113, 115, 316 Britain · 13 British Library · 407 British Museum · 413 Browne, E.G. · 27, 178, 326 Budaq Monshi Qazvini · 4, 40 Javaher al-akhbar · 36, 40 Bukhara · 255, 359, 360, 361, 362, 365, 370, 371, 372, 374 Burt, William (EIC agent) · 275 buyruq · 216 C cannibalism · 21, 26 capital cities · 4, 34, 36, 37, 39, 64, 82, 93, 108, 109, 113, 117, 118, 119, 157, see also Esfahan, Qazvin, Tabriz dar al-saltana· 36, 37 paytakht · 36 Carmelites · 160, 172, 173, 182, 286, 288, 439, 440, 443 Carmina aurea · 208 carnelian · 296 cartazes (passes) · 269 Caspian Sea · 82, 94, 138 Catholic, Catholicism · 143, 160, 173, 178, 286, 288, 392 Caucasus, Caucasian · 47, 68, 378, 395, 402, 403 Celali insurrection, see Jalali Central Asia · 2, 4, 6, 7, 188, 212, 233, 245, 249, 254, 255, 340, 357, 358, 359, 360, 364, 365, 366, 367, 368, 370, 410

451

INDEX Chaghatay (language and literature)· 6, 213, 231, 236, 245 Chaghatayids · 359 chahar bagh (four garden layout)· 137, 409 Chaldeans · 200 Chaldiran, Battle of · 35, 376 chancellery practice, reforms · 39, 49, 50, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 69 Chardin, Jean · 100, 153, 400, 443 Charles I (King of England) · 137, 150, 154, 275, 419, 426, 428 Chehel Sotun · 7, 233, 357, 358, 364, 365, 367, 368 chenar · 408, 412 cherry · 408 Chinggis Khan · 38, 233, 360, 363 Chinggisids · 357, 359, 360, 361, 362, 364, 368 Chinon, Father Gabriel de · 134, 143, 153 Christianity · 117, 392, see also Armenians, Catholics, Protestants, tolerance Christians · 5, 18, 143, 144, 165, 382, 383, 430 chub-e katan · 425 Circassian · 380 Clavijo, R. Gonzales · 407 Clement VIII, Pope · 381 cloth trade · 273, 275, 277, 278 cockscomb · 406 Concini, Conchino, Maréchal d’Ancre · 140 confessionalization · 211, 238 Connock, Edward · 274 Constantinople · 242 conversion · 16, 31, 68, 117, 144, 164, 213, 222, 228, 233, 238, 332, 333, 340, 349 convert · 164, 390 Corbin, Henry · 207 Cotton, Sir Dodmore · 137

court culture · 39, 41, 145, 229, 357, 363, 397 Cromwell, Thomas · 57 Crone, Patricia · 100 Cunaeus, Joan · 282 customs revenues · 272, 273, 274, 276, 277, 282 cypress · 298, 301, 317, 406, 407, 408, 412, 414, 417 D Dadiani, Levan (Prince of the Samegrelo) · 387 daftar · 58, 379 Dah Bab · 250 Dakhani (language) · 335, 336, 337, 338, 340, 341, 342 Dalu Budaq Rumlu (governor of Khoy)· 55 Damascus · 219 dar al-harb (abode of war)· 15 dar al-saltana · 36, 37, see also capital cities Darband · 92 Darius · 200 darugha · 58, 380, 385, 388, 389, 390 Darya-ye abrar · 249, 250 Dashtaki, Amir Gheyas al-Din · 189, 191, 192, 193, 197, 204, 208, 215 dastandar · 388 dastur al-‘amal · 67 Dastur-e shahreyaran · 89 Dastur al-vozara’ · 49 Da’ud (David) Khan II, son of Luarsab · 379, 380, 385, 386 Da’ud Khan, son of Allahverdi Khan Undiladze · 384, 385 David · 19, 20, 200 David X of Kartli· 377 Davis, Dick · 100 De Materia Medica · 405, 417

452

De Passe, Crispin · 414 Debeda, River · 382 Deccan · 7, 71, 94, 271, 272, 310, 311, 313, 315, 316, 321, 331355 passim decline · 6, 68, 124, 134, 144, 157 of Central Asia · 358, 369 of Safavids · 5, 95, 124, 133, 148, 157, 352, 391, 397 reasons for · 3, 5, 134, 144, 145, 146, 158-161, 163, 165, 167, 168, 170, 310, 375 decoloniality · 169, 176 Delhi · 111, 118, 119, 289, 320, 335, 336 Delhi Sultanate · 346 Della Valle, Pietro · 85, 133, 134, 135, 136, 138, 383 dervish · 119, 167, 199, 223, 244, 251, 317, 340 despotism · 5, 133, 139 Dhahabi Sufi · 164 dhimmi · 220, 222 diaspora, Iranian · 168, 179, 393, 395 Dickson, Martin · 179, 351, 372, 420 Dimdim, stronghold · 63, 67 Din Mohammad Khan · 361 Diogenes · 201 Dioscorides · 405, 417, 420 disease · 268, 275, 366 divan (government department) · 56, 59, 379 Divan (poetic collection) of Fuzuli (Fozuli) · 243 of Gharibi · 216, 229 of Hafez · 256 of Jami · 257 of Khvaju Kermani · 406 of Salman Savaji · 247 of Soltan-Ebrahim Mirza · 412 of Sultan Selim · 256 Diyarbakr · 17, 32, 33 Don Manuel I · 271

INDEX Dunstall, John · 414 Dust Mohammad · 410, 411, 418 Dutch · 6, 83, 164, 268-285 passim Dutch artists · 23, 424, 426, 428, 439 E East India Company · 158, 269, 280, 286, 288, 419, 424, see also English Ebn al-‘Arabi · 190 Ebn Bazzaz, Tavakkoli b. Esma‘il · 215 Ebn al-Moqaffa‘ · 49, 186 Ebn al-Qefti · 186, 203, 208 Ebn Khaldun · 186, 203, 208 Ebn Nowbakht, Abu Sahl · 200 Ebrahim ‘Adel Shah I · 342 Ebrahim ‘Adel Shah II · 334, 342, 343 Ebrahim Astarabadi · 219, 220, 222 Ebrahim Gülşeni · 218 Ebrahim Qotb Shah · 332 Ecbatana · 105, 122 Echraqi, Ehsan · 44, 127 economy · 17, 166, 180, 267, 274, 432 Edirneli Nazmi · 228 Edris (Hermes) · 187 Egypt · 53, 83, 92, 105, 195, 200, 201, 222, 255, 429, 430, 434 ehram · 294, 297 Ekhteyarat · 160 Elements of Theology · 185 Elyas Beg Oyghudoghlu · 19, 20 Emam ‘Ali · 191, 199, 291, 296, 298, 301, see also ‘Ali b. Abi Taleb Emam Ja‘far al-Sadeq · 201, 291, 296 Emam Reza · 268, 302, 312

453

INDEX Emam-Qoli Khan Undiladze · 7, 149, 150, 193, 273, 274, 386 Emam-Qoli Khan (Toqay-Timurid khan) · 361, 366, 367, 371 emigration to India · 193, 309, 310, 312, 315, 316, 324 Empedocles · 195, 200 English · 6, 83, 268-285 passim Enneads · 185, 193 Enoch · 200, 201 ‘Eraq (Iraq) · 362, 363 ‘Eraq-e ‘Ajam · 47, 51, 87, 94 Erasmus · 136, 154 Erzincan · 16, 17, 32 Esfahan · 2, 5, 7, 19, 22, 35, 36, 37, 51, 62, 64, 65, 66, 70, 83, 90, 92, 93, 94, 106-120 passim, 139, 145, 189, 197, 213, 267, 274, 276, 277, 280, 283, 294, 295, 297, 298, 300, 316, 319, 321, 357, 364, 365, 368, 382, 390, 392, 423, 424, 427, 429, 431, 436, 437, 442 Christians in ·143, 382, 425, 426 fall of · 82, 95, 96, 146, 152, 172, 302, 392 Sufis in ·159, 161, 164 al-Esfahani, Mohammad Mehdi b. Mohammad Reza · Esfezari, Mo‘in al-Din Zamchi · 50 Eshkevari, Qotb al-Din Mohamad · 185, 195, 197, 208 Latayef al-hesab · 197 Mahbub al-qolub · 194, 197 Eskandar Beg Monshi · 51-55, 58, 63, 65, 66, 67, 69, 88, 94, 310, 314, 315, 358, 365, 379 Tarikh-e ‘alam-ara-ye ‘Abbasi · 51, 58, 66, 87, 88, 314 Eskandar slays the Fur of Hend · 410 Esma‘il I, ‘Adel Shah · 338

Esma‘il I, Shah · 4, 13, 29, 37, 38, 39, 40, 42, 48, 50, 62, 86, 88, 89, 90, 192, 217, 229, 268, 271, 334, 344, 364, 367, 412 and Georgia · 377 and the Ottomans · 376, 377 defeat of the Aq Qoyunlu · 1322 passim, 32, 33 defeat of Shibani Khan · 364, 367 pastoralist lifestyle · 34, 35, 37 enthronment in Tabriz · 32 poetry of · 6, 85, 216, 223, 225, 228, 229, 313 Esma‘il II, Shah · 40, 54, 380, 412 Estado da India · 269, 270, 273, 284, see also Portuguese Estakhr · 411 e‘temad al-dowla (pillar of state) · 4, 427, 430, 431, 436, see also Hatem Beg Ordubadi ethics · 60, 161, 163, 188, 191, 292 Euphrates · 92, 93 Europe, Europeans · 6, 13, 15, 29, 30, 37, 83, 85, 90, 97, 102, 105, 124, 136, 144, 163, 267-285 passim, 292, 293, 335, 357, 381, 391, 392 European art · 8, 413, 415, 419, 423-437 passim see also farangi-sazi exports · 268, 275, 282 ezosmodzghvari (nazer) · 387 F Fadak · 220 fakhriya · 249, 250 Falnama · 433 falsafa · 190, 194, 196 Farabi, Abu Nasr · 185

454

Farahabad of Esfahan · 5, 107, 108, 114, 115, 118, 119, 120, 124, 126, 152 of Mazandaran · 108, 117 Farang, Farangi · 86, 425, 440, 443, see also Europe farangi-sazi · 8, 86, 439 farman · 61, 76, 384 Fars · 17, 19, 55, 91, 105, 189, 193, 268, 273, 344, 386 Fatema · 62, 220, 434 Fattahi Nishapuri · 243 Fazli Beg, see Khuzani-Esfahani Feast of Fereydun and Kondrow · 408 Fehmi · 255 Felipe II of Spain · 381 feminine, femininity · 298, 299, 303 Fendereski, Abu Taleb Mir · 99, 101, 167 feqh · 161 Ferdowsi · 93, 313, 408, 409, 411 see also Shahnama Fereydun · 85, 93, 382, 412, 414 Fereydun enthroned in the palace of Zahhak · 414 Ferruhi Akhisari · 228 festivities, feasting · 16, 20, 24, 25, 52, 64, 65, 325, 408, 432 Feyzi · 252 Firuzabad · 105, 122 Firuzkuh · 20, 21 flora in Persian painting · 8, 406416 passim see also trees Floor, Willem · 3, 6, 233 flowers · 316 Floyer, Ernest · 101 foreigners · 83, 90, 92, 391, 428 in the Deccan · 7, 336, 337, 338, 339, 341, 343 Fostat · 106, 107 Fouquet, Nicolas · 140

INDEX Fragner, Bert · 76, 101 France · 5, 23, 29, 133, 134, 140, 142, 147, 163, 428 French travellers · 3, 90, 91, 92 Friday prayer · 106, 169, 181 Fuzuli (Fozuli) · 215, 232, 243 G Galen · 169 Ganj ‘Ali Khan · 109, 116 meydan complex of · 110, 111, 117 Ganja · 66 Ganji Beg Tusi, Khvaja · 65 Garcia de Silva y Figueroa · 133, 149 gardens · 52, 110, 113, 115, 116, 117, 118, 152, 217, 311, 371, 407, 409, 414, 415 Garmsirat · 88, 94 Gaudereau, Martin · 166 Gayumars · 200, 201 Gedayi · 228 Gelibolulu Mustafa ‘Ali · 247 gems · 296 geopolitics · 52 Georgia, Georgians · 7, 8, 52, 375394 passim churches · 383, 387 coinage · 378 Georgian gholams · 47, 69, 135, 384 Georgians in Iran · 378, 380, 387, 388, 389 Georgian troops · 68, 69, 376, 383 see also Kakheti, Kartli Gesu Daraz, Khvaja Banda Navaz · 336 Ghadir Khomm · 220 Ghaffari Qazvini · 4, 29, 39 Gharib Mirza b. Soltan-Hoseyn-e Bayqara · 215

INDEX Gharibi · 6, 211-230 passim ghaza (holy war) · 15, 18, 19 ghazis · 14, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 22, 24, 25 Ghazan Khan · 4 Ghazna · 186, 207, 408 gholam zada-ye qadim · 428 gholams · 47, 65, 68, 69, 113, 135, 149, 301, 384, 428 gholovv (extremism) · 227 Gilan · 31, 57, 58, 63, 89, 267, 275, 281, 314, 377, 381, 389 Giorgi X (King of Kartli) · 381, 384, 392 Gladman (EIC agent) · 277 Gnoli, Gherardo · 101 gnostic, gnosticism · 160, 248, see also Sufism Goa · 269, 271, 272, 273 Gobineau, Joseph Arthur comte de · 92, 99, 101 Golconda · 94, 333, 348, 354 Golestan Palace · 384 Golestan-e honar · 48 Golshan album · 407 Gorgijanidze, Parsadan · 385, 403 Gorgin Khan (Giorgi XII) · 392 Gori · 380, 387 Gorjestan (Eastern Georgia) · 375392 passim Gouvea, Antonio de · 154 Gray, Basil · 420 Great Mongol Shahnama · 406 Greek · 86, 159, 160, 169, 186, 195, 200, 201, 202, 222, 245 Greek juniper · 410 Gujarat · 199, 272, 274, 279, 343 Gulbarga · 336 Gur-e Amir · 118 H Habibi, Negar · 372, 443

455

Hadayeq al-sehr fi daqayeq alshi‘r · 252 hadith (Prophetic traditions) · 47, 169, 174, 190, 192, 223, 291 Hadot, Pierre · 208 Hafez of Shiraz (poet) · 6, 248, 250-253, 255, 256, 258, 302, 415 Hafez-e Abru (Timurid historian) · 362 Haftvad and the worm · 410, 411 hajj · 6, 219, 293, 294, 295, 297, 298, 299, 300, 311, 319, 365, 366 Hamadan · 17, 19, 57, 91, 105, 314, 321 Hamdullah Hamdi · 245 Hamza Mirza (son of Shah Khodabanda) · 268 Hanafi · 199, 221, 222, 224, 233 Hanbalism · 224 Haneda, Masashi · 44, 128, 327 Haqq al-yaqin · 167 Harran · 201, 205 Harun al-Rashid · 221, 223 Hasan Beg Rumlu · 4, 40 Hasanabad · 382 Hasht behesht (palace) · 429 Hatayi, Khata’i (takhallos of Shah Esma‘il) · 6, 226, 227, 228 Hatem Beg Ordubadi (E‘temad aldowla) · 4, 47, 49, 51, 56, 60, 61, 62, 67, 68, 70 as administrator · 53, 57, 69 as negotiator · 57, 59 as patron · 7, 51 Hayali · 247, 248, 251, 252 Hayat al-qolub · 160 Hazin Lahiji, Sheykh ‘Ali Mohammad b. Abi Taleb · 95, 160, 293, 302, 303, 309 Heinrich, Nathalie · 101 Hejaz · 366 Hejdah bridge, Tabriz · 65 Helali Istanbuli (poet) · 254

456

Hend, Hendustan · 294, 300, 301, 302, 303, 309, see also India, Indians Henri III (King of France) · 140, 142 Henri IV (King of France) · 136 Herat · 23, 31, 36, 50, 54, 77, 118, 120, 124, 126, 215, 254, 302, 312, 321, 328, 348, 359, 363, 370, 373, 406, 418 Herbert, Sir Thomas · 124, 133, 137, 138, 383 Heydar, see ‘Ali Heydar Mirza Safavi · 215, 380 Heytal · 362 Hezar Jarib · 113, 115 Hilali Istanbuli · 254 Hillenbrand, Robert · 128, 420 Hindus · 331, 336, 337, 339, 343 see also Hend, India Hinz, W. · 2, 24, 27 historiography · 4, 29, 38, 39, 40, 84, 87, 167, 293, 359, 375, 377 Hobhouse, Penelope · 420 Hodgson, Marshall · 128, 179, 237 hokm (order) · 61 hollyhock · 406, 407, 408, 413 Homay · 406, 407, 417 Homayun · 406, 407, 417 Homayun (Mughal empror) · 88, 256, 357, 364, 365, 367, 411 Homayun Esfara’ini (poet) · 256 Hoogkamer (Dutch agent) · 283 Hoogly (Hugly) · 277 Hormuz · 91, 269, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 280, 283, 284 horses · 268, 269, 271, 273, 277, 285, 384, 430 Hortus Floridus · 414 Hoseyn b. ‘Ali · 85, 315, 434 Hoseyn Beg Lala, vakil · 24, 53 Hoseyn Keya · 19, 20, 21, 22 Hosn o Del · 243 Hosniya · 218, 219, 220, 221, 222 household · 65, 68, 220, 221, 431

INDEX Hume, David · 101 hunt, hunting · 17, 24, 59 I Iamblichus · 185, 190, 208, 210 Idea of Iran · 2, 3, 4, 7, 8, 69, 83, 88, 92, 93, 95, 96, 157, 170, 202, 230, 267, 284, 358, 368, 416, 438 identity · 1, 3, 8, 13, 14, 22, 37, 40, 41, 48, 49, 68, 69, 81-86, 90, 91, 92, 94, 95, 96, 219, 228, 229, 242, 292, 294, 297, 304, 336, 341, 416 see also Iraniyat idols · 166, 167, 300, 318 Iese (brother of Shahnavaz) · 380, 392 al-Iji, ‘Adod al-Din · 191 Ilchi-ye Nezam Shah (Deccani envoy to Iran) · 7, see also Khurshah b. Qobad Ilkhans, Ilkhanid · 1, 38, 107, 191, 233, 234, 417 Illuminationist School · 192 Imamism · 161, 224, see also Shi‘ism Imams · 16, 38, 39, 62, 85, 158, 160, 161, 162, 169, 192, 197, 198, 199, 202, 227, 291, 295, 298, 301, 321, 331, 342, 344, 434 Imamzadas · 68 Imereti · 375, 379, 385 imports · 268, 274, 281, 282 India, Indians · 2, 7, 23, 166, 219, 271, 319, 331-345 passim, 384, 391, 409, 425, 426, 428 artists · 93, 411 emigration to· 5, 39, 94, 95, 96, 160, 193, 206, 302, 310, 315, 342

457

INDEX Indian trade, merchants · 268, 271-276 passim, 278, 279, 280, 284, 285, 361 minority in Iran · 165 philosophers · 5, 186, 187, 188, 189, 197, 198, 202 poets in · 199, 312, 313, 316, 319, 320, 321, 322, 323 Sufis · 336, 342 see also Hend, Mughals, travel, indigo (khetr) · 413 intellect · 194, 196, 201 Iqjaqala · 382 Iraj · 93, 414 Iran · 22, 23 and passim territorial integrity of · 1, 13, 87, 88, 88, 89, 376 see also Idea of Iran, identity Iraniyat · 84, 90, 93, 96 Iranshahr · 83, 84, 93, 303 Iran-zamin · 82, 84, 93, 95, 96, 303 Iraq · 17, 19, 31, 33, 63, 84, 92, 93, 215, 319, 320, 344, see also ‘Eraq iris · 406, 407, 408, 409, 414, 417 Islam · 30, 31, 105, 117, 142, 161, 169, 187, 199, 202, 211, 220, 222, 223, 229, 292, 294, 297, 300, 309, 331, 333, 337, 378, 379, 383, 387, see also Shi‘ism, Sunnism, Sufism Islamic Republic · 3, 10, 82, 83, 160, 443 Istanbul · 111, 118, 119, 218, 251, 255, 300, 311 J Ja‘fariyan, Rasul · 162, 164, 167, 168, 169, 213, 294, 296 Jahangir · 99, 199, 413, 419 Jahanshah (Qara Qoyunlu ruler) · 65

Jahmasp · 202 Jala’ al-‘oyun · 168 Jalal al-Din Rumi · 242 Jalal al-Din Davani · 215 Jalalis · 63, 64, 65, 66 Jalayerid · 406, 417 Jamal al-Din ‘Ata’ollah b. Fazlollah, Amir · 215 Jambet, C. · 167 Jame‘ (Friday mosque) · 106, 107, 117 Jame‘-e ‘Abbasi · 292 Jami, ‘Abd al-Rahman (poet) · 6, 119, 241, 243, 244, 246, 248, 249, 250, 251, 256, 257 Jela-ye ruh · 249 Lojja-ye asrar · 249 Jamshid · 85, 301 ja-neshin (deputy) · 391 Jaucourt, Louis de · 154 Java · 270 al-Jaza’eri, Sayyed Ne‘matollah · 158 Jebakhana (royal armoury) · 8, 426, 427, 428, 429, 437 Jews · 144, 159, 162, 165, 168 Jochi · 360 Jolfa · 15 Jondeshapur · 186 Joneyd, Sheykh (grandfather of Shah Esma‘il) · 34 al-Jorjani, Sharif ‘Ali · 191 jurisprudence · 47, 48, 51, 161 K Ka‘ba · 297, 298, 299, 300 Kaempfer, Engelbert · 163, 382, 425, 426, 427, 430, 432, 433, 436 Kafadar, Cemal · 353 Kak-Eniseli (Saingilo) · 382 Kakheti · 375, 377, 379-392 passim

458

Kalim Hamadani, Abu Taleb (poet) · 321 Kamal al-Din Hoseyn al-Elahi alArdabili · 215 Kamal al-Din Hoseyn Sadr · 22 Kamal-e Esfahani · 247 Kamal-e Khojandi (poet) · 250, 251, 256, 258 Kami (poet) · 254 Kandahar, see Qandahar Kantorowicz, E. · 22 Karbala, Battle of · 291, 315 Kar-Keyas (Gilan dynasty) · 57 Kartli · 375-393 passim see also Georgia Kashan · 19, 20, 51, 56, 62, 66, 107, 136, 314, 315 Kashani, Mohsen Feyz · 189 Kashefi, Hoseyn Va‘ez (Timurid scholar-bureaucrat)· 50, 60 Kashmir · 316, 320, 321, 322, 413, 414 Katebi · 250, 256 Kay Kavus · 410 Kay Khosrow (Georgian chief) · 392, 411, 412 Kay Khosrow Beg (Kurdish chief) · 23 Kay Khosrow slays Shida in single combat · 410 Kay Qobad · 85 Kendi, Abu Eshaq · 185 Kennedy, Hugh · 101 Kerman · 5, 55, 63, 91, 107, 109, 116, 118, 119, 268, 277, 314 Meydan of Ganj ‘Ali Khan · 110, 111 Keşfi · 246 khadem al-harameyn · 366 Khafri, Shams al-Din · 189, 192 Khalifa Soltan · 144, 430 khalifat al-kholafa’ · 18, 216 Khamsa · 50, 119, 125, 407, 428, 429 khamse · 245

INDEX Khan Ahmad Khan (ruler of Gilan) · 57, 58 Khan-Khanan, ‘Abd al-Rahim · 199, 322, 325 Khaqani (poet) · 6, 247, 249, 250, 252, 258, 319 kharaj · 58, 93 khassa · 65, 68, 113, 115, 431 Khata’i, ‘Ali Akbar · 293, 299 Khatunabadi, ‘Abd al-Hoseyn · 115, 167 Vaqa’e‘ al-senin · 115 Khayali Beg · 228 khazana · 8, 423, 424, 426, 431 Khodabanda, Mohammad, Shah · 55, 98, 268, 380 Khodaverdi Tabrizi · 215 Kholasat al-tavarikh · 54, 87 Khold-e barin · 55, 89, 103 Khomeyni, Ayatollah · 160, 168 Khonji-Esfahani, Fazlollah (historian) · 14 Khorasan · 7, 14, 22, 23, 33, 39, 84, 91, 312, 313, 321, 359, 360, 362, 363, 364, 365, 367, 368 Khosrow Anushirvan · 223, 409 Khosrow Mirza Khan, Rostom (King of Kartli, vali of Gorjestan) · 385, 386, 390 khotba (sermon) · 7, 17, 85, 332, 344, 345 khurot'modzghvari (saraydar) · 387 Khurshah b. Qobad · 36 Tarikh-e Ilchi-ye Nezam Shah · 37 Khuyin (Zengan province) · 389 Khuzani-Esfahani, Fazli Beg · 53, 54, 55, 58, 60, 63, 65, 66, 67, 88, 89, 94 Afzal al-tavarikh · 53, 57, 58, 60, 87, 88 Khuzestan · 19 Khvaja ‘Abd al-Rashid, kalantar of Kerman · 56

INDEX Khvaja Sayyed Mahmud (brother of Shah Esma‘il) · 21, 3 Khvaju quarter, Esfahan · 108, 111, 114, 119, 120 Khvaju-ye Kermani · 248, 256, 406 Khvandamir, Gheyas al-Din (historian) · 14, 38, 39, 87 Tarikh-e Habib al-seyar · 38, 39, 87 Khvansari, Aqa Jamal · 189 al-Khvansari, Mohammad Baqer · 158, 166 Khvansari, Molla Hoseyn · 189 Khvarazm (Khorezm) · 63, 359 Kich · 93 Kınalı-zade Hasan Çelebi · 245, 256, 259, 261, 263 King Keyd of Hend telling his dream to Mehran · 406 Kisten Qara Soltan · 364 Kneeling scribe · 412 al-Koleyni, Mohammad b. Ya‘qub · 162 al-Kafi · 162 Kong, Bandar · 273 Köpet Dagh · 360 Krusinski, Father · 134, 145, 146, 151 Kufa · 106, 107 Kuhestani, ‘Osman (historian) · 362 Kuh-Giluya · 63 Kurds, Kordestan · 63, 86, 89 Kutsia, K. · 389, 393 L Lahijan · 197, 381, 389 Lahiji, ‘Abd al-Razzaq · 189 Lahiji see Hazin, Sheykh ‘Ali Lahore · 94, 320 Lajisse, Didier · 426 lala (tutor) · 379

459

Lala Beg · 18 Lambton, A.K.S. · 180 Lami‘i Çelebi · 243 Lang, D. · 392 language · 6, 57, 84, 86, 194, 212, 230, 241, 242, 248, 335, 388 Arabic · 6, 52, 63, 215, 218, 219, 220, 224, 295, 296, 300, 341, 367 Azerbaijani · 86, 212 Chaghatay · 214 Deccani (Dakhani) · 335, 336, 337, 338 Kurdish · 13 Persian · 84, 160, 162, 163, 167, 168, 241, 242, 292, 312, 338 Turkic, Turkish · 212, 230, 231, 243, 244, 246 vernaculars · 335, 338 Lar · 89, 320 Latifi · 244, 246, 249, 250, 254, 256 Le’ali (poet) · 244 Le Bruyn, Corneille · 134, 145, 146 legitimacy · 45, 86, 135, 182, 354 Lesani Shirazi (poet) · 257, 317, 319 Levan (King of Kakheti) · 377, 387 Lezghis · 86, 146 light · 187, 192, 194, 195, 196, 198, 199, 201, 321 ‘Lightning Bolts against the Jews’ · 162, 181 literature · 47, 48, 93, 189, 211, 213, 214, 215, 217, 218, 220, 230, 241, 242, 243, 294, 309, 310, 311, 314, 316, 321, 334, 348, 409, 414, 415 Arabic · 253 ‘derived’ · 245, 246 Ottoman · 246, 249, 258

460

travel literature · 93, 291, 292, 293, 303 Lobb al-tavarikh · 29, 38, 39 Lockhart, Laurence · 159, 160, 161, 165, 166, 180 Lohrasp hears from the returning paladins of the vanishing Kay Khosrow · 412 Loloi, P. · 173, 180 London · 8, 91, 170, 274 Loqman · 200 Lore · 381 Losensky, Paul · 129, 327 Lotf ‘Ali Khan · 146 Louis XIII (King of France) · 140, 150, 154 Louis XIV (King of France) · 134, 139, 151, 400, 428, 440 Lowhi, Mir · 166, 174 Luarsab (King of Kartli) · 379, 396, 399 M Machiavelli · 140, 150 madrasa (Islamic college) · 108, 115, 189, 214, 430, 437 Madrasa-ye Chahar Bagh · 114, 115 Madrasa-ye Dar al-Shefa’ · 191 Madrasa-ye Khan · 193 Madrasa-ye Mansuriya · 191 Madrasa-ye Ologh Beg · 118 Madrasa-ye Soltaniya · 431 Madrid · 381 Maeda, Hirotake · 378 Maerten de Vos · 429 Mahmud of Ghazna · 408 Mahmudabad · 62 majles (assembly) · 66, 139, 223, 342 majles-nevis (court recorder) · 54, 59, 60, 61

INDEX Majlesi, Mohammad Baqer · 3, 5, 85, 157-177 passim, 185, 291, 292, 296 Behar al-anwar · 158, 185 ‘Eyn al-hayat · 160, 162 Helyat al-mottaqin · 163, 292, 296, 305, 308 So’al va javab · 160, 162, 169 Majlesi, Mohammad Taqi · 158, 297, 308 Makran · 93, 99 Malabar · 272, 344, 353 Malacca · 283, 285 Malcolm, Sir John · 158, 180 malek · 329, 380, 388 Malek Bahram (father of Hatem Beg) · 53, 55 Maleki · 222, 224, 297 mallow · 413, 414 Mamad-Qoli Khan (Constantine, King of Kartli) · 392 Mamluks · 271 mamuli · 388 Mansur · 189, 192, 197, 204, 208, 317, 413, 419 Mantesha (Turk. Menteşe) · 216 maqtalname · 216 Maragha · 189, 418 Marais · 426 Marand · 15 markets · 16, 113, 270, 274, 275, 277, 279, 283, 284, see also bazaars Martqopi, Battle of · 384 martyrology · 215, 223 Marv · 360 Maryam Beygom · 437, 442 masculine, masculinity · 299, 303 Mashhad · 54, 62, 68, 107, 109, 189, 193, 277, 302, 312, 321, 359, 406 Masjed (mosque) · 106, 116, 117, 118 Farahabad · 109

INDEX Masjed-e Jadid-e ‘Abbasi (Esfahan) · 112 Masjed-e Jom‘a (Esfahan) · 117 Masjed-e Jom‘a (Kerman) · 116 Qazvin · 118 Masnavi of Rumi · 197, 319 Masqat (Muscat) · 272, 273, 279 Ma‘sum Beg Safavi · 54 Matthee, R. · 4, 55, 167, 358, 431, 437 Mazandaran · 5, 31, 69, 94, 107, 117, 118, 119, 123, 124, 300, 314, 382, 410 Mazot · 424 Mazzaoui, Michel · 44, 77 McChesney, Robert · 361, 362, 367 Mecca · 7, 221, 294, 296, 297, 298, 299, 300, 307, 321, 366, 371 Medhi · 228 Medina · 221, 294, 296, 297, 299, 321, 366, 371 Mehmed II (Ottoman sultan and poet ‘Avni) · 15, 243, 244, 250 Mehmed III (Ottoman sultan) · 381 al-Melal wa’l-nehal · 198, 210 Melville, Charles · 40, 84 Mer’at al-haqa’eq · 192 Mer’at al-‘oqul · 162 Mer’at-e safa · 249, 250 merchants · 3, 15, 113, 143, 269285 passim, 354, 380, 382, 424, 439 Mesihi · 249 Meskhetian · 380 mesr (Islamic city) · 106, 107, 116, 117 messianism · 6, 199, 212, 225, 229, 334 metaphysics · 190, 191, 192, 200 Metekhi · 387

461

meydan · 108, 109, 110, 112, 113, 116, 118, 302 Meydan of Ganj ‘Ali Khan · 110, 111, 116 Meydan of Farahabad · 117 Meydan of Qazvin · 110, 118 Meydan-e kohna · 107 Meydan-e Naqsh-e Jahan · 36, 66, 112, 113, 114, 117, 119, 145 Mgr Pallu, the Bishop of Heliopolis · 426 Mihri Khatun · 228 Minab · 91 minbash · 380, 384 Minorsky, Vladimir · 2, 10, 60, 159, 161, 389, 431 mint · 116, 395 Mir ‘Abd al-Ghani · 52 Mir Damad · 51, 69, 188, 189, 195, 197, 198 Mir Fathollah Shirazi · 189, 202 Mir Jomla, Ruh al-Amin Shahrestani · 94, 331 Mir Mahmud (Afghan leader) · 146 Mir Veys (Afghan leader) · 146 Mir Yahya b. ‘Abd al-Latif · 38 Mirak Beg (brother of Hatem Beg) · 54 Mir-e Miran, Ne‘matollahi Sheykh · 55 Mirror for Princes · 92 Mirza ‘Abd al-Hoseyn (nephew of Hatem Beg) · 57, 67 Mirza Abu Taleb Razavi · 430 Mirza Ebrahim Hamadani · 57 Mirza Rafi‘a (author of Dastur almoluk) · 59, 73, 76 Mirza Razi · 424 Mirza Reza (sadr) · 62 Mirza Salman (vizier) · 50 Mirza-ye ‘Alemyan, Khvaja Mohammad Shafi‘ · 65 Mo‘tased (‘Abbasid caliph) · 223

462

Mo‘tazed (‘Abbasid caliph) · 223 Modarres, Mohammad ‘Ali · 164, 172, 441, 445 mofti (legal expert) · 49 Mohammad al-Kateb Nashati · 215 Mohammad al-Shafe‘i · 221 Mohammad Beg (nazer) · 66, 144, 276 Mohammad Mofid, see Bafqi Mohammad Pasha Qalandar-oghlu · 63, 66 Mohammad Reza, Khvaja · 66 Mohammad Taher Beg · 65, 66 Mohammad Zaman (Safavid artist) · 8, 414, 423, 425, 428, 429, 430, 432, 433, 435, 437 Mohammad-Qoli · 94 Mohammadi b. Yusof · 32 Mohammadi of Herat · 413 Mohebb ‘Ali Beg Lala · 113 mohrdar (keeper of the seal) · 54 Mohtasham Kashani (poet) · 315 Mohsen, Mohammad · 171 Mohsen Beg, son of Ganji Beg Tusi · 65, 66 Mohsen Feyz · 189 Mokha · 279, 283, 285 mokhammes · 217 Mokhtar b. Mirza Zaki Maraghi · 216 Molayem Beg (royal merchant) · 275 molazem (attendant, courtier) · 388 molk (kingdom, rule) · 14, 23, 87, 88, 89, 95, 299, 388 Molla Sadra Shirazi · 51, 185, 187, 188-197 passim mollabashi (chief mullah) · 159, 161, 165, 168 Mo’men Kermani, Molla Mohammad · 91 Monajjem Yazdi (atronomer and historian) · 55, 57, 58, 62, 63, 64, 66, 67, 115 Mongols · 33, 38, 82, 84, 201

INDEX Monism · 192 Monsha’at al-Tusi · 53, 57, 59, 60, 61 monshi (scribe) · 317, 319, 388 monshi al-mamalek (chief epistolographer) · 54, 58, 59, 60, 61, 65, 67 Montesquieu · 147, 155 moqarrab al-khaqan · 431 morabba‘ · 225 Morad Bakhsh (Mughal prince) · 301 Morad Beg Qara Qoyunlu · 21 Moreen, V. · 162, 165, 166, 168 Mortaza-Qoli Khan Torkoman · 54 Moscow · 381 Moses · 17 Mostadrak al-wasa’el · 166 Mostafa Pasha · 52 mostowfi (accountant) · 49, 54, 58, 388 mostowfi al-mamalek (chief accountant) · 56, 59 Mostowfi Bafqi, see Bafqi Mowlana Motrebi Qazvini (singer) · 52 Mowsillu · 33 msakhurt’ukhuts’esi (qurchibashi) · 387 Mughal court · 94, 199, 202, 310, 312, 321 Mughal Empire · 7, 23, 88, 133, 165, 186, 201, 212, 214, 278, 282, 301, 303, 313, 315, 317, 320, 322, 331, 333, 334, 344, 345, 357, 358 Mughal-Ottoman relations · 335 Mughal-Ozbek relations · 359 Mughal-Safavid relations · 275, 276, 282, 335, 341, 357, 364 Muhyi al-Din Çelebi al-Fenari · 257 Mukhranbatoni · 390 Multan · 91, 320

463

INDEX Müslim Çelebi · 250 mysticism · 161, 187, 189, 190, 199, 334, see also Sufism N Nader Shah · 230, 302, 393 Nadr Mohammad Khan (ToqayTimurid) · 361, 365, 366, 367, 371 Najaf-Qoli Beg · 433 Najm al-Din Mahmud · 189 Najm-e Sani (Najm-e Thani) · 50 Najran · 201 Nakhjavan (Nakhchevan) · 15, 35, 51, 53, 295 Nanteuil, Robert ·428 Naqsh-e Jahan (Meydan), see meydan Nariqala · 387 Naser Khan Beg (nephew of Hatem Beg) · 59 Nasimi · 225 Nasir al-Din Tusi · 4, 53, 69, 84 Nasiri, Abu’l-Qasem · 61 Nasiri, Mohammad Ebrahim · 166, 167 Nasiriya · 56, 59, 61, 62, 67, 68, 69 nationalism · 81, 82, 83, 212 as an anchronism · 13 Nava’i, Mir ‘Ali-Shir (poet and statesman) · 214, 215, 244, 245, 258 nazer · 276, 387, 427, 433 nazira · 216, 228 Nazmi · 255 Necati · 243, 245, 247, 248 Nehavandi, ‘Abd al-Baqi · 199 Ne‘matollahi · 55, 162, 334, 336, 337, 340 Neoplatonism · 5, 185, 190, 191 Nesf al-jahan (Half the world) · 160

Nesimi · 256, 258 Nevali Çelebi · 257 Nev’i 250 New Jolfa (suburb of Esfahan) · 113, 143, 382 Neyrizi, Najm al-Din Mahmud · 189 Neyrizi, Qotb al-Din · 174 Nezami (poet) · 50, 119, 246, 298, 407, 415, 429 Nezam al-Din Ahmad Shirazi · 331 Nicholas, David · 30 Noah · 17, 195, 201 Noelle-Karimi, Christine · 361 nokar · 388 Noronha, Antão de · 273 Nosakh-e jahan-ara, see Tarikh-e jahan-ara nostalgia · 94, 316 Nowruz (New Year’s Day) · 291, 292, 300 Nozhat al-arwah · 187, 198, 199 Nuri, H. · 166 Nushirvan receives an embassy from the King of Hend · 409 O ‘Obeydollah Khan (Ozbek ruler) · 359 Odishi (Samegrelo) · 375 Odorado Fialetti · 428 Oghuz · 213, 225, 230, 242 Ohod, Battle of · 19, 225 Olearius, Adam · 133, 139, 382 Öljeytü (Ilkhan) · 233 Oman, Sea of Oman · 91, 92 Omayyads · 29, 223 Omidi Tehrani · 249 Ordubad · 51, 52, 53, 55, 59, 62 ‘Osama b. Zeyd · 220 Ostad Heydar-Qoli ‘Udi (lute player) · 52

464

Ostad Morad · 413, 414 Osuli debate · 169 Ottoman Empire · 15, 18, 31, 66, 87, 88, 144, 211, 212, 214, 219, 241, 250, 258, 268, 280, 299, 334, 364, 375, 379, 380, 381, 385 Oxus River · 92 see also Amu Darya Ozbeks · 1, 2, 7, 54, 63, 88, 133, 212, 299, 357, 358, 360, 363, 364, 365, 366, 367, 368 P Pahlavis · 3, 82, 160 painting · 8, 23, 242, 340, 366, 367, 406-415, 416, 423-438 Paradise, promise of · 14, 20, 22 Pardies, Ignace-Gaston · 90 Pari Khan Khanom · 433 pasha · 52, 380 Pashalik · 380 patronage · 4, 38, 84, 170, 199, 242, 299, 309, 338, 341, 342, 367, 368, 431, 437 of art and architecture · 8, 113, 310, 429, 430, 431 of history · 39 of sufis · 343 pear · 61 Pembroke College, Cambridge · 3, 159 periodization of history · 30, 37, 42, 48 Persian Gulf · 52, 82, 89, 91, 94, 106, 271-284 passim Persian sages · 185, 187, 195, 200, 432 Perso-Islamic culture · 48, 49, 50, 51, 214, 301, 334 philosophers · 167, 168 French · 147 Greek · 159, 160, 222

INDEX philosophy · 5, 47, 51, 60, 160, 161, 162, 163, 169, 185-202 passim concepts of · 187-197 histories of · 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202 pigeon · 159, 161 pilgrimage, pilgrimage narratives · 6, 7, 62, 221, 294, 297, 299, 300, 302, 319, 366, 367, 368, 371, see also hajj, travellers’ accounts Pir Mohammad Soltan · 364 pishkesh · 332 place of origin · 313, 314, 427 plants · 407, see also trees Platonic forms · 187 Platonism · 185 Plotinus · 185, 187, 193, 201 poetic genres · 322 ghazal · 6, 67, 226, 227, 228, 241, 243, 245, 246, 250, 251, 252, 253, 255, 256, 257, 258, 295, 309, 315, 316, 317, 325 masnavi · 295, 309, 310, 316, 319 qasida · 67, 241, 247, 249, 250, 255, 258, 295, 309 saqinama · 316, 319 shahrashub · 7, 120, 130, 316, 317, 319, 320 pomegranate · 52, 298, 406 poplar · 407, 408 population · 16, 22, 47, 52, 63, 146, 267, 318, 343, 378, 382, 384 conversion of · 16, 378, 390, 392 resettlement of · 113, 378, 381, 382, 383, 386 Portuguese · 6, 82, 83, 86, 134, 269-285 passim Poullet d’Armainville, Father · 90 precious metals · 267, 268, 281, 283, 425

465

INDEX predestination · 219, 220, 224 Presocratics · 200 primrose · 407, 413 Prince Homay and Azar Afruz find Behzad drunk · 406, 417 Proclus · 185 prophecy· 194, 198, 200, 201, 202 Protestant · 143, see also Christianity prunus · 406, 408, 412, 414 Pythagoras · 185, 195, 200 Q qada and qadar · 224 Qadizadeli · 230 Qajars · 13, 33, 91, 92, 185, 230, 364, 385 qanat (underground water channel) · 409 Qandahar · 31, 146, 275, 276, 278, 282, 321, 357, 364 Qara Qoyunlu · 15, 18, 21, 34 Qarabagh · 64, 384, 385 Qasem b. Jahangir (Aq Qoyunlu) · 32 Qasem-e Anvar (poet) · 256 Qashani, Abu’l-Qasem (Ilkhanid historian) · 233 Qazi Ahmad Qommi · 48, 54 Golestan-e honar · 48 Kholasat al-tavarikh · 54 Qazi ‘Emad al-Din Tusi · 53 Qazi-ye Jahan Qazvini · 50 Qazvin · 4, 29, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 51, 54, 55, 56, 62, 92, 107, 108, 100, 111, 117, 118, 119, 217, 312, 314, 315, 319, 357, 366, 379, 389 Qazvini, Mir Yahya b. ‘Abd alLatif · 29 Lobb al-tavarikh · 29, 38, 39 Qepchaqs · 86 Qesas al-anbiya’ · 433

Qesas al-‘olama’ · 158 Qeshm Island · 282 Qeysariya (bazaar) · 81, 113 Qezelbash · 6, 8, 20, 32, 33, 34, 35, 41, 47, 55, 69, 135, 162, 163, 211-230 passim, 268, 359, 365, 368, 376, 377, 380, 382, 383, 384, 385, 386, 392 qollar · 385 qollaraqasi · 385, 387 Qom · 19, 20, 51, 52, 189, 232, 235, 314, 321, 390, 436 al-Qommi (Ebn Babaweyh), Mohammad b. ‘Ali · 169 Qommi, Mohammad Taher Shirazi · 169 qoroq · 436 Qotb al-Din Shirazi · 198 Qotb al-Din Tuni, Heydar · 318 Qotb Shahis (rulers of Golconda) · 7, 94, 331, 332, 333, 336, 340, 345 qotval · 379 Queen Henrietta Maria of France · 428 Qur’an, Qur’anic · 18, 19, 20, 21, 47, 169, 188, 190, 194, 195, 196, 197, 200, 218, 227, 292, 295, 299, 300, 433, 441 Quinn, Sholeh · 40, 163, 168 Qurchi-ye Esfahani · 293 qurchibashi · 59, 387 Qvarqvare III · 376 R radif · 228, 252, 255 Rafi‘ al-Din Shirazi · 340, 341 Rahmi Çelebi · 254 Rajab ‘Ali · 189 Rakhsh · 409, 410 Raphael du Mans · 425, 427 Raphael Sadeler · 428

466

raqam (order, decree) · 294, 379, 385, 429 Rashid al-Din (Ilkhanid historian) · 4, 38, 50 Ray · 19, 20, 314 reeds · 411, 415 religion and politics ·3, 68 religious polemics · 6, 88, 169, 211, 220, 221, 222, 224, 229, 234 Resala-ye davaran · 62 Revani · 245 Reyhanat al-adab · 164 Reza-ye ‘Abbasi (artist and calligrapher) · 412, 415 ritual · 188, 221, 223, 224 Roemer, Hans · 130 Rolt, Thomas · 277 Rome · 57, 117, 195, 301 rose · 253, 278, 322, 359, 407, 408 Rostam, son of Zal · 409, 410 Rostom Khan · 385, 386, 387, 389, 390 Rostam Mirza · 85 Rostam Mohammad, son of Vali Mohammad Khan· 361 Rostam al-tavarikh · 175 Round Tables (Safavid) · 2, 3, 170 Rowdat al-jannat · 158 Royal Household · 135, 431 royal treasury · 268, 423, 424, 426, 429, 430, 431, 436, 437 see also khazana royal workshops · 427 Rubens, Peter Paul · 434 Rudolph II (German emperor) · 381 Rum (Anatolia) · 22, 93, 214, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246, 248, 250, 263, 299, 301 Rumi, Mowlana · 14 Russia · 13, 85, 91, 96, 219, 268, 274, 278, 358, 361, 369, 381, 383, 386, 392, 393 Russia trading Co. · 274

INDEX S Sa‘adatabad · 217 Saakadzes · 384, 385 Giorgi · 384, Rostam Khan · 384 Sabzavar · 302, 321, 363 sacral authority · 212 Sadeler family · 424 Raphael Sadeler · 428 Sadeqi Beg · 213 Sa‘d al-Din, Khvaja ‘Enayatollah Shirazi · 341 Sa‘di (poet) · 6, 256, 258, 302, 313, 415 sadr (head of religious establishment) · 62, 115, 189, 192, 430 Sa’eb Tabrizi (poet) · 316 Safavid dynasty · 3, 5, 13, 34, 35, 37, 38, 40, 41, 50, 54, 55, 69, 82, 85, 88, 134, 160, 213, 244, 282, 357, 375, 414, 425 and passim Safavid Iran · passim distinctiveness of · 1, 6, 31, 40 in the early 16th century · 1342 transformation of · 47-70 urban development of · 105121 decline and fall of · 144-170 philosophy in · 185-202 popular religion in · 211-230 trade relations with · 267-285 Persian poetry in · 241-258, 309-323 Persian art in · 405-438 Safavid Occidentalism · 423 Safavid tariqa · 34, 215 Safavid–Mughal relations · 358 Safavid–Ozbek relations · 358, 359, 360, 368 Safi (poet) · 247, 248

INDEX Safi I, Shah · 72, 88, 89, 134, 139, 150, 275, 281, 361, 385, 386, 428, 431 Safi Mirza (son of Shah ‘Abbas, father of Safi I) · 57 Sahand, Mount · 34 Saheb jam‘-e khazana · 431 saheb-qeran · 331, 363 Sahifat al-ershad · 91 Sain (goldsmith) · 426 Salim (prince Jahangir) · 199, 310 Salm · 412 Salman Savaji (poet) · 6, 247, 249, 250, 251, 256, 258 Sam, son of Noah · 362 Sam Mirza (brother of Shah Tahmasp) · 39, 48, 85, 213, 214, 313, 314, 317 Samarqand · 118, 119, 255, 299, 359, 360, 363, 407 Sammaki, Mir Fakhr al-Din ·189 Samtskhe-Saatabago (Meskheti) · 375 Sanjaq · 380 Sanson, Père François · 134, 143, 166 Saqi · 228 sarkar · 429 sarkar-e navvab · 424, 429, 430, 431, 436, 438 sarkar-e navvab-e ‘alijahi · 431 sarkar-e navvab-e saheb qeran · 430 sarkar-e navvab Soltan al-‘olama’i · 430 sarshomara (head count, tax) · 388 Sarsar, Lady · 294, 295, 296, 297, 298, 299, 302 Saru Taqi, Mirza · 276, 281 Sasanian · 13, 47, 50, 85, 86, 91, 105, 106, 120, 200 Savory, Roger M. · 2, 214, 333, 378 Sayyed Mo‘ezz · 430

467

Sayyed Nasr, son of Mobarak Shah · 51 Schellinks, Willem (Dutch artist) · 23 scholar-bureaucrats · 47, 48, 49, 50, 70 School of Esfahan · 5, 85 seals · 54, 61, 62, 434 Sehi Bey · 252 Selim I (Ottoman sultan) · 217, 245, 249, 250, 251, 255, 299 Selim II (Ottoman sultan) · 249 Selim Khan · 385, 386 Seljuqs · 189 Semnan · 302, 321, 365 Serhendi, Sheykh Ahmad · 199 Seth · 194, 195, 200 Seyavosh · 412 Şeyhi · 243, 247, 259 Shafe‘i · 222, 224 Shafi‘ ‘Abbasi (artist) · 413, 414, 415 Shaghad · 409 Shah Jahan · 23, 118, 205, 365 Shah Mahmud al-Nishapuri (calligrapher) · 413 Shah Taher Hoseyni · 332 Shahedi Dede · 218 Shahi (poet) · 248, 251, 256 Shahin Giray · 215 Shahjahanabad · 118 Shahnama · 8, 84, 86, 93, 119, 166, 310, 405, 406, 407, 408, 409, 410, 411, 412, 414, 415 Shahnavaz (Vakhtang V, King of Georgia) · 390, 391 Shahnazar Khan (Archil II, King of Kakheti) · 390 Shahqulu Khalifa · 215 Shahrastani · 198 Shahrazuri, Shams al-Din · 198 Shahrbanu · 85 Shaki (province) · 377 Shamakhi (Shemakhi) · 36, 377

468

shari‘a (Islamic religious law) · 163 Sharvan (Shirvan) · 267, 367 Sharvanshahs · 17 Sharvani, Zeyn al-‘Abedin · 160, 162, 252, 319 shath · 227 al-Shawahed al-robubiya · 194 Shehab al-Din ‘Ali, Khvaja · 66, 192 Sheykh ‘Ali Khan Zangana · 145, 430, 431, 433 Sheykh Baha’ al-Din (Baha’i) · 23, 51, 57, 62, 69, 215, 292, 383 Sheykh Danesh al-Din Mowsillu · 232 sheykh al-eslam · 85, 160, 162, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 188, 189 Sheykh Hasan · 57 Sheykh in a brown coat · 412 Sheykh Joneyd · 34 Sheykh Lotfollah chapel-mosque · 113 Sheykh al-Mofid (Imami scholar) · 62 Sheykh Safi al-Din · 53, 217, 223 Shiban (son of Jochi Khan) · 360 Shibani Khan · 359, 360, 363, 367 Shibanids · 63, 118, 357, 359, 360, 361, 362, 363 Shi‘ism · 3, 13, 14, 15, 16, 18, 30, 31, 41, 47, 48, 56, 68, 69, 83, 84, 95, 113, 115, 117, 159, 160, 161, 164, 166, 167, 213, 215, 221, 222, 228, 229, 292, 298, 332, 333, 334, 344, 345, 434 Shiraz · 19, 20, 54, 55, 109, 119, 185, 188, 189, 191, 193, 197, 215, 302, 314, 319, 383, 415 Shirazi, Jamal al-Din Mahmud · 193 Shotur o hojra’ · 250 silk · 108, 267-285 passim, 381

INDEX Simon, Khan of Kartli · 57, 379, 380, 381, 384, 385, 388 Simon, Paul (Carmelite friar) · 57 Sind · 91, 272, 273 Si-o-seh bridge, Esfahan · 64 Siraf · 106 Sistan · 88, 91, 93 Smith, Anthony · 81 Socrates · 195 Sohravardi, Shehab al-Din · 5, 185, 187, 190, 192, 195, 198, 199, 201 Soleyman, Shah · 8, 89, 91, 92, 94, 134, 144, 145, 166, 216, 277, 297, 314, 319, 384 court of · 423, 424, 426, 427, 428, 429, 430, 431, 432, 433, 434, 436, 437, 438 Soleyman Beg Kord · 63 Solomon · 49, 95, 200, 303 Soltan Ahmad Jalayer · 53 Soltan-Ebrahim, Mirza · 412 Soltan-Hoseyn, Shah · 5, 85, 108, 114, 115, 134, 145, 146, 152, 157, 159, 160, 161, 162, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 189, 278, 296, 392, 397, 423, 431, 437 Soltan-Hoseyn-e Bayqara (Timurid sultan) · 22, 120, 215, 254, 359, 363, 367, 407, 408 Soltan-Mohammad · 94 Soltan-Morad b. Ya‘qub (Aq Qoyunlu) · 17, 19, 32 Soltan Valad · 242 Sorkhab, Mount · 68 Soudavar, Abolala · 405 South Asia · 359 South Caucasus · 377, 378, 381, 389 Soviet · 212, 358 soyurghal (land revenue grant) · 341, 388 Spanish · 136, 270, 273, 274 spices · 268, 269, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 281, 283, 284

INDEX Spiller (EIC agent) · 276 statecraft, manuals of · Alqab va mavajeb-e dowra-ye salatin-e Safaviya · 89 Dastur al-moluk · 59, 89, 431 Tazkerat al-moluk · 2, 59, 89, 389, 390 Sufism · 5, 48, 64, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 164, 165, 167, 168, 169, 194, 197, 199, 200, 206, 216, 224, 229, 299, 310, 335, 336, 337, 338, 340, 341, 342, 343 Sufiyan, Battle of · 52 Süleyman I (Ottoman sultan) · 87, 88, 218, 247, 251, 256 Sun‘i · 250 Sunnism · 16, 38, 41, 93, 159, 160, 161, 162, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 213, 214, 221, 222, 297, 310, 334, 337, 341, 342 Surami · 387 Surat · 274, 278, 279, 280, 320 Syria · 63, 92, 201, 255 Syriac · 186 T tabarra (ritual cursing) · 223, 297 Tabataba’i, Mohammad Hoseyn · 166 Tabriz · 11, 15, 16, 17, 19, 20, 34, 53, 54, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 277, 318, 320, 407, 408, 415 capital of Iran · 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 108, 109, 117, 317, 319 conquest by Esma‘il · 4, 15, 20, 24, 32, 34, 344, 359 occupation by Ottomans · 64, 88 Tabrizi merchants · 113 Tabrizi, Maqsud ‘Ali · 186, 199, 201 Tabrizi, Rajab ‘Ali · 189

469

Tacizade Ca‘fer Çelebi · 250 Tafreshi, Mir ‘Abd al-Ghani · 52, 71, 72, 78 Tafreshi, Mohammad Hoseyn · 52, 72 Tahmasp I, Shah · 4, 7, 23, 57, 58, 62, 69, 85, 87, 88, 90, 119, 189, 211, 216, 223, 268, 315, 332, 357, 359, 428, 433 and Georgia · 367, 375, 377, 378, 379, 380, 392, 393 court culture of · 35, 41, 229, 317, 364, 367, 407 founder of new political culture · 42 historians of reign · 38, 40, 50 located capital in Qazvin · 4, 36, 37, 38, 39, 41, 108, 117, 217 pastoralist lifestyle · 37, 41 Shahnama · 405, 406, 407, 409, 414, 415 sincere repentance of · 310 succession to the throne · 35 Taiwan · 270, 283 Taj al-Din Mahmud, Mir · 56 Tajnisat of Katebi · 250 Takht-e Soleyman · 35 Takmelat al-akhbar · 36, 37, 39, 92 Taq-e Bustan · 411 tarh · 268, 388 Tarikh-e ‘alam-ara-ye Safavi · 89 Tarikh-e Ilchi-ye Nezam Shah · 37 Tarikh-e jahan-ara · 29, 36, 39 Tarikh-e Teymur · 85 Tashkent · 360, 363 taxes · 55, 58, 68, 267, 297, 378 see also tuman tazkera (literary anthology, biography of poets) · 241, 244, 249, 313, 314, 426 Tbilisi · 377, 378, 379, 380, 382, 384, 387, 390, 392 Tehran · 216, 219, 321, 384, 407

470

Teimuraz, King of Kartli · 384, 385, 386 temporary marriage · 57, 221 Tercan · 17 textiles · 268, 273, 283, 425, 431 Thales of Miletus · 195, 200 The elders pleading before Hormozd, on behalf of young Khosrow · The infant Zal presented to his father · Theology of Aristotle · 185 Therd Booke of Flowers, Fruits, Birds, Beastes and Flies · 414 theurgy · 190 Timur (Tamerlane) · 21, 85, 91, 118, 360, 362, 363, 407, 430 Timurids · 1, 7, 15, 17, 22, 34, 35, 39, 48, 214, 242, 314, 364, 367 legacy · 14, 50, 85, 230, 242, 309; in Central Asia · 357, 359, 362, 363, 370; in India · 358 painting · 406, 407, 408 poets and poetry · 256, 257, 258, 314 tobacco · 170 toghra (heraldic signature) · 54, 58, 59, 61, 249, 250 Tohfat al-‘alam · 85, 93 Tohfa-ye Sami · 48, 213, 313 tolerance · 5, 142, 143, 144 Tonakaboni, Mohammad b. Soleyman · 158, 159, 160, 164, 165, 166, 167 Toqay-Timur, Toqay-Timurids · 357, 360, 361, 362, 364, 365, 366, 368 Tournefort, J.P. de · 391 Towfiq al-rafiq · 92, 93 al-Towhidi, Abu Hayyan ·186 town planning · 107, 111, 116, 117 toyul (land grant) · 361, 388 toyuldar · 388 trade · 1, 6, 94, 123, 145, 177, 180, 231, 268-284 passim, 293, 296,

INDEX 336, 358, 361, 367, 377, 381, 382, 391 balance of payments · 268 barter · 267, 279, 281 domestic · 92, 157, 163, 168, 322, 331, 393 international · 3, 143, 316, 336, 357, 391 see also horses, silk, spices, textiles, etc. translation · 186, 213, 253 Transoxiana · 358, 359, 361, 362, 364, 365 travellers · 3, 6, 117, 133, 134, 137, 147, 158, 163, 166, 296, 297, 302, 303, 304, 309, 310, 424, 426, 427, 431, 433 travel narratives · 2, 5, 6, 93, 140, 142 European · 133, 137, 163, 213, 424, 426 Safavid · 7, 291, 292, 297, 299, 300, 301 treaties · 270, 273, 282 Treaty of 1590 · 217, 381 Treaty of Amasya · 217, 379, 380 Treaty of Zohab · 31 trees in Persian painting · 405, 406, 407, 408, 409, 410, 411, 412, 413, 414, 415, 416 Tuhfet al-‘Uşşak · 250 tuman · 58, 269 customs dues · 277, 278 salaries · 381, 382, 387, 391 silk prices · 280, 281, 283 Tur · 245, 412 Turan · 14, 22, 87, 88, 93, 202, 299, 314, 322 Turkestan · 93 Turkey · 4, 6, 16, 33, 147, 212, 268, 275, 391 Turkish · 6, 13, 48, 52, 63, 67, 86, 120, 133 language · 212, 213, 215, 216, 219, 243

471

INDEX poetry · 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246, 248, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 313, 314 Turkmen · 1, 17, 63, 86, 133, 135, 213, 225, 230, 358, 382, 386 Turko-Mongol · 13, 34, 35, 37, 41, 85, 95, 201, 214, 230, 334, 362 Tusi, see Nasiriya Twelfth Imam · 62, 95, 162, 169 tyrannical power · 134, 137, 138, 221 tyranny · 5, 135 U universal histories · 38, 39, 40, 362 urban culture · 4, 6, 32, 38, 40, 42, 58,70, 83, 91, 92, 107, 108, 112, 113, 115, 116, 118, 119, 120, 213, 229, 311, 319 Urdu · 219 Üsküplü ‘Ata · 250 Uzun Hasan (Aq Qoyunlu sultan) · 33, 34, 363 V Vahid, Mohammad Taher Qazvini (historian and poet) · 7, 79, 120, 125, 131, 307, 319, 325, 370, 374, 404 Vahshi Yazdi, Mowlana (poet) · 315 Vakhtang VI (King of Kartli) · 392 Vakhushti Bagrationi · 387 valaya · 194, 198, 200 vali (provincial governor) of Georgia · 384, 386, 387, 389, 391, 392, 393 Vali Khan Afshar · 55 Vali Mohammad Khan (Ozbek ruler) · 361, 365, 366, 367 Vali-Qoli Shamlu (historian) · 430

Qesas al-khaqani · 430 Van Dyck · 428 vaqf (religious endowment) · 62, 114, 388, 436 vaqfnama (endowment deed) · 431 Varin · 426 Vassaf (Ilkhanid historian) · 252 Vatvat, Rashid al-Din · 252 vazir, see vizier vazir-e a‘la · 139 Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie (VOC) · 270, 274, 276, 279-285 passim, 424 see also Dutch vernacular · 6, 48 vernacularization · 211, 212, 220 Vijayanagara · 339, 343 Villotte, Jacques · 90 Visnich, Huybert · 280 vizier · 51, 53 viziers · 4, 24, 49, 52, 54, 55, 57, 66, 67, 94, 221, 275, 430, 433 office · 49, 59, 60, 199, 313, 389, 427, 430, 440 Volga · 381 Volensky, Artemiy · 383, 400 W wars, warfare · 6, 7, 15, 18, 19, 20, 43, 45, 135, 268, 269, 270, 271, 275, 279, 282, 370, 372, 376, 381, 385, 436 Anglo-Dutch wars · 276, 278 French wars · 146 Safavid-Ottoman wars · 215, 217, 274, 275, 277, 279, 280, 335, 376, 379, 380, 382, 393 Safavid-Ozbek wars · 299, 367 ‘Two Iraqs’ · 87 Western Georgia · 375, 379, 387

472

Wicquefort, Abraham de · 134, 139 Wilford, Nicholas (English artist) · 419 William III (King of England) · 278 willow · 410, 412, 413 wine · 20, 66, 139, 145, 146, 228, 317 ban on · 159, 161, 165, 166 Georgian · 8, 383, 384, 386, 391 trade in · 268, 277 Winnix (Dutch merchant) · 283 wisdom · 5, 185, 187, 190, 191, 194, 198, 200, 202, 432 woad (indigo) · 413 women · 8, 20, 21, 146, 157, 163, 165, 384, 392, 427, 433, 434, 436, 438 see also feminine Y Yahudiya · 106 Yahya b. Khaled Barmaki · 221 Yakan Begum · 57 Ya‘qub Khan Zolqadr · 55 Yazd · 55, 56, 63, 91, 92, 109, 111, 118, 314, 315 Yazdegerd I · 409, 411 Yazdegerd III · 85 Yazdi, ‘Abdollah · 189 Yazdi, Sharaf al-Din ‘Ali · 50, 362 Yohanna · 211, 213, 216, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 229 Yusof Khan Afshar · 55 Z Zad al-Ma‘ad · 171 Zagemi · 378 Zahhak · 85 Zahir Faryabi · 247, 249, 250, 258 zarbkhana (mint) · 378

INDEX Zati (poet) · 247, 248, 249, 253 Zend-Avesta · 198 Zeyn al-‘Abedin · 160 Zeyn al-Din ‘Ali b. ‘Abd al-‘Ali · 217, 223 Zeynal b. Ahmad (Aq Qoyunlu chief) · 33 Zobdat al-asar · 363 Zohur Tabrizi (poet) · 67 Zolali Khvansari (poet) · 315 Zolqadr (tribal grouping) · 17, 215 Zoroaster · 198, 201, 202 Zoroastrians · 159, 165, 166, 201, 303 Zohab, Treaty of · 31 Zu’l-feqar (‘Ali’s legendary sword) · 225, 331, 339

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