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The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

Timur (or Tamerlane) is famous as the fourteenth-century conqueror of much of Central

Eurasia and the founder of the Timurid dynasty. His reputation lived on in his native
lands and reappeared some three centuries after his death in the form of fictional biog-
raphies, authored anonymously in Persian and Turkic. These biographies have become
an important part of popular culture, but despite a direct continuity in their production
from the eighteenth century to the present, they remain virtually unknown to people
outside the region. This remarkable and rigorous scholarly appraisal of the legendary
biographies of Tamerlane is the first of its kind in any language. The book sheds light
not only on the character of Tamerlane and how he was remembered and championed
by many generations after his demise, but also on the era in which the biographies
were written, and how they were conceived and received by the local populace during
an age of crisis in their own history.

r o n s e l a is Assistant Professor of Central Asian History at Indiana University,

Bloomington. He is the author of Ritual and Authority in Central Asia:€The Khan’s
Inauguration Ceremony (2003) and coeditor, with Scott C. Levi, of Islamic Central
Asia:€An Anthology of Historical Sources (2009).
Cambridge Studies in Islamic Civilization

Editorial Board
David O. Morgan, Professor Emeritus, University of Wisconsin-Madison
(general editor)
Shahab Ahmed, Harvard University
Virginia Aksan, McMaster University
Michael Cook, Princeton University
Peter Jackson, Keele University
Chase F. Robinson, The Graduate Center, The City University of New York

Published titles are listed at the back of the book.

The Legendary Biographies of
Tamerlane
Islam and Heroic Apocrypha in Central Asia

R o n Sela
Indiana University Bloomington
cambridge university press
Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town,
Singapore, São Paulo, Delhi, Tokyo, Mexico City

Cambridge University Press

32 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10013-2473, USA

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Information on this title:€www.cambridge.org/9780521517065

© Ron Sela 2011

This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception

and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without the written
permission of Cambridge University Press.

First published 2011

Printed in the United States of America

A catalog record for this publication is available from the British Library.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication data

Sela, Ron, author.
The legendary biographies of Tamerlane : Islam and heroic apocrypha in
Central Asia / Ron Sela.
â•… p.â•… cm. – (Cambridge studies in Islamic civilization)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-521-51706-5 (hardback)
1.╇ Timur, 1336–1405.â•… 2.╇ Timur, 1336–1405 – In literature.â•… 3.╇ Timur,
1336–1405 – Legends.â•… 4.╇ Timur, 1336–1405 – Influence.â•… 5.╇ Biography – Social
aspects – Asia, Central.â•… 6.╇ Biography as a literary form.â•… 7.╇ Popular culture – Asia,
Central.â•… 8.╇ Asia, Central – Intellectual life.â•… 9.╇ Heroes in literature.â•… 10.╇ Islam
and literature – Asia, Central.â•… I.╇ Title.
DS23.S44â•… 2011
950′.24092–dc22â•…â•…â•… 2010052382

ISBN 978-0-521-51706-5 Hardback

Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for
external or third-party Internet Web sites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that
any content on such Web sites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
For Hila
Contents

Acknowledgments page xi
List of abbreviations xiii
Note on translation and transliteration xv
Map xvii

Introduction 1
1 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 22
2 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 54
3 Youth 76
4 Inauguration and Kingship 92
5 Premonitions 104
6 Central Asia in Turmoil, 1700–1750 117
Conclusion 141

Bibliography 145
Index 157

ix
Acknowledgments

My journey with Tamerlane’s legendary biographies has taken many turns

and I am indebted to numerous individuals who had contributed, by design
or inadvertently, to guiding me to its safe, albeit temporary, conclusion. To
begin, if I could claim inspiration from an intellectual isnād, Yuri Bregel and
Devin DeWeese would be two of its most central figures. Yuri and Devin’s
unrivaled erudition, skills of interpretation, academic integrity, and uncom-
promising dedication to the enhancement of human knowledge should serve
as models for any scholarly inquiry. I can only hope that they take pride in
whatever merits they may find in this book. Needless to say, they bear no
responsibility for my errors and omissions.
I am beholden also to many friends and colleagues for their direct and indir-
ect encouragement and criticism; it is my pleasure to mention Chris Atwood,
Bakhtiyar Babadjanov, Michal Biran, Aftandil Erkinov, Moshe Gammer,
Oleg Grabar, Gottfried Hagen, Komatsu Hisao, Wolfgang Holzwarth, Kevin
Jaques, Elyor Karimov, Akram Khabibullaev, Anke von Kügelgen, Scott
Levi, Paul Losensky, Alexandre Papas, Karl Reichl, Florian Schwarz, Elliot
Sperling, Maria Subtelny, and John Woods among them. Special thanks
are due to Mika Natif for her wise counsel, keen observations, and endless
support.
An international workshop on Islam in Central Asia that I had organized in
2005 under the auspices of the Nehemia Levtzion Center for Islamic Studies at
The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, then under Reuven Amitai’s able direct-
orship, made several scholarly encounters possible and enriched my thinking
about certain aspects of this book. A number of research trips across Eurasia,
particularly those undertaken between 2003 and 2009, were made possible
through different sources, and I am grateful for the financial support that I
received. My 2008 visit to Uzbekistan was funded by an IREX (International
Research and Exchanges Board) short-term travel grant. Another trip, in
2009, allowed me to present my research to many esteemed colleagues, and I
am happy to acknowledge the support from the Islamic Area Studies Center
at the University of Tokyo and its National Institute for the Humanities. My
visits to Uzbekistan always (save for the very recent one) benefited from the

xi
xii Acknowledgments

kindness and generosity of the staff at IFEAC (Institut Français d’Etudes sur
l’Asie Centrale) in Tashkent. I wish to thank the Institute’s directors that I
have come to know over the years, including Vincent Fourniau, Rémy Dor,
and Bayram Balci. I am especially grateful to my friends and colleagues at
the al-Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies in Tashkent, the most indispensable
mine of information for Central Asia’s history. My thanks go to the Institute’s
director, Bahrom Abduhalimov, and to its dedicated researchers, especially
Sanjar Gulamov, Ghulam Karimov, and Nuryoghdi Toshev.
My capable editors at Cambridge University Press deserve special recogni-
tion. David Morgan, General Editor of the series, was the first to embrace this
project back in 2007. I am deeply grateful to Marigold Acland for her remark-
able guidance and support, and to Joy Mizan for skillfully preparing the man-
uscript for production and for promptly answering all my queries. Marigold
and Joy made the entire publication process welcoming and accessible, and I
am fortunate to have had them as editors.
Last but not least, I wish to express my love and appreciation to my �family.
My parents and grandparents have been always a source of encouragement
and stimulation. My brother, Ori Sela, a brilliant scholar of Chinese his-
tory and philosophy, has helped me see things clearly to the end. The book
is dedicated to my wife, Hila. I cannot imagine completing this endeavor
without her.
Abbreviations

“Books of Tīmūr”

Dāstān Sayyid Muhammad Khoja b. Ja‘far Khoja.

Dāstān-i Amīr Tīmūr. MS. IVAN Uz No.
185/I.
Dāstān 7390 Dāstān-i Amīr Tīmūr sāhib-qirān. MS. IVAN
Uz No. 7390.
Kunūz ‘Abd al-Rahmān Sīrat. Kunūz al-a‘zam
(Tārīkh-i Tīmūrī). MS. Staatsbibliothek
zu Berlin€– Preussischer Kulturbesitz,
Orientabteilung MS Or. Quart. 1231.
Temurnoma (Ravshanov) Temurnoma:€Amir Temur Kuragon
�zhangnomasi. Ed. P. Ravshanov.
Tashkent:€Chulpon, 1990.
TN Kullīyāt Tīmūr-nāma. Kullīyāt-i fārsī. Ed. Mīrzā
Muhammad Qāsim ibn Mīrzā ‘Abd
al-Khāliq Bukhārī. Tashkent, 1912.
TN 699 Tīmūr-nāma. MS. IVAN Uz No. 699.
TN 1501 Tīmūr-nāma. MS. IVAN Uz No. 1501.
TN 1526 Tīmūr-nāma. MS. IVAN Uz No. 1526.
TN 4436 Tīmūr-nāma. MS. IVAN Uz No. 4436.
TN 4817 Tīmūr-nāma. MS. IVAN Uz No. 4817.
TN 4890 Tīmūr-nāma. MS. IVAN Uz No. 4890.

Other Abbreviations
AEMA Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi
AS/EA Asiatische Studien / Études Asiatiques
Bartol’d, Sochineniia Bartol’d, V. V. Sochineniia. Moscow:€Izd-vo
vostochnoĭ literatury, 1963–77. 9 vols.
CAC Cahiers d’Asie Centrale
CAJ Central Asiatic Journal

xiii
xiv Abbreviations

CAM Central Asia Monitor

CAS Central Asian Survey
EIr Encyclopedia Iranica
EI² Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd edition
IJMES International Journal of Middle East Studies
IVAN Uz Institut vostokovedeniia Akademii nauk
Uzbekistana (Institute of Oriental Studies
of the Academy of Sciences of the Republic
of Uzbekistan)
JAH Journal of Asian History
JAOS Journal of the American Oriental Society
JESHO Journal of the Economic and Social History
of the Orient
JRAS Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society
JWH Journal of World History
PIA Papers on Inner Asia
RIFIAS Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies
Storey€– Bregel Persidskaia literatura, bio-bibliograficheskii
obzor. Moscow, 1972.
SVR Sobranie vostochnykh rukopiseĭ Instituta
vostokovedeniia AN UzSSR
VI Voprosy istorii
ZDMG Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen
Gesselschaft
Note on Translation and Transliteration

The transcription of Muslim names and terms from Arabic, Persian, and Turkic
follows a modified scheme of the Encyclopedia of Islam. Place names are
given usually in simplified transcription. The transcription of Russian names
and terms follows the system of the Library of Congress.
In the excerpts from Tīmūr’s biographies I tried to render the translations
as smooth and flowing as possible, avoiding additions in brackets with the
exception of introductory titles. All the segments in parentheses do appear in
the original text (with no parentheses, of course) but should be understood,
I believe, as the narrator’s interjections and commentary, as he was trying
to situate certain portions of the text in a historical context or to clarify their
meaning for the audience. In addition, although the original text€– like most
eighteenth-century Central Asian texts€– was devoid of punctuation marks and
diacritics, I chose to present the biographies in a format appropriate to a mod-
ern work of fiction. All the dates in the translations are given in hijri years, but
elsewhere remain in accordance with their accepted Gregorian usage.

xv
Central Asia in the first half of the 18th century

xvii
Introduction

In the beginning of the eighteenth century, Central Asia witnessed the

enigmatic appearance of imaginary biographies about Tīmūr (Tamerlane),
the famous conqueror of much of Central Eurasia three centuries earlier. These
texts, authored anonymously in Persian and in Chaghatay Turkic at least three
hundred years after Tīmūr’s death, quickly gained enormous Â�popularity. But
despite their almost uninterrupted production from the eighteenth century
until the present, they remain virtually unexplored by scholars and unfamiliar
to people outside the region.1
Tīmūr’s “heroic apocrypha,” as I label this narrative cycle, consist of
lengthy biographies of the hero, in prose, chronologically ordered from his
birth to his death and presented in dozens of anecdotes. A “typical” manu­
script begins with prophecies announcing Tīmūr’s imminent birth, foretold
by eminent Sufi shaykhs or by men of mythical, historical, and heroic sig­
nificance, such as Alexander the Great. The story then develops through the
course of Tīmūr’s childhood, the young hero’s first love, a daring prison
rescue by his future bride, and the adventures that lead to his enthronement,
including a memorable dream appearance by none other than the Prophet
Muhammad. In the course of the narrative, Tīmūr goes on pilgrimage to
the graves of Qur’anic prophets while visiting the holy cities of Mecca and
Jerusalem. He experiences countless adventures, battles, crises, and accom­
plishments, emerging triumphant from his campaigns in India, Russia, and
the Ottoman lands.
The biographies are interspersed with many tales, ostensibly based on oral
traditions, revealing the significance of different Muslim€– more often than
not, Sufi€– authorities and their role in the formation of diverse peoples and
communities in Central Asia.
1
Central Asia is defined here as the western part of Inner Asia, stretching from the Caspian Sea in
the west to Eastern Turkestan (Xinjiang) in the east. The book focuses on the territory of the three
Central Asian khanates€– Bukhara, Khiva, and Qoqand€– that governed most of the region from the
eighteenth through the early twentieth century (or 1876, for Qoqand). The center of gravity in this
work is the khanate of Bukhara.

1
2 Introduction

The choice of Tīmūr for the protagonist of these texts is particularly

remarkable given that the conqueror’s legacy is reputed to have departed
from his homeland more or less a century after his death in the year 1405,
only to find its prominence elsewhere:€ in Mughal India, Safavid Iran,
the Ottoman Empire, and even in Europe. This alleged disappearance of
Tīmūr’s legacy is usually assigned to the nomadic invaders and migrants
from the steppes who had taken over the Timurid domains in the early
sixteenth century. The newcomers€– a host of Turkic, predominantly Uzbek
tribes led by descendants of Chinggis Khan, commonly known as the Abu’l-
Khayrids€ – seemed to emphasize the break with the Timurids and also
to downplay the image of the fierce conqueror. After all, Tīmūr and his
descendants had been their mortal enemies for a while, even if they did
cooperate on numerous occasions previously. Since most court propaganda
under Uzbek and Chinggisid rule would have us believe that Tīmūr was no
longer of any real consequence after the sixteenth century, historians simply
assumed that they had to look for his legacy elsewhere, above all in places
where his fame became instantly recognizable. Nevertheless, it seems that
Tīmūr’s spirit never really left the land of his birth even if his repute fell
into relative dormancy until the beginning of the eighteenth century. Only
then, at a time of profound transformation in Central Asian history, did the
long-dead ruler come to life in one of the most unusual developments of the
period. Moreover, although the appearance of his legendary biographies was
probably the most compelling manner for his glorious return, it was not the
only one.
My interest in these biographies began almost a decade ago, while con­
ducting research in archives across Eurasia. As I was evaluating different
eighteenth-century Central Asian sources, I began to encounter in the Turkish,
Hungarian, German, Russian, Swedish, Uzbek, and Tajik manuscript catalogs
more and more references to works bearing the generic title Tīmūr-nāma (or,
Book of Tīmūr). Catalog entries hinted at similar contents for these works
but at the same time cautioned the reader not to take these texts too seriously
because they contained too many “folkloric and fantastic elements” and would
therefore prove fairly useless to a self-respecting historian. Having failed to
adhere to the catalogers’ warnings, I investigated further and discovered that
the descriptions of the manuscripts had much in common:

• The manuscripts in question are often extensive works, sometimes up to

500 folios (or 1,000 pages) long.
• All the manuscripts emerged in the eighteenth century and since, not
earlier.
• All seem to share similar content.
• All are Central Asian creations:€Contrary to many other works that had been
produced originally in Central Asia and later copied and recopied in Iran,
 Introduction 3

India, and in the Ottoman Empire, the manuscripts in the various archives
were authored or copied in Central Asia, not outside the region.
• The authors or compilers of these works are almost always anonymous and
no patrons are acknowledged.
Closer inspection of many of the manuscripts themselves (or microfilms
thereof) revealed a complicated story that ventures beyond a simple dismissal
of the tales as “fantastic.” On the one hand, events in these Books of Tīmūr
do indeed oscillate between fact and fiction frequently, feature incredible
encounters and exhibit many stylistic formulas that border on the hagiograph­
ical or the fabulous. On the other hand, Tīmūr’s biographies maintained a very
special and interesting relationship with works that have long been consid­
ered part of the conventional historical and literary canon in the Turco-Iranian
world, most particularly with the extensive and rich historiographical legacy
of the Timurids. From Yazdī’s Zafar-nāma to Mīrkhwānd’s Raużāt al-safā,
from Hāfiz-i Abrū to Mīr ‘Alī Shīr Navā’ī, the official histories are often ref­
erenced in Tīmūr’s biographies, many chapter headings were copied directly
from the court or dynastic chronicles, and most of the characters are historical
figures even if their appearance is anachronistic or made up. Books of Tīmūr
are therefore apocryphal in the sense that they are noncanonical yet aware of
and manipulate the historical canon; they are imaginary and their authorship is
unsubstantiated and debatable, yet they claim to be the source of truth. Upon
further reflection, it seems that for many in the region, Tīmūr’s “heroic apoc­
rypha” served as Central Asia’s popular history.
Tīmūr’s legendary biographies have been ignored or omitted from nearly
all scholarly considerations, partly because the texts seemed to elude tra­
ditional categorizations and classifications and therefore remained outside the
clear demarcations of genre boundaries. Thus, surveys of literature (Persian,
Turkic, Central Asian) tended to disregard the biographies, possibly because
the latter were not considered€– perhaps justifiably so€– sophisticated spec­
imens of literary triumph. Surveys of Central Asia’s epic traditions would
not have them either, most likely for lacking established “epic” criteria such
as poetic qualities, certain stylistic standards, a clearer oral dimension, and
a complex performance. When reviewing official historical sources for the
study of Central Asia’s history and culture, the picture becomes a little murk­
ier. The first, rather brief scholarly evaluations of Tīmūr’s legendary biogra­
phies estimated, for reasons that will become evident later in this book, that
they had been written with the intent to produce a “real” history of Tīmūr and
his successors. When it was realized that these biographies probably did not
shed any new light on the fourteenth-century Tīmūr€– even if they illuminate
very brightly his eighteenth-century symbolic reincarnation€– modern histori­
cal surveys discarded them as well. Ironically, most of the biographical manu­
scripts are listed in the History section of the different catalogs, occasionally
accompanied by a warning to avoid using them as historical sources.
4 Introduction

It is difficult to determine how many manuscripts of Books of Tīmūr still

exist, partly because the texts have been cataloged under many different titles
in addition to the aforementioned Tīmūr-nāma. It is also important to empha­
size that not every manuscript bearing this rather generic label inevitably
belongs to our biographical corpus. Thus, the celebrated “epic poem” Tīmūr-
nāma by ‘Abdallāh Hātifī (d. 1521) is a very different type of composition,
although this work, too, was known to the authors or compilers of the legend­
ary biographies and served to inform a small part of their account. To further
muddle up the picture, some of our manuscripts were also labeled Zafar-nāma
(Book of Victory) in the catalogs, a title that has been most commonly identi­
fied with Yazdī’s renowned oeuvre. This title has been used€– particularly in
manuscript catalogs and in historiographical surveys of Indo-Persian
Â�literature€– to refer to Hātifī’s Tīmūr-nāma as well. Lastly, Tīmūr’s so-called
autobiographies that appeared in India in the 1630s and became known by
such appellations as the Malfūzāt-i Tīmūrī (the “utterances” attributed to
Tīmūr) and the Tūzūkāt-i Tīmūrī (Tīmūr’s “institutes”) also seem to have no
direct relationship with the biographies discussed in this book.2 These Indian
“memoirs” of Tīmūr made their way to Central Asia only in the nineteenth
century and their mandatory popularity in present-day Uzbekistan has been a
relatively recent phenomenon.
Perhaps it is not surprising, then, that no scholarly work exists, in any
language, that discusses Tīmūr’s legendary biographies in depth, neither
exploring individual manuscripts nor the corpus as a whole. Although it
seems that specialists in Central Asian history have heard of these texts,
they have remained largely unfamiliar with their contents and diversity. One
may assume that the legendary character of the biographies warded off most
scholars. Early on, several explorers and academics wrote them off as simple
legends, unworthy of scholarly inquiry, and so there have been no attempts
to deal with the texts at any level. In fact, the last time any of these manu­
scripts were visited at some length€ – apart from their catalog descriptions
(mainly the ones in St. Petersburg, Tashkent, and Dushanbe) or the occa­
sional reference€ – was over a century ago, when attempts were made by
Russian Orientalists to speculate about the nature of some of these compo­
sitions. Other than the initial observations, stories that were borrowed ran­
domly from manuscript fragments appeared sporadically in translation in the
late nineteenth century and were treated as amusing anecdotes or folk tales,
with little to no analysis. The translators did not know that the stories were
taken from much more comprehensive texts€– and certainly were unaware
of their existence as part of a larger corpus€– and thus were also unable to

2
The Mulfuzat Tīmūry, or, Autobiographical memoirs of the Moghul Emperor Tīmūr written in the
Jagtay Turky language, tr. Charles Stewart (London, 1830); for an example of the “Institutes,” see
the trilingual edition Temur tuzuklari = Institutes of Temur = Les instituts de Temour (Tashkent,
1996), one of numerous recent renditions of the work.
 Introduction 5

assess their significance.3 As previously mentioned, Tīmūr’s biographies are

not brought up in general surveys of Persian or Turkic literature or even
in more specific studies on the literary history of Central Asia; they have
been equally ignored in bibliographical surveys or in essays devoted to the
conqueror and to his legacy. We do not have a scholarly edition of any of
the texts, not to mention a translation. Consequently, these works were also
never thought of as belonging to one group and were never treated as a genre.
In other words, they have been mostly ignored. Nevertheless, Books of Tīmūr
endured as some of the most popular literary creations in Central Asia over
the last three centuries and have been persistently copied and recopied, with
relatively little interruption, from the eighteenth century until the present.
We have dozens of manuscripts of varying lengths copied in the eighteenth,
nineteenth, and early twentieth century, including an extensive lithograph of
a manuscript from late-eighteenth-century Bukhara that was reproduced in
Tashkent in 1912.4 Manuscripts continued to circulate in Central Asia until
the Soviet era, when their production seems to have died down, presumably
under order of the authorities. However, they were not forgotten, and as
soon as the Soviet state collapsed, a new and more concise rendition of one
of the texts, in Uzbek, was published in Tashkent and printed in 200,000
copies at a very affordable price.5 I am told that more editions are in their
planning stage.
The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane has several goals. The first is to
introduce the corpus of manuscripts to the audience, both academic and lay,
and to open the gates for further study of these fascinating texts. This volume
represents a preliminary exploration and does not profess to offer the final
word on this subject. Rather, it should serve as an invitation for more scholars
to conduct their own investigations. Many of the stories narrated in the biog­
raphies will surely invoke a degree of familiarity from students of the literary
and epic traditions of other cultures within and beyond the Muslim world, and
I believe and hope that more comparative considerations may also encourage
further scrutiny of these texts from different angles.
In introducing the origins of Tīmūr’s biographies, this study also seeks to
highlight certain aspects of Central Asia’s history in the eighteenth and nine­
teenth centuries, typically a dark hole in the knowledge of much of the schol­
arly community, as most publications tend to gloss over the period in question.
The book draws attention to the changing agendas of political legitimacy, to
the peculiar interaction between Sufis and ‘ulamā’, the supposed tension

3
H. Vambéry, “Eine legendäre Geschichte Tīmūrs,” ZDMG (1897), 215–32; V. Klemm, “Predanie o
rozhdenii Tamerlana,” in Turkestanskiĭ literaturnyĭ sbornik v pol’zu prokazhennykh (St. Petersburg,
1900), 304–14.
4
Tīmūr-nāma. Kullīyāt-i farsi, ed. Mīrzā Muhammad Qāsim ibn Mīrzā ‘Abd al-Khāliq Bukhārī
(Tashkent, 1912).
5
Temurnoma:€Amir Temur Koragon djangnomasi, ed. P. Ravshanov (Tashkent, 1990).
6 Introduction

between the sharī’a and so-called customary practices, as well as Central

Asia’s place in the history of the Muslim world. It was in the eighteenth cen­
tury that a new vision in the region emerged€– a vision that shaped Central
Asia’s cultural and political boundaries and its self-image and became the
mode of cultural discourse that continued well into the Russian era. Moreover,
the eighteenth century€– and not the late twentieth century, as many mistak­
enly presume€– also witnessed the origins for Central Asia’s claim of Tīmūr
as its model native champion.
Tīmūr’s legendary biographies began as a product of the early eighteenth
century, an era that has long been considered the nadir of Central Asia’s decline
and isolation. Although this perception has been challenged of late, I view the
unequivocal dismissal of the ‘decline’ paradigm not only as premature but as
simply erroneous. The crisis theme, displayed very clearly in Tīmūr’s biogra­
phies, accompanies this book from start to finish and is at the center of its final
chapter. Indeed, I believe that these texts emanated from and responded to a
prevailing crisis. The harsh political and economic conditions in Central Asia
in the first half of the eighteenth century, coupled with real and imagined fears
and anxieties, also led, among other things, to a certain degree of introspec­
tion in some quarters. This looking inward was not so much a conscious effort
to pontificate philosophically about the causes of the predicament, but rather
began as an intuitive reaction that envisioned a glorious past, and through
that past imagined a better present and future. Tīmūr’s biographies mirror this
perception, although the texts may not have been only passive reflectors of
their surrounding culture and may have even actively affected that culture.6
In€recalling and retelling Tīmūr’s story, Central Asians could discover a model
for behavior; could debate and reevaluate the nature of kingship, the respon­
sibilities of spiritual and communal leaders, and also the role of each and
every one of them in society. Moreover, they could boast a whole new history
of their own with a local hero who had shaped the world, a world that was
far removed from their immediate reality. Tīmūr’s legendary biographies also
contributed to the initial formation of a more localized Central Asian identity,
particularly among segments of the population in Mawarannahr (also known
as Transoxiana), a region typically regarded as Central Asia’s sedentary heart­
land.7 Like most “identities,” this one too is not easy to pin down. But it seems
clear from reading Books of Tīmūr that something emerged from our texts:€a
sense of sharing a unique and accessible past coupled with a clearer under­
standing of a common fate. Equally important was the growing realization
of what Central Asia was not, a realization that had been augmented by geo­
political as well as cultural and religious circumstances. Central Asia was no

6
For more on this line of inquiry, see Catherine Gallagher and Stephen Greenblatt, Practicing New
Historicism (Chicago:€University of Chicago Press, 2001).
7
It is often overlooked that the area continued to house also a significant population of nomads well
into the nineteenth century.
 Introduction 7

longer a part of a larger empire, and the presence of superior (technologically,

militarily) and bigger political entities on its doorstep was becoming very real
and was serving as a catalyst for profound changes.
Tīmūr’s biographies, although born in the early eighteenth century, con­
tinued to be copied and reproduced for three hundred years. With each
manuscript, new stories were collected and introduced, and others omitted.
Audiences understood (and still understand) their meanings differently over
time. The biographies even functioned as a rallying cry for different constit­
uencies to support a particular cause or to unite against a common foe€– for
example, as motivation for or reflection of resistance to Russian imperialism
in the nineteenth century. At the same time, however, the stories remained a
source of entertainment, purveyors of didactic messages, and also increas­
ingly imbued their audiences with a sense that they were a part of a histori­
cal continuum, a continuum that included explanations about their past, their
beginnings, and their growth as a community.

The Plan of This Study

To an extent, this volume emulates the biographical style and is arranged in
a similar fashion, treating the manuscripts of the Books of Tīmūr chronolog­
ically as if they were themselves the subject of a biography. The sequence
presented here, sketching their existence from their point of origin until the
present, is probably more orderly and somewhat less disjointed than the way
the texts presented the story of their protagonist.
The first chapter, “The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha,”
conducts the reader through the original introductions to the texts and the
numerous questions that arise from these introductions. We examine the rea­
sons given€– or not given€– in the manuscripts to explain their own purpose
and existence; we look into the puzzling queries of provenance and author­
ship; and we consider the literary and oral traditions that the authors claimed
as their sources and evidence. Such claims lead us into questions of genre and
to what we regard as the apocryphal nature of the texts, particularly given
the biographies’ contention for associations with the older historical sources.
At the same time, we do not discount the literary and ideological links
that existed between these apocryphal writings and Sufi hagiographies, Qisas
al-anbiyā’ (stories of the Prophets) and the Arabic Sīra (biography). Chapter
1 further introduces the structure and arrangement of the biographies€– both
as they were introduced in the texts and as they appear in actuality€– including
the authors’ convenient summary of Tīmūr’s life and their brief discussion of
Tīmūr’s lineage. We follow with an outline of the manuscript tradition that
evolved from the eighteenth to the twentieth century, touching on the chain
of transmission or the retelling of these stories, and the pertinent queries of
popularity and patronage. Some of the most intriguing uncertainties concern
the identity of the audiences for the biographies and the manner in which
8 Introduction

these tales were conveyed to possible readers and listeners, perhaps by way
of storytelling. The chapter hints at the role of storyteller guilds in the region,
compared with similar institutions in other parts of the Muslim world. Finally,
we explore how these works had been understood by the scholars who had
first collected and read them, already in the second half of the nineteenth cen­
tury, and the tradition of scholarship (or lack thereof) that built on the initial
explorations.
The following chapters€ – “Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood,” “Youth,”
“Inauguration and Kingship,” and “Premonitions”€ – constitute a literary
Â�portrait of Central Asia’s native hero and introduce the biographies with por­
tions of text in English translation, complemented with brief introductions
and commentary. Because the biographies were composed of numerous
related and seemingly unrelated anecdotes, in many reproductions, the selec­
tion of translations reflects some of the different types of stories found in
the works and also relies on different renditions of the stories from the eigh­
teenth through the twentieth century. These four chapters present the differ­
ent stages in Tīmūr’s life, following the hero from his birth€– or even a little
earlier€ – through his busy youth, to his rise to prominence and his dreams
and visions of things to come. My annotated translations of different seg­
ments in Tīmūr’s life explore a variety of literary topoi, including character­
istic forms of prophecy, dream sequences, symbols and miraculous contests,
as well as other themes that occupied the authors and, undoubtedly, portions
of Central Asian society in the eighteenth century. Throughout the biographi­
cal representations, recurring connections appear between the protagonist and
diverse Muslim circles (Sufis, ‘ulama’, heretical groups and bearers of ‘Alid
charisma), as well as significant historical and mythical figures. The biogra­
phies illustrate integration and conflict of lineage and loyalties€– for example,
between the house of Tīmūr and the house of Chinggis Khan, and between the
house of Tīmūr and prestigious local families€– as well as the break between
Chinggis Khan’s successors and tribal leaderships, a potent characteristic of
the eighteenth century. The crisis theme, expressed, among other things, by
unrelenting apocalyptic dreams and visions, is also presented.
The final chapter presents the biographies’ origins in their greater historical
context, particularly within the political, social, and economic circumstances
in the region in the first half of the eighteenth century. These circumstances
were clearly reflected in our biographies, but also in a myriad of other sources,
from dynastic histories to travelers’ reports. The old notion of a region in
“decline” was never thoroughly explained, and the recent trend in scholar­
ship that assumes a crisis-free era is also discussed. This chapter explores in
some depth the nature of the crisis and the development of different methods
of coping with it in Central Asia:€the emergence of new forms of political and
religious symbolism, the impact of Islamic movements from India, the birth
of a new political order, the surfacing of new centers of power, changes in the
economy, and ultimately, for our present purpose, the appearance of our texts.
 Introduction 9

The eighteenth century€– a period of immense transformation in the region;

indeed a period that planted the seeds for future developments in Central
Asia€ – is regrettably understudied. Perhaps because most of the important
historical works are still in manuscript form and often difficult to access, or
because of the period’s reputation as an age of decline, there is hardly any
work in English that discusses any aspect of the eighteenth century in depth.
By exploring the major causes for the transformation, this chapter seeks to
outline the crisis in the first half of the eighteenth century and to offer a per­
spective that may enable a better evaluation of the creation and the meaning of
Tīmūr’s legendary biographies, as well as the complicated legacy of the ruler
in Central Asian history.

Tīmūr’s Legacy in Central Asia8

The veneration of Tīmūr, Uzbekistan’s national hero whose statues have
replaced those of Soviet political and cultural champions in the squares of the
young republic’s towns, immediately attracted the attention of many visitors,
scholars, and commentators. Observers were quick to recognize the signifi­
cance of the impressive new monuments9 and promptly evaluated them within
the framework of new (or rather, old) insights into questions of national iden­
tity and related issues. In short, all the rhetoric of theory now found a new
target, and the so-called cult of Tīmūr rapidly and perhaps paradoxically mul­
tiplied its audience.10 As part of the fashionable inquiries, there were also those
who rebuked the choice of Tīmūr for a national hero€– why should the Uzbeks
choose such a “ruthless” conqueror, indeed “one of history’s worst mass
Â�murderers” as their symbol?11 At the same time, even the skeptics acknowl­
edged with a sympathetic nod that this was simply another characteristic of
nation building. The only continuity with Central Asia’s past that most analysts
8
A preliminary version of this segment was published as Ron Sela, “A Different Reassessment of
Tīmūr’s Legacy in Central Asia,” in Emir Tīmūr ve Mirasi, eds. Abdulvahap Kara and Ömer İşbilir
(Istanbul, 2007), 23–31.
9
Not to mention the roads, parks, and subway station named after him, as well as museums, funds
and medals, portraits, films, novels, plays, the publication in Uzbek translation of several Timurid
historical chronicles, and the colossal celebration of the 660th anniversary of Tīmūr’s birth.
10
Among the host of publications, see, for example, Ken Petersen, “Celebrating Amir Tīmūr,” CAM 5
(1996), 14–15; Shahram Akbarzadeh, “Nation-Building in Uzbekistan,” CAS 15/1 (1996), 23–32; S.
Pollock, “Historiography, Ethnogenesis and Scholarly Origins of Uzbekistan’s National Hero:€The
Case of Tīmūr,” in Materials of the International Scientific Conference “Amir Temur and His
Place in World History”:€23–26 October, 1996 Tashkent, 44–47; M. V. Shterenshis, “Approach to
Tamerlane:€Tradition and Innovation. Ending 600 Years of Historiography of Tīmūr,” Central Asia
and the Caucasus 2 (2000), 193–200. A more informed approach was taken by Stephen Hegarty,
“The Rehabilitation of Temur:€ Reconstructing National History in Contemporary Uzbekistan”
CAM 1 (1995), 28–35. For the Uzbek “defense,” see Muhammad Ali, “A Few Words about Amir
Tīmūr,” CAM 3 (1996), 36–38.
11
See, for example, Critchlow, “Uzbekistan’s Prospects,” CAM 4 (1998), 1; Lutz Kleveman, The New
Great Game:€Blood and Oil in Central Asia (New York:€Grove Press, 2004), 169.
10 Introduction

discovered was a succession and justification of the authoritarian state,

�demonstrated, in this case, within the context of post-Soviet power �worship.
Islam Karimov, it was claimed, Uzbekistan’s president since 1990, was
merely trying to be perceived as a contemporary mirror image (perhaps some­
what less affecting) of Tīmūr, assuring Uzbekistan’s populace that Tīmūr’s
�professed legacy of governance was the right path to follow.
Students of Central Asian history, or anyone else with an interest in the
region, learn about Tīmūr by and large in the context of the fourteenth and fif­
teenth centuries or that of the late twentieth century. We learn about Tīmūr’s
rise to power, his successful campaigns and triumphs throughout the Middle
East, in northern India, and over the Ottoman Empire, and about his meetings
with some of the most distinguished public figures of his time. Ibn Khaldūn,
the noted historian and philosopher, even referred to Tīmūr after meeting him
outside Damascus as “one of the greatest and mightiest of kings … favoured
by Allah.”12 Many seem to be under the impression that after his death in 1405
and the demise of his house approximately a century later, Tīmūr€– the man
and the symbol€– virtually disappeared from Central Asia and for nearly five
hundred years found his prominence elsewhere:€in Mughal India, Safavid Iran,
the Ottoman Empire, and even in Europe.13 True, many artists, artisans, and
intellectuals, especially from the province of Khorasan, who had flourished
under Timurid rule, still enjoyed a certain degree of patronage in the courts of
Bukhara, Samarqand, Tashkent, and Balkh. In addition, several Timurid tradi­
tions, most notably in systems of administration and taxation, were still main­
tained and developed under the Timurids’ successors.14 However, Tīmūr’s
commanding legacy that had enjoyed such a forceful presence in Central Asia
in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries practically faded away. The Uzbeks,
led by the Abu’l-Khayrids, descendants of Chinggis Khan, generally empha­
sized the break with the Timurids€– their great rivals, at least in the begin­
ning€– and naturally downplayed the image of the fierce conqueror and, for
some, the usurper of the throne. Since most, although not all, court propa­
ganda under Uzbek and Chinggisid rule would have us believe that Tīmūr was
no longer of any real consequence, historians simply assumed that they had to
look for his legacy elsewhere.
Having lost the battle for Mawarannahr to the Uzbeks, Zahīr al-Dīn
Muhammad Bābur (1483–1530), himself a descendant of Tīmūr (and Chinggis
Khan), was forced to flee to Hindustan (India) where he would be celebrated

12
Walter J. Fischel, Ibn Khaldun and Tamerlane:€their historic meeting in Damascus, 1401 A.D. (803
A.H.:€a study based on Arabic manuscripts of Ibn Khaldun’s “Autobiography”:€with a translation
into English, and a commentary (Berkeley:€University of California Press, 1952).
13
See, for example, Stephen Frederic Dale, “The Legacy of the Timurids,” JRAS Series 3, 8:I (1998),
43–58. Beatrice Manz also passes over most Tīmūr-related developments in sixteenth-nineteenth
century Central Asia in her otherwise very valuable survey of Tīmūr’s legacy. See Beatrice Forbes
Manz, “Tamerlane’s Career and Its Uses,” JWH 13/1 (Spring 2002), 1–25.
14
M. E. Subtelny, “Art and Politics in Early 16th Century Central Asia,” CAJ 27 (1983), 121–48.
 Introduction 11

subsequently as the founder of the Mughal Empire. Bābur’s descendants in

Hindustan began to appropriate the legacy of Tīmūr, their great progenitor, by
styling themselves “Gurganiya,” following Tīmūr’s self appellation of gūrgān
(or gürägän€– the royal son-in-law), a powerful position in Mongol hierarchy.
They acknowledged Tīmūr as their primordial father on their seals, in their
historiography, and even by assuming one of his many titles, Sāhib-qirān.15
Several Mughal emperors tried to reclaim Central Asian possessions (like the
city of Balkh), and Jahāngīr (r. 1605–1627) and Awrangzīb (r. 1658–1707)
even contributed to the upkeep of Tīmūr’s tomb in Samarqand.16 The Mughals
also adopted several traditions of statecraft from the Timurids, continued to
maintain€– similar to some of their ancestors€– close ties with shaykhs of the
Naqshbandi Sufi tarīqa, and of course imitated and built on Timurid artistic
and architectural traditions, emulating Timurid flair for grandeur and building
styles.17 The Mughals were also inspired by Timurid historiographical tradi­
tions, particularly during the reigns of Akbar (r. 1556–1605) and Shāh Jahān
(r. 1628–1658). Of special significance was the famed “discovery” of Tīmūr’s
“autobiography” as well as his “advice” on proper governance. These compo­
sitions, supposedly authored by Tīmūr himself for his grandson in Chaghatay
Turkic, were allegedly preserved in the library of the governor of Yemen,
where they had been acquired, translated into Persian, and eventually pre­
sented to Shāh Jahān in the 1630s.18
Further to the west, the Safavids, rulers of Iran from 1501 to 1722, effec­
tively espoused similar aspects of Timurid legacy. Safavid architecture, paint­
ing, and metalwork were greatly influenced by Timurid art and architecture;
Safavid chronicles idealized the court of Husayn Bayqara (d. 1506), the
renowned sovereign of Khorasan, and Iranian court historiography was largely
modeled on the great Timurid historical records, above all Sharaf al-Dīn ‘Alī
Yazdī’s Zafar-nāma, the account most often cited by post-Timurid historians,
and Mīrkhwānd’s Raużāt al-safā.19 Safavid historiography celebrated Tīmūr
15
Sāhib-qirān, or “Lord of the Auspicious Conjunction,” was a title bestowed upon those lucky few
who, according to tradition, were born during the fortunate conjunction between Jupiter and Venus.
For most post-Timurid rulers in the Turco-Iranian world (and Hindustan) who had used the title for
themselves€– among them Shāh ‘Abbās, Shāh Jahān, Nādir Shāh, and many more€– sāhib-qirān
invoked a direct association with Tīmūr himself. The term was also applied, sporadically, to other
heroic figures such as Alexander the Great and Chinggis Khan. As we will see later, Tīmūr’s leg­
endary biographies offer a surprising explanation for the term and its origins.
16
See, for example, R.C. Verma, “Mughal Imperialism in Transoxiana,” Islamic Culture XXII (1948),
250–64; “The Great Mughals and Transoxiana,” Islamic Quarterly II (1955), 47–60; R. Foltz, “The
Mughal Occupation of Balkh, 1646–1647,” Journal of Islamic Studies 7:1 (1996), 49–61.
17
See Dale, “Legacy,” esp. 44–51; Irfan Habib, “Tīmūr in the Political Tradition and Historiography
of Mughal India,” CAC 3–4 (1997), 297–312.
18
Habib, “Tīmūr,” 303–09. See also Anke von Kügelgen’s recent observations on Timurid autobi­
ographies in her “Zur Authentizität des ‘Ich’ in Timuridischen Herrscherautobiographien,” AS/EA
60/2 (2006), 383–436.
19
See Sholeh Quinn, “The Timurid Historiographical Legacy:€A Comparative Study of Persianate
Historical Writing,” in Society and Culture in the Modern Middle East:€ Studies on Iran in the
12 Introduction

as the successor of Alexander the Great and Chinggis Khan and therefore also
as a model for the rulers of Iran, from Shāh Ismā‘īl (d. 1524) to Shāh ‘Abbās
(d. 1629), and even for the post-Safavid Turkmen ruler Nādir Shāh Afshār (d.
1747).20 Tīmūr’s own prized possessions, both real and fabricated, were sought
and valued by world leaders. In one case, Shāh Safī (r. 1629–1642) received
Tīmūr’s sword as a present. In addition to the reverence shown for his alleged
memoirs in India or for his sword in Iran, the cloak of the Prophet Muhammad,
allegedly in Tīmūr’s treasury, also became an object of desire. According to an
Afghan historian, Tīmūr brought the cloak of the Prophet to Samarqand from
his campaigns in “‘Irāq-i ‘Arab.” He built a structure called Khoja Khiżr to
house it, appointed sayyids to supervise the shrine, and established an endow­
ment (waqf) to pay the shrine keepers. The cloak was then moved to Bukhara
and later to Juzun (also known as Faydabad). Finally, Ahmad Shāh recovered
the revered cloak and arranged to bring it to Qandahar.21
Even in the Ottoman Empire, once the scene of bitter rivalry with Tīmūr,
the historian Mustafā ‘Alī (d. 1600) called for an objective reevaluation of
Tīmūr’s career and used Tīmūr to criticize those Ottoman rulers who had
strayed from what he considered the proper path. Tīmūr was described by ‘Alī
as a universal Muslim monarch, thereby enjoying a considerable advantage
over the Ottoman sultans, portrayed as players in a limited regional setting.
Tīmūr was also perceived as a capable integrator of Islamic law with dynastic
laws modeled on an idealized “code of the steppe” (yasa).22 In the Empire, “the
scholars, and the literary language of the Timurid domains played as essen­
tial role in the development of Ottoman culture.”23 More or less at the same
time, or even a little earlier in the sixteenth century, Tīmūr emerged as a cele­
brated figure also in Europe (and later in America), commanding considerable
romantic appeal.24 The focus of many plays, operas, and novels, Tīmūr has

Safavid Period, ed. Andrew J. Newman (Leiden, Boston:€E.J. Brill, 2003), 19–32; Maria Szuppe,
“L’évolution de l’image de Timour et des Timourides dans l’historiographie safavide du XVIe au
XVIIIe siècle,” CAC 3–4 (1997), 313–31; John E. Woods, “The Rise of Timurid Historiography,”
Journal of Near Eastern Studies 46 (1987), 81–106.
20
Sholeh A. Quinn, “Notes on Timurid Legitimacy in Three Safavid Chronicles,” Iranian Studies
31/2 (Spring 1998), 149–58.
21
Robert D. McChesney, Waqf in Central Asia:€ Four Hundred Years in the History of a Muslim
Shrine, 1480–1889 (Princeton, NJ:€Princeton University Press, 1991), 225–26.
22
The yasa was probably an evolving and adaptable set of commands issued by Chinggis Khan, and
by other leaders after him, that formed an important part of the Mongol code of conduct, particu­
larly in matters pertaining to court protocol, hunting, migration, and taboos. Tīmūr’s interpretation
and upholding of the yasa was known as the Timurid törä. On the relationship between the yasa
and the törä, see Maria Subtelny, Timurids in Transition:€Turko-Persian Politics and Acculturation
in Medieval Iran (Leiden, Boston:€E.J. Brill, 2007), 15–29.
23
Cornell Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire:€The Historian Mustafa Ali
(1541–1600) (Princeton, NJ:€Princeton University Press, 1986), 276.
24
Vincent Fourniau, “Quelques aspects du thème timouride dans la culture française du XVIè au
XIXè siècle,” Oriente Moderno 2 (1996), 283–304; Marcel Brion (ed.), Tamerlan (Paris, 1963),
372–74.
 Introduction 13

been starring in literary and musical compositions by the likes of Christopher

Marlowe, Georg Friedrich Händel, Goethe, Edgar Allen Poe, Mario Vargas
Llosa, and others. This fascination with Tīmūr also served to inform the many
modern biographies written about him, particularly in Europe.25
What all these historical phenomena have in common is their existence
outside of Tīmūr’s direct sphere of influence, his native Central Asian lands.
After all, Tīmūr was born near Shahr-i Sabz, spent his youth in the environs of
Bukhara, made Samarqand the capital of his vast empire, and survived in pop­
ular imagination as the native hero of contemporary Uzbekistan. Moreover,
the physical landscape of the region is studded with the monumental con­
struction projects that he and his descendants had sponsored, monuments that
continued to tower above both kings and ordinary folk in Central Asia for
centuries to come. What, then, happened to Tīmūr’s legacy in his native lands
in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries? How did many of his
real and imagined beneficiaries in Central Asia cope with or respond to his
bestowed heritage?
Attempts to study Tīmūr’s legacy in Central Asia have not been very fruit­
ful due to scholars’ general unfamiliarity with the Central Asian sources of the
post-Timurid era. Consequently, we do not learn about Tīmūr in a Central Asian
context from the sixteenth until the twentieth century. Only then€– according
to modern scholarship€– and more particularly in the 1910s and 1920s, was
Tīmūr’s fame rekindled as various cultural groups were named after him, and
poets and playwrights wrote dramas appealing to Tīmūr’s spirit to “restore
Turkistan’s greatness.”26 Especially vocal was ‘Abdorauf Fitrat (1886–1938),
a prominent reformist, political activist, and author, whose 1918 historical
drama, Tīmūrning saghanasi (Tīmūr’s mausoleum), served as a uniting call for
(a limited number of) Central Asian nationalists.27 Efforts to invoke or reject
the hero (or villain, depending on one’s directed moods and political agendas)
continued during the Soviet era and moved along the continuum of appreciat­
ing Tīmūr’s military prowess and cultural patronage to rejecting his reputation
as a despicable barbaric chieftain. During and after World War II, interest in
Tīmūr grew, perhaps also with the famed (and filmed) unearthing of his tomb
by Mikhail Gerasimov in order to recreate the conqueror’s portrait based on
his exhumed skull. Publications by A. Iu. Iakubovskii, for example, featured
the above-mentioned dichotomies (cruel tyrant versus able strategist) in the

25
The biographies typically centered on the conqueror’s life in his day and did not include such
accounts as the present study handles. Among the many biographies, see, for example, Jean-Paul
Roux, Tamerlan (Paris, 1991). The legendary biographies have also been absent from anthologies
of sources dedicated to Tīmūr’s life and legacy, such as Rustan Rakhmanaliev’s Tamerlan:€epokha,
lichnost’, deianiia (Moscow, 1992).
26
See Edward Allworth, The Modern Uzbeks:€From the Fourteenth Century to the Present:€A Cultural
History (Stanford, 1990), 242–48. See also the more recent summary in Manz, “Tamerlane’s
Career,” 16–20.
27
Allworth, The Modern Uzbeks, 174.
14 Introduction

popular perception of Tīmūr.28 Ibragim Muminov’s 1968 publication about

the fourteenth-century ruler, which, among other things, accepted Tīmūr’s
“autobiography” as genuine, aroused the suspicion of Soviet authorities.29 In
its fear of any increase in “local nationalism,” the Soviet government criti­
cized harshly attempts to turn Tīmūr into a great champion, and readers were
reminded that Tīmūr’s policies “condemned the region to backwardness.”30
Tīmūr could not simply be ignored, of course, and he continued to live in
most textbooks about the region’s history. It was clear, however, that any pro­
nounced reverence for the conqueror would be met with restrictions. With
the breakdown of the Soviet Union, as noted earlier, Tīmūr and Timurid leg­
acy resumed their role in shaping Uzbek national awareness (an awareness
that had begun prior to the collapse of the USSR) and in the construction of
Uzbekistan’s national mythology.31
Given Tīmūr’s relative absence from Central Asian historiography from the
sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries, it may come as a surprise that Tīmūr’s
supposed recent “revival” was neither a Soviet phenomenon nor a post-Soviet
curiosity, but rather a long-standing practice that has been evoked in the region
at every junction of political uncertainty, at least since the eighteenth century,
and that has been serving Central Asian communities for generations. Tīmūr’s
resurgence in the eighteenth century and his legacy during the centuries of
proposed silence will occupy the rest of our introductory remarks.
When the armies of Muhammad Shïbānī Khan (1451–1510) swept across
Mawarannahr early in the sixteenth century, they defeated the ailing Timurid
states, vanquished their allies, and absorbed their memory. For two hundred
years, the Shïbanids and their successors, the Ashtarkhanids,32 cultivated a
historiography that naturally aimed at securing their own place on the world
stage and downplaying the significance of their predecessors. The newcomers
were celebrating the restoration of the Chinggisid ideal, namely the principle

28
On Iakubovskii and his alleged agendas, see Allworth, The Modern Uzbeks, 241–45, and Yuri
Bregel’s response in his Notes on the Study of Central Asia (Bloomington, IN:€RIFIAS 1996, PIA
28), 47–48.
29
Ibragim Muminov, Rol’ i mesto amira Tīmūra v istorii Sredneĭ Azii (Tashkent, 1968); Manz,
“Tamerlane’s Career,” 19.
30
Eli Weinerman, “The Polemics between Moscow and Central Asians on the Decline of Central Asia
and Tsarist Russia’s Role in the History of the Region,” The Slavonic and European Review 71/3
(July 1993), 471.
31
Maria E. Subtelny, “The Timurid Legacy:€A Reaffirmation and a Reassessment,” CAC 3–4 (1997),
14–17. Timurid legacy was much more highly regarded than the Shïbanid one, partly because of
evident Timurid “presence” in the form of existing artifacts and impressive architecture, but also,
to a certain extent, due to the Shïbanids’ late arrival into the region and the Soviets’ wish to confer
on the Uzbeks more “glorious” ancestors. Subtelny suggests that the nomadic character associated
with the Shïbanids made them unpopular and somewhat inferior to the sedentary population in
Soviet eyes.
32
The Ashtarkhanid dynasty ruled the khanate of Bukhara from 1598 to 1756 (or 1785), and was also
known as the Janid or the Tuqay-Timurid dynasty.
 Introduction 15

that has been prevalent in the region’s politics since the 1220s whereby only
Chinggis Khan’s male descendants had the legitimate claim to the throne.
The question of political legitimation had been central and troubling to many,
not only in the sixteenth century but also to Tīmūr himself as well as his sons
and grandsons.33 To recap a substantial amount of scholarship on the topic,
although Tīmūr was not a descendant of Chinggis Khan, he did not cast off
the Chinggisid ideal so easily and found ways to bind himself to his celebrated
predecessor. First he married Sarāy Mulk, a Chinggisid princess who also
plays a magnificent supporting role in the legendary biographies, and began
to style himself gurgān (royal son-in-law).34 He then appointed Chinggisids to
serve as puppet khans with little ceremonial authority, in keeping with estab­
lished practice. Timurid historiography also promoted the story of Tīmūr and
Chinggis Khan’s presumed shared ancestry, wherein Tīmūr was a descendant
of Qachulai, brother of Qabūl Khan€ – Chinggis Khan’s great-grandfather.35
And yet, Tīmūr was careful not to assimilate other Chinggisid properties such
as taking up the title “khan” or performing the ceremony of having himself
elevated to kingship on a white piece of felt.36 In describing Tīmūr’s inaugu­
ration in 1369–1370, one of his biographers, Sharaf al-Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī, made
no reference to Chinggis Khan as a source of inspiration for the ceremony or
as a source of legitimation for Tīmūr’s kingship. Accordingly, Yazdī made no
mention of the performance of the elevation ritual (which, it is plausible to
assume, did not take place).37
Naturally, for the Uzbeks and their Chinggisid leaders, Tīmūr’s repu­
tation was not easy to ignore. Some of them even welcomed, with certain
limitations, the opportunity to associate themselves with the famed ruler.
In 1525, for example, ‘Abdallāh Nasrallāhī, charged with the authorship of
the chronicle Zubdat al-āthār38 for Sultan Muhammad b. Söyünch Khoja

33
And to the compilers of his legendary biographies, as will become evident later.
34
Years later, in 1397, Tīmūr would marry another Chinggisid princess, a daughter of the Moghul
Khan Khiżr Khoja.
35
On Tīmūr’s legitimation process, see, for example, M. Haider, “The Sovereign in the Timurid
State (XIV-XVth Centuries),” Turcica 8/2 (1976), 61–82; Beatrice F. Manz, “Tamerlane and the
Symbolism of Sovereignty,” Iranian Studies 21/1–2 (1988), 105–22 (110–11); John E. Woods,
“Tīmūr’s Genealogy,” in Intellectual Studies on Islam:€ Essays Written in Honor of Martin B.
Dickson, eds. Michel M. Mazzaoui and Vera B. Moreen (Salt Lake City, University of Utah Press
1990), 85–125; John E. Woods, The Timurid Dynasty (Bloomington, IN:€RIFIAS 1990, PIA 14).
Tīmūr’s genealogy, proclaiming the shared ancestry with Chinggis Khan, was also engraved on his
tombstone and in the foundation inscription of Samarqand’s great mosque.
36
The elevation on the felt rug, held at its corners by the four most important dignitaries in the realm,
had been the culmination of the inauguration of Inner Asian rulers for nearly two millennia. On the
history of the ritual and the many diversions from its prescribed practice, see my Ritual and Authority
in Central Asia:€The Khan’s Inauguration Ceremony (Bloomington, IN:€RIFIAS 2003, PIA 37).
37
Sharaf al-Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī, Zafarnāma, ed. Muhammad Abbāsī (Tehran, 1957), vol. I, 155–60.
38
For more on the author and his work, see Devin DeWeese, “A note on manuscripts of the Zubdat
al-āthār, a Chaghatay Turkic History from sixteenth-century Mawarannahr,” Manuscripts of the
Middle East 6 (1994), 96–100.
16 Introduction

Khan, his patron and ruler of Tashkent,39 proudly portrayed his master’s
inspiring pedigree:€ a paternal descent from the great Mongol conqueror,
and a maternal lineage stretching back to the hero of this book. The skillful
author also invoked the coveted title sāhib-qirān (“Lord of the Auspicious
Conjunction”) to help make his point as unambiguous as possible. “May it
be clear to the people of the world,” wrote Nasrallāhī, “that the sultans of
the Turks are [descended] from two sāhib-qirāns:€One of them is Chinggis
Khan and the other€– Tīmūr Bek. And since the origins of His Majesty the
Sultan of Sultans40 reach back to those two, it is necessary to write about
his ancestors.” The author then traced the roots of his patron on his father’s
side back to Chinggis Khan through the Mongol rulers of the Qïpchaq
steppe, and outlined his master’s illustrious lineage on his mother’s side
back to Tīmūr (Sultan Muhammad was the grandson of the “Queen of
Sheba-like” Rābi‘a Sultan Begïm, daughter of Ulugh Beg, Tīmūr’s grand­
son). Nasrallāhī concluded, appropriately, that it was hoped that since his
patron had been the heir to these two sāhib-qirāns, “God would apportion
their countries to him.”41
At first glance, one may consider the integration of the two illustrious lin­
eages in line with a tradition that had begun already a century earlier with
Tīmūr’s prolific biographer, Sharaf ‘Alī Yazdī, and the alleged covenant€ –
the shared ancestry of Tīmūr and Chinggis Khan€ – that he had invoked. A
more immediate candidate to boast such a glorious lineage was Bābur, the
Timurid prince, who, by the year ‘Abdallāh b. M. Nasrallāhī was completing
his work (1525), was well on his way to try and overpower northern India.42
At the same time, Nasrallāhī’s approbation of Tīmūr may have been part of
his education and training and not only a fulfillment of his patron’s request.
The author had worked as a scribe€– probably educated in the tradition estab­
lished, in part, by Yazdī€– in the service of the Timurid princes of Balkh before
he was forced to flee from the wrath of the Safavids, the new contenders for
control over Khorasan. He was part of a substantial movement of men-of-
letters who had found their livelihood in Timurid service and had fled north­
east from Khorasan in fear of the invading Shi’ite rulers and their Turkmen
armies. These refugees were to influence much of the intellectual and cul­
tural undertakings, from art, to history writing, to administrative practices, in

39
Sultan Muhammad was Muhammad Shïbānī Khan’s cousin.
40
A flattering reference to Nasrallāhī’s patron, Söyünch Khoja.
41
‘Abdallāh b. M. Nasrallāhī, Zubdat al-athar (Misr, 1934), 5–6. My translation from the Chaghatay
of a portion of this work has recently appeared in the anthology that I coedited with Scott C. Levi,
Islamic Central Asia:€ an Anthology of Historical Sources (Bloomington, Indianapolis:€ Indiana
University Press, 2009), 203–08. The question of Tīmūr’s identity as one of the “Sultans of the
Turks” will be addressed later.
42
However, Bābur was a descendant of Chinggis Khan on his mother’s side and of Tīmūr on his
father’s side.
 Introduction 17

Mawarannahr and beyond, although their activities as part of a social stratum

are yet to be studied.43
Featuring Tīmūr as an important pillar in their genealogical edifice did not
become common practice for the Chinggisids in this new era. Indeed, it seems
that sponsorship of literary production and other cultural accomplishments
concerning Tīmūr’s memory and championing him as a protagonist in his
own right were relatively limited. Even his monuments did not experience
any particular developments in this period.44 In other words, for two hundred
years, there were no literary works produced in Central Asia that were cen­
tered directly on Tīmūr’s character, and his legacy seems to have been put
aside. In the scholarly arena, the scene was left open for an analysis of Central
Asian political and cultural sources of inspiration in line with the supposed
tension and competition between the sharī’a and the yasa.
Although glimpses of Tīmūr may be found in Central Asian official dynas­
tic histories from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries, court propaganda
seemed to be more comfortable with displaying the break with the Timurids,
occasionally exhibiting some respect for Tīmūr, but not much more. Thus, for
example, when the Manghït ruler Muhammad Rahīm Khan (d. 1758) con­
quered Shahr-i Sabz, he made a special visit to the Aq Saray palace to pay
homage to Tīmūr. Different sites connected to the ruler, particularly in Shahr-i
Sabz and in Samarqand, continued to serve as pilgrimage destinations well
into the twentieth century.45
But beyond such brief allusions, probably the main official story that con­
cerned Tīmūr, albeit indirectly, was the development of the narrative cycle of
the Golden Cradle (Altun Beshik) by the Uzbek tribal dynasty of the Ming,
centered in Qoqand in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. According to
the story, before Bābur fled Ferghana to India, he had left behind a son hid­
den in a golden cradle. The boy, aptly named after the container in which he
had been deposited, was recovered by the Uzbek Mings and gradually came

43
In the intellectual sphere, such refugees included, among others, Mullā Shādī, Kamāl al-Dīn
Binā’ī, and perhaps the most well-known, Zayn al-Dīn Vāsifī (about Vāsifī, see, for example, A.
N. Boldyrev, Zainaddin Vasifi:€tadzhikskii pisatel’ XVI v.:€opyt tvorcheskoi biografii, Stalinabad,
1957). See also A. Schimmel, “Some Notes on the Cultural Activity of the First Uzbek Rulers,”
Journal of the Pakistan Historical Society 8 (1960), 149–66; M. E. Subtelny, “Art and Politics.”
44
See for example, Robert McChesney’s treatment of the Gur-i Amir, Tīmūr’s mausoleum, and
the relatively little attention it received from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries. (Robert D.
McChesney, “Tīmūr’s Tomb:€Politics and Commemoration.” A Lecture delivered at the Tenth Annual
Central Eurasian Studies Conference, Indiana University, Bloomington, April 12, 2003, and pub­
lished under the auspices of the Department of Central Eurasian Studies at Indiana University).
45
Sadr-i Ziyā related that upon his appointment to the position of qazi in Shahr-i Sabz in 1909, he
made his way to Samarqand to obtain a blessing by visiting the Shāh-i Zinda complex in the city.
While there, he offered the Fātiha (the first Sūra of the Quran) to “the Great Amīr, the Conqueror
of the World, Sāhib-Qirān Amīr Tēmūr-i Gurgān.” Sadr Ziya’, The Personal History of a Bukharan
Intellectual:€The Diary of Muhammad-Sharīf-i Sadr-i Ziyā, ed. Edward A. Allworth et al. (Leiden,
Boston:€E.J. Brill, 2004), 251.
18 Introduction

to be regarded as their great progenitor.46 Such a story helped, it is assumed,

legitimize Ming rule in Qoqand through the natural association of Bābur with
Tīmūr, and perhaps also with Chinggis Khan. Why the Ming rulers would
choose to cultivate such a story of origin is a subject for another discussion.
We may hypothesize that the Mings wished to find a heroic figure that would
provide a model for their own rule, posit an alternative to the seat of central
power in Bukhara, and perhaps also strengthen potential ties with India, build­
ing on mutual familial associations.
To these eighteenth-century, formal Tīmūr-related developments we may
add the attempts by historians of Khiva, under the tribal dynasty of the
Qonrgrats, to embrace and even emulate Timurid historiography and Timurid
modes of legitimation.47 More recently, scholars also began to explore the
high interest in Timurid culture in Khiva beyond the realm of historiography,
and also the tendencies, evident in both Khiva and Qoqand, to imitate the lit­
erary and poetic styles of the Timurids.48
Interestingly, the less official sources (popular literature, hagiographies,
and travel accounts) paint a different picture. One of the most extraordinary
stories that appeared in the notes of every foreign traveler to the region in the
nineteenth century described a large marble stone known as the Kök Tash
in Samarqand’s citadel. Every Central Asian ruler presumably obtained his
legitimate rank on the occasion of his accession to power by sitting on that
particular stone. Most visitors associated this coronation stone with Tīmūr’s
old, fourteenth-century throne, and according to some reports, the stone was
imbued with supernatural attributes and “would not allow a false khan to
approach it.”49 In fact, Central Asian rulers after the middle of the sixteenth
century were always enthroned in the capital, Bukhara, and not in Samarqand,
although we do have reports from the eighteenth and nineteenth century of
khans opting to perform the ceremony in Samarqand in addition to Bukhara
in order to appease different constituencies. The appearance of the Kök Tash
accounts demonstrates, among other things, how the eighteenth century pro­
vided an opportunity for some in Central Asia to contest the traditional power

46
T. K. Beĭsembiev, “Ta’rikh-i Shakhrukhi” kak istoricheskiĭ istochnik (Alma-Ata, 1987), 83–84; T.
K. Beisembiev, “Legenda o proiskhozhdenii kokandskikh khanov kak istochnik po istorii ideologii
v Srednei Azii (na materialakh sochinenii kokandskoi istoiografii,” Kazakhstan, Sredniaia i
Tsentral’naia Aziia v XVI-XVIII vv. (Alma-Ata, 1983), 94–105.
47
See Yuri Bregel, “Tribal Tradition and Dynastic History:€The Early Rulers of the Qongrats According
to Munis,” Asian and African Studies 16/3 (1982), 392–97.
48
Aftandil Erkinov, “Timurid Mannerism in the Literary Context of Khiva under Muhammad
Rakhim-Khan II (Based on the Anthology Majmu’a-yi Shu’ara-yi Firuz-Shahi),” Bulletin of the
International Institute for Central Asian Studies 8 (2008), 58–65; and by the same author, “Les
timourides, modeles de legitime et les recueils poetiques de Kokand,” in Ecrit et culture en Asie
centrale et dans le monde turko-iranien x-xix siecles, eds. Francis Richard and Maria Szuppe (Paris,
2008), 285–330.
49
Eugene Schuyler, Turkistan; notes of a journey in Russian Turkistan, Khokand, Bukhara, and
Kuldja (Oxford, 1876), 255.
 Introduction 19

structures in local and regional politics. The Kök Tash innovation was actu­
ally a remarkable attempt by tribal rebels to turn Samarqand into a center of
authority through the association of the city and one of its major symbols,
Central Asia’s “Coronation Stone,” with Tīmūr, the most powerful tribal, non-
Chinggisid military commander in the region’s history.50
Naturally, Tīmūr was an obvious candidate for many more stories and
oral traditions, and travelers in the nineteenth century continuously empha­
sized hearing tales about the famous conqueror. Joseph Wolff, for example,
reported the arrival at his campsite of people from Samarqand, who “con­
versed about Tamerlane, as though he were dead yesterday.” Wolff mentioned
a well-known anecdote in the region whereby people “preferred in general
Tamerlane to Ghengis Khan, for they say of Ghengis Khan that he knew how
to conquer a world€– that he was a Jehaan-Geer, a world-taker; but Tamerlane
was not only a Jehaan-Geer, but also a Jehaan-Dar, a world-holder.”51 Wolff
also reiterated stories communicated to him and to his party during an evening
gathering€– the members of the caravan were seated in a circle on the ground
by the fire€ – by a “derveesh from Samarcand” about “the deeds of Tīmūr,
also called Tamerlane; how he build at Sabz-Awar a tower of skulls of men;
of his defeating Bayazid; of his entrance into Samarcand; of the festivities of
triumph which he gave at Samarcand; of his death at Atrar when just on the
point to march against China.”52
Different stories and oral traditions about Tīmūr had been circulating in and
outside Central Asia for centuries, under one guise or another and among dif­
ferent constituencies. The most famous cycle was probably Tīmūr’s alleged
autobiographical account that had emerged first in India and within a couple
of centuries spread also to other areas of the Muslim world. Somewhat simi­
lar accounts were known in other parts of the greater region of Central Asia,
especially in the Tatar lands of the Russian empire, where legendary materials
about Aksak Tīmūr (Tīmūr the Lame) often were grouped together with tales
of Chinggis Khan.53 Several Tīmūr-related stories may have been influenced

50
Ron Sela, “The ‘Heavenly Stone’ (Kök Tash) of Samarqand:€A Rebels’ Narrative Transformed,”
JRAS 17/1 (2007), 21–32.
51
Joseph Wolff, Narrative of a Mission to Bokhara, in the Years 1843–1845, vol. 2, 104. Twenty-five
years later, in his description of Samarqand, Vámbéry repeated Wolff almost to the letter (without
acknowledgment):€“Timour is spoken of in Samarcand as if the news of his death had only just
arrived from Otrar.” See Arminius Vámbéry, Travels in Central Asia (1864), 245. (Grigoriev’s
devastating critique of Vámbéry’s work€ – first published in Izvestiia Imperatorskogo Russkogo
geograficheskogo obshchestva, vol. 4, 1869, 305–08, and later appended, in English translation, to
Schuyler’s Turkistan€– demonstrated that Vámbéry probably never visited Samarqand.)
52
Wolff, Narrative, vol. 2, 153–54.
53
Such as the late seventeenth-century Daftar-i Chingīz Nāma. See V.A. Panov, Avtogbiografiia
Tīmūra:€bogatyrskie skazaniya o Chingis-Khane i Aksak-Temire (Moscow, 1934), 219–40; M. A.
Usmanov, Tatarskie istoricheskie istochniki XVII-XVIII vv (Kazan, 1972), 111–14; Mária Ivanics
and Mirkasym Abdulakhatovich Usmanov, Das Buch der Dschingis-Legende = Däftär-i Cingiz-
namä (Szeged, 2002).
20 Introduction

by Central Asian traditions that had been in circulation since the sixteenth
century.54
However, in Central Asia proper, no full-scale, written narrative cycle about
Tīmūr emerged until the eighteenth century. In the second half of the nine­
teenth century, as Russian colonialism was making its presence felt forcefully
across the region and European travel to the area grew substantially, more and
more tales and legends about the fourteenth-century conqueror surfaced. But
beyond the stories and rumors that made their way into the diaries and reports
of the foreign travelers, a much more dramatic development in Tīmūr’s legacy
was the noticeable surge in literary production surrounding his figure in the
early eighteenth century, and the growth in Tīmūr’s “heroic apocrypha,” the
focus of this volume. It is safe to estimate that this narrative cycle, consist­
ing of long, mostly imaginary biographies of Tīmūr, chronologically ordered
from his birth to his death, became one of the high points of popular literature
in Central Asia from the eighteenth to the twentieth century. The unfortunate
dismissal of these stories as simple legends prevented scholars from realizing
that through these works of literature, Tīmūr became a compelling symbol
for many Central Asians, especially in the region of Mawarannahr. The biog­
raphies were neither a fraction of a larger, general history, nor a section of a
history dedicated to the Timurids, as had been thought initially. They were
devoted solely to the retelling of Tīmūr’s life and deeds. Some of the content
of these works, as the compilers themselves acknowledged, relied on previous
written histories, although most of the stories that appeared in these manu­
scripts were novel contributions that possibly originated in oral traditions.
Among them were anecdotes concerning Tīmūr’s associations with holy men,
such as Bahā’ al-Dīn Naqshband, Sayyid Ata, Shaykh Sayf al-Dīn Bākharzī,
and many others, or with prominent figures from days long gone, such as
Alexander the Great or the eleventh-century philosopher and poet Nāsir-i
Khusraw. More importantly, Tīmūr’s legendary biographies essentially pro­
vided a set of guiding principles for the Islamic community of Central Asia at
a time of crisis. Authored in an age when the world around its audience had
already contracted (but at the same time became more uncertain), these leg­
endary biographies instructed the audience on matters of legitimate authority,
on the ideal type of relationships between religion and state, and also on the
understanding of the individual’s place in a Central Asian Muslim Â�society.
Tīmūr’s “Heroic apocrypha” endured as one of the most popular literary
�creations in Central Asia in the last three centuries. The recent emergence of
the fourteenth-century ruler as a triumphant native hero of the Republic of

54
Allen J. Frank, Islamic historiography and “Bulghar” identity among the Tatars and Bashkirs of
Russia (Leiden, 1998), 15–16. The connection between the Central Asian stories and their rendering
in the Tatar context is worthy of further exploration. In his excellent study, Frank also demonstates
the differences in Tīmūr’s representations in the Daftar-i Chingīz Nāma and in the later Tawārikh-i
Bulghāriyya, as well as the commentaries on Tīmūr by later Tatar and Bulghar intellectuals.
 Introduction 21

Uzbekistan, a potential restorer of prestige, and a rallying symbol was not a

random occurrence. Central Asia’s claim of Tīmūr as its native champion, a
claim that has been largely explored only in its post-Soviet context, began
three hundred years earlier, in the early days of the eighteenth century, and
has continued ever since.
C hapter 1

The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s

Heroic Apocrypha

Tīmūr’s legendary biographies survive in dozens of manuscripts in archives

across Central Asia, in Russia, and in Europe. Their sheer number (and size),
and the fact that the “mother” text that gave birth to all the other copies and
renditions of the work has yet to be discovered, make the portrayal of a rep-
resentative manuscript an unusually challenging task. However, given the
nature of this study, an attempt to sketch a partial depiction of what seems to
be a typical manuscript, based primarily on what the manuscripts themselves
tell us, may serve as a stepping stone for future explorations. We therefore
open with the author’s foreword in which he explains his work and his percep-
tion of Tīmūr’s legacy, and then proceed with discussions of the manuscript
tradition, addressing questions of popularity and genre, and reviewing the rel-
evant scholarship.1

The Prologues:€Tīmūr’s Biographies Introduce Themselves

In most manuscripts, the introduction opens with the indispensable invoca-
tion of the basmallah (“In the name of Allah, most gracious, most merciful”)
and the doxology that follows, praising God, His creation, and His messenger
the Prophet Muhammad. The introductory remarks list the celebrated Muslim
prophets, including Ādam, Ibrāhīm, Sulaymān, Nūh, Mūsā, and ‘Īsā,2 ending,
naturally, with the “seal of the prophets” Muhammad and offering praises to
his companions as well. Each mention of a prophet is followed by a eulogiz-
ing verse. The reader is then introduced to the four “rightly-guided” caliphs
who had governed the early Muslim polity (from 634 to 661)€– each is fol-
lowed by a verse of tribute€– beginning with Abū Bakr al-Siddīq, ‘Umar b.
al-Khattāb, and ‘Uthmān b. ‘Affān and concluding with ‘Alī b. Abī Tālib.
‘Alī, Muhammad’s cousin (amm-zāda), is welcomed by the longest verse.

1
For the present, I refer to the biographies’ creator as “the author,” even if his identity (or whether we
should refer to an author or to several authors) and his precise task (authorship, editorship, compila-
tion) remain uncertain.
2
Adam, Abraham, Solomon, Noah, Moses, and Jesus.

22
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 23

The introduction’s aim was not to simply follow a chronological order of

a Muslim perception of the history of the world. Rather, its goal was to stress
the significance of these two groups of men whose tasks had been to guarantee
the integrity of the Muslim community, the observation of the shar‘ia, and the
execution of power by a just leadership:€on the one hand, the prophets (anbiyā’)
and messengers (rusul), and on the other hand, the kings (pādshāhān) and
sultans (salātin). This theme, emphasizing a duality of power, is not limited
to the introduction but is manifest throughout the biography. Although reflec-
tions over the complementary and competing relationship between the “spiri-
tual” and the “temporal” had existed in Islam since more or less its inception,3
here it may be seen also as a recommendation€– that remains too abstract at
this point in the manuscript€– for proper governance in an era (the eighteenth
century) that seems to have strayed off the prescribed path.
The most prominent of the “sultans and khaqans” who, throughout the his-
tory of mankind, had been worthy of special mention are Iskandar Dhū’l-
Qarnayn4 and, of course, Tīmūr. In several manuscripts Iskandar is not
accorded more than a few lines. In others, however, a break of sorts appears
in the narrative and skips a more thorough description of Dhū’l-Qarnayn’s
qualities and possibly additional materials. Tīmūr, conversely, is introduced
with numerous titles and attributes, including sultān-ghāzī (sultan and warrior
for the faith), amīr (commander), pādshāh (king), sāhib-qirān (lord of the
auspicious conjuction), and even qutb al-dunyā wa’l-dīn (axis of the world
and religion). The author then stresses that the “blessed origins of both [Tīmūr
and Iskandar] reach back to Yāfith ibn Nūh,”5 conferring on the two leaders
a shared place in the Muslim view of the origins of Mankind and its restora-
tion after the Flood.6 The author continues to celebrate, in verse, Alexander’s

3
Among the many studies on such questions, I would mention the attempts to answer whether the early
caliphs had been the prime wielders also of religious authority (Patricia Crone and Martin Hinds,
God’s Caliph:€Religious Authority in the First Centuries of Islam, Cambridge; New York:€Cambridge
University Press, 1986); was Islamic society more prone toward multilayered and flucuating dem-
onstrations of leadership, as the Buyid case seems to suggest? (Roy Mottahedeh, Loyalty and
Leadership in an Early Islamic Society, London, New York:€I. B. Tauris, revised edition, 2001); and
what were the limits of individuals and institutions in interpreting and implementing the Qur’anic dic-
tum of “Commanding the right and forbidding the wrong”? (Michael Cook, Commanding Right and
Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought, Cambridge; New York:€Cambridge University Press, 2000).
4
Dhū’l-qarnayn, “the two-horned,” is commonly interpreted as Alexander the Great’s designation
in the Qur’an (18:83–98). On the identification of the name, see Richard Stoneman, “Alexander
the Great in the Arabic tradition,” in The Ancient Novel and Beyond, ed. Stelios Panayotakis, et al.
(Leiden:€E. J. Brill, 2003), 7–9. Alexander was invested with powers to traverse the earth and to
build a wall to protect mankind from Gog and Magog (Yājūj and Mājūj). We will return to this story
in Chapter 5.
5
Japheth, son of Noah.
6
Cf. with a story attributed to al-Kisā’ī, the medieval compiler of copious traditions about the Muslim
prophets, whereby Nūh uttered a prophecy predicting that Yāfith’s descendants would be kings
and heroes and the descendants of Sām (Shem) would be prophets. See also B. Heller-[A. Rippin],
“Yāfith,” in EI² (online).
24 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

and Tīmūr’s achievements in world conquest, stating that “the images of their
success have not remained undrawn on the tablet of destiny.” This part of
the introduction ends with the mourning over Tīmūr’s death “in the year 807
[A.H.], on the seventeenth of the month of Sha‘bān, during the evening prayer,
on Tuesday, on the border of Otrar.”7

The Sources
The author then discloses that he had relied on a number of written sources
in order to accomplish his work. Among the sources listed are several well-
known compositions and some lesser-known ones as well. In most manu-
scripts that I examined, the following authors and compositions appear, more
or less in the same order:
Hāfiz-i Abrū, author of Tārīkh-i Shāhrukhī, Qāżī Bayżāwī,8 Qāżī ‘Abd al-Wakīl author of
Tārīkh-i Farakh Shāhī, Amīr kabīr shaykh vazīr-i a‘zām Mīr ‘Alī Shīr,9 Maulānā Sharaf
al-Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī author of Zafar-nāma, Maulānā ‘Abd al-Razzāq Samarqandī author
of Tadhkirat Dawlat Shāhī,10 Maulānā Ashraf author of Jāmi‘ al-a‘zām, Khwāndshāh
author of Rawżat al-safā’,11 Khoja ‘Abdallāh Hātifī author of Tārīkh-i Tīmūrī, Khoja Hasan
Nishāpūrī author of Tadhkirat al-ahbāb, ‘Ali Irānī author of Tuhfat al-asāmī, ‘Abdallāh
Balkhī author of Tām al-tavārīkh and Mullā Tanish Muhammad Bukhārī, may the blessing
of Allah most high be upon them all.12

Most of the authors and texts listed here represent the rich historiographical
tradition of the Timurids. Hāfiz-i Abrū, Sharaf ‘Ali Yazdī, ‘Abd al-Razzāq
Samarqandī, Navā’ī, ‘Abdallāh Hātifī, and Mīrkhwānd are among the towers
of strength of Timurid history writing and literature.13 The names of several
authors and the titles of their compositions seem to divert from the accepted
form that modern historiography recognizes them by, and may have been

7
Kunūz al-a‘zam (Tārīkh-i Tīmūrī), MS. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin€ – Preussischer Kulturbesitz,
Orientabteilung MS Or. Quart. 1231, 12. This dating fits with the customary time of Tīmūr’s death
given in the official Timurid chronicles.
8
Presumably referring to the thirteenth-century commentator on the Qur’an (d. 1286 in Tabriz) and
author of the Nizām al-tavārīkh, a short general history completed in 1275 that covered also the
main dynasties in Central Asia and Iran. The author may have consulted this work for his treatment
of different accounts of the Ismā‘īlis and Nāsir-i Khusraw.
9
The reference is, of course, to Mīr ‘Alī Shīr Navā’ī, the late fifteenth-century statesman and author.
In several manuscripts, he is also mentioned as the author of the Majālis al-nafā’is, an indication
that this was the work that the author had consulted.
10
Possibly a confusion with the Tadhkirat Dawlatshāhī written by another Samarqandī (see Sobranie
vostochnykh rukopiseĭ Instituta vostokovedeniia AN UzSSR (Tashkent :€ Izd-vo Akademii nauk
UzSSR), vol. I, 334–35).
11
Referring to Muhammad b. Khwāndshāh b. Mahmūd, commonly known as Mīrkhwānd, author of
Rawżat al-ṣafā’.
12
Kunūz, 12–13.
13
See John E. Woods, “The Rise of Timurid Historiography,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies
46 (1987), 81–107.
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 25

conflated or simply confused. However, it seems that the author actually had
access to at least several of these historical chronicles, and that a number of
them were in fact used, if only to embellish and aggrandize the legendary
biographies. The register of mostly recognizable authors and texts attests to
a direct relationship between them and the Books of Tīmūr and functions as a
statement that conveys an air of historical authority. Even in chronicles that
followed standard patterns of Islamic historiography, certainly in Central Asia
between the sixteenth and the nineteenth centuries, it is not common to find
such an explicit account of sources in the opening pages. At this stage in our
inquiry, however, it is difficult to determine how much was borrowed from the
chronicles. At times, such borrowing is made clear by the author himself, who
does, occasionally, acknowledge other authors by name either as part of the
text or as part of his interjections and commentary. In some cases, this inter-
dependence is visible in a different manner. For example, I counted at least
twenty-six chapter headings in Tīmūr’s legendary biographies that are identi-
cal to chapter headings in Yazdī’s Zafar-nāma.14 Clearly, conferring an “offi-
cial” heading to the different sections of the manuscript may have furnished
greater credibility to the rest of the story, if not for the public then at least
for the people who had been aware of the Zafar-nāma and its significance. It
also affected the presentation of the manuscript by displaying the more florid
language used by Yazdī, at least in the chapter titles.
The concrete recognition of the official chronicles in the introduction is
important. It sets the work apart from other compositions and renders it more
trustworthy, at least from the perspective of particular audiences. Moreover,
by supplying a list of historical compositions, the author not only stated that
he had access to a substantial amount of information but also suggested that
he had shared in a position of power that allowed him to consult these manu-
scripts. Even if the author did not actually use all, or even most, of these
works, he still boasted the kind of knowledge of Central Asian historiography
that is bound to turn up with a certain level of erudition. We cannot discard the
possibility that the author obtained access to the court or to ateliers, libraries,
or treasuries of people of consequence. It is reasonable to assume that, if the
author did consult the more official chronicles, he probably did so in a royal
or relatively affluent setting. The types of literary sources that he cited were
not usually part of the library holdings of low-level administrators or judges
or the kind of literary assets owned by most Islamic institutions€– madrasas,
for example€– at the time.15 Nevertheless, even if the presumed structure of the
work and the manifest or implied claims of the author for historical authentic-
ity followed those of the court chronicles, the content remained very different
indeed.

14
The replication of chapter headings was not acknowledged by the author.
15
See the recent work by Stacy Liechti, Books, Book Endowments, and Communities of Knowledge in
the Bukharan Khanate, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, New York University, 2008.
26 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

Tīmūr’s Genealogy
Tīmūr’s genealogy, recorded already in the fifteenth century in court
�chronicles, charted in family trees, and engraved in inscriptions, has been a
topic for scholarly investigations for some time.16 In the introduction to the
legendary biographies, the description of Tīmūr’s lineage remains underde-
veloped. Having presented the list of sources, the author then runs quickly
through the genealogy, as follows:€“Amir Tīmūr ibn Taraghāi Bahādur ibn
Erkul Bahādur ibn Angīz Bahādur ibn Alhīl Noyān ibn Qārāchār Noyān.”17
The author ends with Qarāchār and does not recount further back€– at least
in the introduction€ – although the audience would encounter some of the
figures that purportedly dominated Tīmūr’s more ancient ancestry later in
the body of the text.
In their attempts to reconstruct the lineage, scholars’ interests in the parts
of the genealogy leading up to Tīmūr’s lifetime underlined three principal
themes. First and foremost was the effort made in the different genealogies
to establish Tīmūr’s common ancestry with Chinggis Khan. Contrary to
the sources that celebrated Tīmūr’s shared origins with the famed Mongol
ruler, the introductions to the legendary biographies usually do not extend
past Qarāchār Noyān. Tīmūr’s familial association with celestial origins,
embodied by the illustrious legendary ancestress of the Mongols, Alan-qo’a,
also attracted considerable attention. According to the Secret History of the
Mongols, Alan-qo’a was impregnated by some “resplendent radiance,”18 and
the inscription on Tīmūr’s tomb that featured Alan-qo’a as part of his lineage
also added an ‘Alid dimension to the story.19 Yet again, these connections
are missing from the biographies’ introduction. Lastly, Tīmūr’s more direct
family ties with Qarāchār Noyān probably carried a more directly identifiable
meaning. A commander of one of Chinggis Khan’s tümens (a unit of 10,000

16
See primarily John Woods’ analyses in his “Tīmūr’s Genealogy” (in Intellectual Studies on
Islam:€Essays Written in Honor of Martin B. Dickson, eds. Michel M. Mazzaoui and Vera B. Moreen,
Salt Lake City:€University of Utah Press, 1990:€85–125) and The Timurid Dynasty (Bloomington,
IN:€Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies, 1990. [PIA 14]). See also A. A. Semenov, “Nadpisi
na nadgrobiyakh Tīmūra i ego potomkov v Gur-i Emire,” Epigrafika Vostoka 2 (1948), 49–62;
Bregel, “Tribal Tradition,” 392–97.
17
Cf. with Tīmūr’s lineage in the Mu‘izz al-Ansāb, the genealogical tree of the Timurids composed
in the first half of the fifteenth century, probably under Shāhrukh’s patronage. In this work, which
of course included a much more extensive and branched genealogical tree, Tīmūr’s line was as
follows:€Tīmūr, son of Taraghāi Noyān, son of Burgul Noyān, son of Aylangir, son of Ichil, son of
Qarāchār. See Woods, The Timurid Dynasty, 9.
18
As Alan-qo’a described it to her sons:€“Every night, a resplendent yellow man entered by the light
of the smoke-hole or the door top of the tent, he rubbed my belly and his radiance penetrated my
womb. When he departed, he crept out on a moonbeam or a ray of sun in the guise of a yellow dog.”
The Secret History of the Mongols:€A Mongolian Epic Chronicle of the Thirteenth Century, tr. Igor
De Rachewiltz (Leiden:€Brill, 2006).
19
Woods, “Genealogy,” 88.
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 27

soldiers), Qarāchār was also regarded in Timurid histories as the ancestor of

Tīmūr’s tribe€– the Barlas.20
The biographies’ author, as we have seen, does not dedicate many words to
the account of the lineage. For him, it seems, as for his audience, the names of
Tīmūr’s ancestors were not as important at this particular moment; perhaps the
audience would not remember them anyway. The author did wish his readers
and listeners to remember two names€– Tīmūr’s father, Taraghāi, and Tīmūr’s
ancestor, Qarāchār.21 Interestingly, in the story that opens the biographical
corpus, Tīmūr’s father, Taraghāi Bahādur, is celebrated as the descendant of
Qarāchār Noyān, who was, we are informed, Temujin’s cousin (amm-zāda).22
Qarāchār later performs an important role in bringing to Tīmūr’s attention the
covenant between his great ancestors, Qachulai and Tumanai.23

A Summary of Tīmūr’s Life

Following the brief remark on the lineage, the author provides a sketch of
Tīmūr’s life and the history of the region that constitutes a convenient, if
somewhat mechanical, chronological summary of the entire biography. The
summary outlines Tīmūr’s lifetime, encompassing, in order, all the major
events as they would appear later in the work. By doing so, the author again
emulates the court chronicles and portrays the biography as real and factual:
Sāhib-qirān Amir Tīmūr güregen was born in the year 735 (A.H.)24€ – at the time of
Bayān-Qulī Khan25 and at the time of Shaykh al-‘Ālam, that is Shaykh Sayf al-Dīn26€–
of his mother, Tegina27 Khātūn, daughter of Sadr al-Sharī‘a,28 who had suffered a great

20
About Qarāchār Noyān and the place of the Barlas tribe in the Chaghatay khanate see Beatrice
Forbes Manz, The Rise and Rule of Tamerlane (Cambridge:€Cambridge University Press, 1989),
156–57; Woods, “Genealogy,” 92–3.
21
In the modern Uzbek version of the biography, the lineage was given as “Amir Tīmūr ibn amir
Taraghāi Bahādur ibn Barkul bahadur ibn Ilongiz bahadur ibn Injil ibn Qorajor Noyon ibn Amir
Sughuchin ibn Irimchi Zaloskhon ibn Qojuuli bahadur khan ibn Tarbon khan.” See Temurnoma:€Amir
Temur Kuragon zhangnomasi, ed. P. Ravshanov (Tashkent:€Chulpon, 1990), 35.
22
Much like ‘Alī’s relation to the Prophet.
23
See Chapter 4.
24
The date of birth usually ascribed to Tīmūr is the twenty-fifth of Sha‘bān, 736 (April 8, 1336).
25
Historically, Bayān-Qulī Khan (or Buyān-Qulī Khan) was a Chaghatayid khan who had ruled in
Mawarannahr from 1348 to 1358.
26
That is, Shaykh Sayf al-Dīn Bākharzī (see Chapter 2).
27
Or Takina.
28
Sadr al-Sharī‘a is most likely identified with ‘Ubayd Allāh b. Mas‘ūd al-Mahbūbī (d. 1346), a
famed Hanafi scholar and member of the Mahbūbī family, chief administrators in Bukhara from
the mid-thirteenth to the mid-fourteenth centuries. This is probably the same “Sadr al-sharī‘a”
whom the renowned traveler Ibn Battūta had met in Bukhara in 1333, interestingly, at the home
of Yahyā al-Bākharzī, a descendent of Sayf al-Dīn and also keeper of his khānqāh. (Ibn Battuta,
Travels of Ibn Battuta, A.D. 1325–1354, tr. and ed. H. A. R. Gibb et al., Hakluyt Society, 1958,
554.) Further corroboration for this identification is found in the introduction to one of the manu-
scripts of the biographies (TN 4890) where it is mentioned en passant that Sadr al-Sharī‘a was the
28 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

deal of misfortune, and after much toil his father29 married her. From there30 he came
to Bukhara to the service of Bayān-Qulī Khan. Then Toqtemür Khan Jatta arrived (and
at that time the Uzbeks were called Jatta).31 Baraq Khan,32 son of Bayan-Qulī Khan,
escaped, and Amīr Tīmūr with the help of His Holiness Shāh Naqshband33 went [to look
for Baraq Khan]. Shāh Mansūr, who was of the people of Muzaffar,34 captured Baraq
Khan and threw him in a well. Tīmūr rescued Baraq Khan. He expelled the Uzbeks from
their lands, but the house of Baraq Khan put as its aim to kill Sāhib-qirān. Tīmūr reached
Mashhad to the vicinity of Shāh Shujā‘ Kirmānī.35 Then, with his son Mīrzā Jahāngīr he
seized Qarshi. Baraq Khan killed Mīrzā Jahāngīr in Balkh. Sāhib-qirān arrived [in Balkh]
and killed him. In 771 [A.H.] he was enthroned. He then went to Khorezm. He captured
Husayn Sūfī36 and then rode to Khorasan in order to capture Shiraz and vanquish the
people of Muzaffar. From there he returned to Dasht-i Qïpchaq and pushed the Uzbek
army to the Crimea. Mīrzā Shāhrukh, Tīmūr’s son, killed Toqtamïsh Khan Uzbek.37 He
(Tīmūr) proceeded to conquer the Russians. He then conquered Hindustan and from
there returned once more to Khorasan and Iraq. He captured Baghdad, and appointed
his son Mīrānshāh as governor. Tīmūr seized the whole of Mazandaran and Kurdistan;
he captured Sham and Haleb and Damascus and advanced towards the emperor of Rum.
He took Rum from the hands of Yïldïrïm Bāyazīd. Mīrzā Ulugh Beg b. Shāhrukh went
to the west. The khutba was recited in the name of Sāhib-qirān and coins were struck in
his name.38

author of Sharh al-Wiqāya, a commentary on al-Wiqāya, which, in turn, was a commentary on

al-Marghīnānī’s al-Hidāya, the classic manual of Hanafi law. The Sharh al-Wiqāya was indeed
attributed to al-Mahbūbī.
29
That is, Tīmūr’s father, Taraghāi, already identified in the brief chart of Tīmūr’s lineage.
30
That is, Shahr-i Sabz.
31
Based on the sixteenth-century historian and official Mīrzā Haydar Dughlat, the Jatta were
peoples from the steppes who had invaded and settled in Moghulistan. The term was used
derogatorily and implied “marauders” or “robbers” (C. E. Bosworth, “Yeti Su,” EI² XI, 335).
In the same manner, the Chaghatays referred to the Moghuls as Jatta. Bartol’d surmised further
that, much like the meaning of the term qazaq, “Jatta” could signify “one who had broken
off ties with one’s kin” (V. V. Barthold, Four Studies on the History of Central Asia. Vol. I:€
A Short History of Turkestan, tr. V. and T. Minorsky, Leiden:€E. J. Brill, 1956, 11). In a �different
context, qazaq was used also to imply a period of princely vagabondage (Maria Subtelny,
Timurids in Transition:€ Turko-Persian Politics and Acculturation in Medieval Iran, Leiden,
Boston:€E.€J.€Brill, 2007, 29–31).
32
The historical Baraq Khan (d. 1271) was one of the rulers of the Chaghatay khanate.
33
That is, Baha’ al-Dīn Naqshband (1318–1389), eponymous founder of the Naqshbandiyya.
34
I.e., the Muzaffarid dynasty, one of several dynasties that emerged in Iran in the aftermath of the fall
of the Ilkhanids. The dynasty was eventually destroyed by Tīmūr.
35
Shāh Shujā‘ (d. 1384) was a Muzaffarid ruler based initially in Kirman who had ruled different
parts of Iran in the second half of the fourteenth century.
36
Founder of an independent Turkic dynasty (known as the Sufis or the Sufids) in Khorezm in the
second half of the fourteenth century. Husayn Sūfī was able to withstand Tīmūr’s first attack on his
domains but succumbed to his forces later in the 1370s.
37
Toqtamïsh Khan was ruler of the Mongol Golden Horde from 1378 to 1395. We will revisit the
anachronistic treatment of the Uzbeks in Chapter 5.
38
The khutba (part of the Friday sermon that also extolled the ruler) and the sikka (the minting of
coins in the ruler’s name) were two of the most important royal prerogatives. See R. E. Darley-
Doran, “Sikka:€2. Coinage Practice,” EI² IX, 592–99.
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 29

Then in the year 807 [A.H.] he (Tīmūr) returned to Samarqand and sent his sons to [govern]
the provinces. He sent Mīrānshāh and Mīrzā ‘Umar to Baghdad and Iraq and kept Mīrzā
Khalīl b. Mīrānshāh in Samarqand. Shāhrukh was sent to Herat. Mīrzā Pīr Muhammad
b.€Mīrzā Jahāngīr was sent to Qandahar. He went to the border of his country and made a
summerhouse in Otrar, where his soul traveled from the world of infirmity to Paradise. He
lived seventy-two years, one month and eighteen days. He ruled for thirty-six years. His
wife, Sarāy Khānïm, brought the amir’s body to Samarqand and buried him.

Although this comprehensive chronology is given, in actuality the narrative

is interspersed with numerous stories and anecdotes, seemingly less pertinent
to the quasi-historical exposition, that placed emphasis on Tīmūr’s character
(and, to a certain extent, on his sons’ and grandsons’ characters), on models
of conduct, on the relationship between Tīmūr and other family members,
friends, and Sufi shaykhs, and on Tīmūr’s upbringing and coming of age.
Thus, for example, the history of Tīmūr’s epic clashes with Toqtamïsh Khan
of the Golden Horde actually began in the biographies when Tīmūr’s son,
Mīrānshāh, fell in love with Toqtamïsh Khan’s wife.39 Tīmūr passes tests,
fights wars, destroys false prophets, and defends Islam. When his sons come
of age, Tīmūr sends them to different corners of the world and some of their
unusual experiences are related. The summary of Tīmūr’s life also empha-
sizes the significance of Central Asia. The campaigns against Hindustan or in
the Ottoman lands are comparatively glanced over faster, leaving more room
to discuss events “at home.”

A Short History of the Region Down to the Author’s Time

The weight given to Central Asia continues also in what follows. Between
the work’s précis and the first episode (dāstān) that leads to Tīmūr’s birth, the
author recaps the region’s history down to the time of the text’s composition.
The general scheme, similar in most manuscripts, includes mention of the
Â�rulers’ names and the lengths of their reign. Occasionally, the author adds a short
sentence that best describes, at least in his understanding, the most memorable
feature of the ruler’s time on the throne. Even more revealing is the asso-
ciation that the author makes between specific rulers and particular Muslim
authorities, many of whom had been the most notable Sufi shaykhs of their
time. This historical summary may also be understood, to some degree, as
part of the attempt to ascribe to the work a measure of historical credibility. In
doing so, the author complements his earlier assertions such as his announced
dependence on formal sources, his summary of Tīmūr’s alleged lifetime, and
his general arrangement of the work within conventional principles of Islamic
historiography.
The author begins this part of the manuscript’s introduction by informing
the reader that following Sāhib-qirān’s burial Mīrzā Khalīl was seated on the
39
See Chapter 5.
30 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

throne in Samarqand. Later, Mīrzā Shāhrukh arrived, removed Mīrzā Khalīl,

and he himself became king and ruled for forty years.40 The author relates
the succession of rulers, including Mīrzā Abu’l-Qāsim, who ruled for twelve
years. About the next ruler, Mīrzā Sa‘īd (better known to the modern reader
as Abu Sa‘īd), Tīmūr’s great-grandson, the author relates that he became king
with the help of Khoja Ahrār.41 He had ruled for twenty-three years and was
killed by heretics (rawāfidh).42 After that, it was Sultān-Husayn Mīrzā’s turn
to be king.43 He ruled for thirty-eight years. The author concludes with a brief
comment that Bayqara was followed by Mīrzā Bābur, and that “for 130 years
the rulers were the descendants of Amir Tīmūr.” Because Bābur is included in
this calculation, it seems that for the author it made little difference that by the
time of Bābur’s death he was already far from Mawarannahr. Equally inter-
esting is the fact that the author does not include the Mughals in this scheme
of rulers who were descendants of Tīmūr (although he later refers to them as
continuing Bābur’s lineage).
The historical summary, albeit brief, is still intriguing in what it chooses
to exhibit and what it chooses to cast off. The author continues to relate that
“in the year 900 of the hijra of the Prophet (peace be upon him), Shāh Ismā‘īl
Qïzïl-bāsh appeared and captured Iraq.” In the year 904, Shïbānī emerged and
“took the kingdom from Amir Tīmūr’s descendants.” Bābur fled to Hindustan
where his children ruled. Shïbānī Khan was killed by the hand of Shah Ismā‘īl
Qïzïl-bāsh in Merv. He ruled for twelve years. The author notes that after
Shïbānī’s death there had been thirty years without order. After that, ‘Ubayd
Allāh Khan, Shïbānī Khan’s nephew, took the kingdom with the help of Mir
‘Arab, “whose origin was in Yemen.”44 We are told that the strongest ruler in

40
Ulugh Beg, Shāhrukh’s son, who had been appointed by his father to the governorship of Samarqand,
is not mentioned at all in this list of rulers. Similarly absent is any mention of the historical exis-
tence of the two Timurid states, rather than one, that had been established in Samarqand and in
Herat.
41
Khoja ‘Ubaydallāh Ahrār was the most influential Sufi shaykh in Central Asia in the fifteenth cen-
tury, a rich land owner and an effective mediator of conflicts. He has been a pivotal figure in most
Naqshbandi chains of spiritual transmission.
42
Rawāfidh (sing. Rafidhi), or heretics, referred mostly to Shi’ites in the Sunni world. The histor-
ical Abu Sa‘īd campaigned in Azerbaijan in 1469, where he was captured by the Aq Qoyunlu (a
Turkmen confederation) and executed. It is possible that in the author’s memory, the Aq Qoyunlu
had been associated, for some reason, with the Safavids. On the other hand, he may have confused
different circumstances (that remained vague for the audience).
43
Referring to Sultān-Husayn Bayqara. Although the focus of this work is Bukhara and Mawarannahr,
Sultān-Husayn, who did not rule the area, is recalled as a great king also in these regions.
44
Mir ‘Arab, a Naqshbandi leader and Shaykh al-Islam in the 1530s, was also the patron of a famous
madrasa, named after him, in Bukhara. The author’s emphasis on the origins of Mir ‘Arab is one in
many references to Yemen in the narrative. Yemen seems to have carried a symbolic significance in
Central Asia, and the fascination with that faraway land and its representatives may have also been
a part of a long tradition of pilgrimage to Central Asian locations of sites and tombs of biblical and
Qur’anic figures; the Prophet’s companions or early conquerors of the region all allegedly from
Yemen. (See also in this regard, Aširbek Muminov, “Veneration of Holy Sites of the Mid-Sirdar’ya
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 31

Central Asia in the sixteenth century, ‘Abdallāh Khan (r. 1583–1598), came
from Karmina and ruled for thirty-four years with the help of Khoja Kalan
Khoja Sa’d al-Dīn Jūybārī.45
Clearly, the biographies focused on the region of Mawarannahr and the
dynasties that ruled first from Samarqand (until the sixteenth century) and
later from Bukhara. The symbiotic relationship between the rulers and the
Sufi shaykhs who aided their ascension to the throne, and by implication
granted the rulers their sanction and approval, would persist also all through
the biographies and serve to remind the reader of the significance of the dual-
ity of power alluded to in the earlier part of the introduction.
With ‘Abdallāh Khan’s son, ‘Abd al-Mu’min Khan, came the official end
of the Shibanids. The author lists the names of the Janid rulers that followed,
although he does not seem to lay much emphasis on the standard dynastic
distinction between the Shibanids and the Janids. He mentions, correctly, that
both Imām-Qulī Khan and ‘Abd al-‘Azīz Khan concluded their terms in office
by performing the hajj, and that ‘Ubayd Allāh Khan was assassinated (liter-
ally, “forced to attain martyrdom”). The author mentions that in the year 1122
A.H. (1711 A.D.), “Abu’l-Fayż Muhammad Bahādur Khan sat on the throne
of the sultanate of Bukhara.”

Two Manuscript Cycles and the Continuity of Production

It is at this point that two distinct manuscript cycles emerge. According to
one manuscript cycle, the work was written in the beginning of Abu’l-Fayż
Khan’s reign. The manuscripts belonging to this cycle (either originating in
the 1710s or copied based on manuscripts from that era) clearly state that the
work was written in the year 1024 A.H., two years after Abu’l-Fayż Khan’s
inauguration.46
The second manuscript cycle is essentially similar to the first in every
way save for its assertion of the time of authorship, which is traced back
to the end of the eighteenth century, presumably in the early 1790s. The
manuscripts that had been written in that era, or copied from earlier manu-
scripts, continued the story of Bukhara’s rulers down to Shāh Murād (r. 1785–
1800):€Accordingly, Abu’l-Fayż Khan reigned for thirty-eight years. He was

Valley:€Continuity and Transformation,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the
18th to the Early 20th Centuries, edited by Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen, and Dmitriy
Yermakov, Berlin:€Schwarz, 1996, v. 1, esp. 355–61.)
45
The Jūybārī khojas were particularly prominent in the ascent of ‘Abdallāh Khan to power. The
author’s calculation of ‘Abdallāh Khan’s reign probably takes into account the period before 1583,
when Abdallah’s father, Iskandar, was officially on the throne, but the son was the de facto ruler
of Bukhara. See B. A. Akhmedov, “Rol’ dzhuĭbarskikh khodzheĭ v obshchestvenno-politicheskoĭ
zhizni Sredneĭ Azii XVI-XVII vekov,” in Dukhovenstvo i politicheskaia zhizn’ na Blizhnem i
Srednem Vostoke v period feodalizma (Moscow:€Nauka, GRVL, 1985), 16–31.
46
See for example, Kunūz, 17; TN 699, f. 4a; TN 4890, f. 4b.
32 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

murdered by “Rahīm Atalïq Manghït,”47 who was responsible for two addi-
tional killings of Chinggisids and then took the throne for himself. He was
followed by Dāniyāl Biy Atalïq and finally by Dāniyāl’s son, Shāh Murād
Biy. This group of manuscripts ascribes the date of the work’s composition
to Shāh Murād’s time in power, concluding with a statement that during his
period in office many mosques and madrasas had been built€– a token to that
ruler’s renowned devotion to Islam, to its institutions, and perhaps also to his
reputed fiscal reforms48€– and that the text had been written in the year 1207
A.H., that is, 1792–1793.49 No further explanation is given, and thus the intro-
duction ends and the story of Tīmūr’s life begins. From this relatively dry (yet
still interesting) account, full of names and dates mostly anchored in chrono-
logical certainty, the work moves, with no interval or segue, into the land of
apparent fantasy.
The distinction between the two manuscript cycles that stems from a dif-
ferent attribution of the time of composition seems to hint to some type of
“revival” in the interest in Tīmūr’s biographies during Shāh Murād’s reign
in Bukhara.50 The authors or copyists of manuscripts from Shāh Murād’s era
praise the ruler for his rebuilding efforts of the devastated parts of Central
Asia, a praise that is echoed in many sources from the late eighteenth to the
early nineteenth centuries.51 Does the overt emphasis on Shāh Murād’s piety
imply that he had been involved at all in the text’s production? Further study of
these manuscripts may yield a more definitive answer, but at present we have
no reason to assume that Shāh Murād contributed to or sponsored the copying
of the manuscript.52 Given the information that we have at present, we may
divide the “life” of the text into several periods:€The first spanned most of the
eighteenth century; the second lasted for about 120 years from Shāh Murād’s
reign until the onset of the Soviet era. Did these “life cycles” somehow mirror
the break in Bukharan politics? It appears that the first cycle of manuscripts
were composed during the reign of the last Janid khan of consequence, and
a second cycle may have been promoted under the governance of one who is
sometimes considered the founder of the Manghït dynasty.53 Nevertheless, we

47
See fn. 53 to this chapter.
48
See R. Burnasheva, “Moneti Bukharskogo khanstva pri Mangitakh (seredina XVIII€– nachalo XX
v.,” Epigrafika vostoka 18 (1967), 113–28.
49
For example, TN 1501, 206a; TN 4436; TN Kulliat.
50
On the prevailing perceptions on Shāh Murād’s time in power, see the excellent study by Anke
von Kügelgen, Die Legitimierung der mittelasiatischen-Mangitendynastie in den Werker ihrer
Historiker (Istanbul:€Orient-Institut; Würzburg:€Ergon, 2002), 337–67.
51
Such persistent praises constitute further testimony to the crisis that Central Asia was facing in the
eighteenth century. If the country had not been devastated, there would not have been a need to
rebuild it.
52
It is clear that the biographies had been written in the beginning of the eighteenth century and only
received further impetus for production toward the end of the century.
53
Although Muhammad Rahīm Khan, who ascended the Bukharan throne in 1756, is often regarded
as the founder of the Manghït dynasty, in the introduction to these texts he is referred to as “Rahīm
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 33

have no concrete evidence for any direct political involvement in the

Â�manuscript’s production, and both “periods” appear to be similar as far as
the manuscripts’ contents are concerned. The final period began in the early
1990s with the breakdown of the Soviet Union. Although the reception of
these stories still requires further identification, it seems that the content of the
manuscripts did not alter significantly throughout their different life cycles.
Before we proceed to describe the work’s substance, we should bear in
mind two crucial facts:€first, all the manuscripts of the Tīmūr-nāma were cop-
ied in Central Asia, mostly in Bukhara and Khiva and once in Merv54 or in
other unidentifiable locales in Central Asia, which makes the work (in addi-
tion to other factors discussed later) distinctly Central Asian. Secondly, all the
manuscripts preserved in Central Asia and elsewhere are from the eighteenth
century and onward. We have no such manuscripts prior to the eighteenth cen-
tury, and the compilers of the works do not claim that they had copied these
works based on a pre-eighteenth-century model.
As mentioned, Tīmūr’s biographies continued to be copied and recopied
throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. At the beginning of the
twentieth century, or more precisely, in 1913 (1331 A.H.), the work was pub-
lished in Tashkent in a lengthy lithograph (441 pages, on average twenty-
seven lines per page) under the title Tīmūr-nāma. Kullīyāt-i fārsī. The editor,
Mīrzā Muhammad Qāsim ibn Mīrzā ‘Abd al-Khāliq Bukhārī, based the litho-
graph on a Persian manuscript copied in 1792–1793 (1207 A.H.) in Bukhara
under the reign of the Manghït Amir Shāh Murād.55 Although the quality of
the script is not very good, this version is extensive and valuable.
A newer edition of the Turkic adaptation of the work was recently published
in Tashkent under the title Temurnoma:€Amir Temur Kuragon �zhangnomasi.56
The editor Ravshanov, who described the text as “a combination of the
Bāburnāma and the Qisas al-anbiyā’ (Stories of the Prophets),” attributed
the work to one Mullā Salah al-Dīn Khoja ibn Mullā ‘Ala’ al-Dīn Khoja,
also known as Salah al-Dīn Tāshkandī, who had originally published the text
in 1908 (1317 A.H.) in the I’lin publishing house in Tashkent. Not much is
known about Tāshkandī or about the circumstances of his publication, save
for the fact that he apparently stated that there were numerous copies of the
Tīmūr-nāma in Persian, but that his had been the first translation of the work
into Turkic. Perhaps Tāshkandī was unaware of the earlier versions of the
biographies in Turkic (such as the Dāstān-i Amīr Tīmūr), or perhaps he simply

Atalïq Manghït.” Shāh Murād, the one who had adopted the title amīr for the dynasty, seems to be
credited with more independent power. His rise to the throne is not described here as accompanied
by multiple murders, adding to the sense of his piety. On the rise of the Manghïts to power, see Yu.
Bregel, “Mangits,” EI² VI, 418–19.
54
Apparently following Shāh Murād’s conquest of the city in the early 1790s.
55
TN Kullīyāt, 8.
56
See Temurnoma (ed. Ravshanov). The editor traced the origin of the text back to 1908, not realizing
that his was just another version of these biographies in a 300-year-old tradition.
34 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

ignored them.57 In any case, the recent rendering of a Tīmūr-nāma in Uzbek

(with a glossary for some of the Arabic and Chaghatay words in the text€– by
no means all of them) is a much abridged version of earlier Books of Tīmūr.58
The work was published in Tashkent in modern Uzbek, in Cyrillic script,59
in 1990, just before the emergence of the Republic of Uzbekistan as an inde-
pendent state.60 Printed in the Chulpon publishing house61 in 200,000 cop-
ies, a very large number by all accounts, this Uzbek edition was sold for a
very affordable price, also by Uzbek standards, of seven hundred som (about
twenty American cents at the time), and its wide circulation clearly intended
to inform Uzbekistan’s younger readers. The work’s title in Uzbek emphasizes
the story of Tīmūr’s heroic battles (dzhangnoma), as does the drawing on the
cover of an imposing, sword-wielding, helmet-wearing Tīmūr seated on the
back of his charging horse. Conversely, the book’s Russian title€– appearing,
in accordance with Soviet practice, in small print on the bottom of the very
last page€ – is considerably different from its Uzbek counterpart. The title,
Timur, prichti dliia deteĭ (or, Timur:€legends for children), spells out that the
work was designed to suit youthful audiences. Nonetheless, although por-
tions of the text may appeal€– or at least be somewhat comprehensible€– to
children, much of the content and language probably would remain beyond
their understanding. The book even occasionally includes entire passages in
Arabic, sometimes in the original Arabic script with no Uzbek translation, and
this arrangement would be entirely inaccessible to children and adults alike
without proper instruction and guidance.

The Lacuna
Returning to the manuscripts, following the introduction the rest of the lengthy
text is divided into chapters, whose headings are titled dāstān, goftār, or dhikr,
depending on the manuscript.62 The number of chapters changes according to
the manuscript. Although most manuscripts and renderings of the work that
I have examined seem to follow a more or less similar sequence of chapters,

57
I was unable to find Tāshkandī’s work (or any other reference to it) in recent visits to Uzbekistan.
For an example of a Turkic text, see Sayyid Muhammad Khoja b. Ja‘far Khoja, Dāstān-i Amīr
Tīmūr and its description in the Uppsala catalog (K. V. Zetterstéen, Die arabischen, persischen
und türkischen Handschriften der Universitätsbibliothek zu Uppsala. Upsala, 1930, 382, item no.
563).
58
Still, the book is 350 pages long. It has no index or an acceptable scholarly apparatus, and unfortu-
nately it also contains numerous errors in transcription (for example, rendering Donboi Bahadur for
the correct Dunya Bahādur, amir un-nos for amīr al-ulus, and so forth).
59
It will have to be altered and reprinted in Latinized script if the publishers desire youth in contem-
porary Uzbekistan to continue reading it.
60
Although it must have been in the planning stage for some time.
61
The publishing house was located on what used to be the Pravda Newspaper Street (Pravda gazeta
kochasi).
62
All three headings may appear in the same manuscript.
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 35

sometimes there are additions or omissions of certain chapters or a change in

their order in the narrative. It is clear, however, that the intention of the com-
piler of these anecdotes was to bring them in a relatively orderly fashion that
would follow the protagonist’s lifetime, or at least what the author imagined
his lifetime to be. We should note also that there are anecdotes that seem to
have little to do with Tīmūr directly, but that have found their way into the
overall compilation.
The reader may have noticed by now the absence of any statement of
purpose in the introduction to the manuscripts. The author did not declare
any reason for the writing of the work or its proposed intentions; He did not
explain the circumstances under which the biographies had been written or the
identity of the person or persons who had commissioned the work. In many
of the manuscripts, including the lithograph and the modern Uzbek rendering
of the text, there seems to be a discontinuity, typically found on the third or
fourth page, between the early sections (especially the doxology) and the ones
that follow (the summary of Tīmūr’s life). This discontinuity is sometimes
complemented with a noticeable change in handwriting (either a different pen
or a different scribe) and is glossed over with no explanation. The only excep-
tion is a manuscript kept in St. Petersburg that will be discussed in the next
section.

The Manuscript Tradition and its Discovery

Tīmūr’s legendary biographies occasionally have been registered in the dif-
ferent manuscript catalogs under the label Tīmūr-nāma. However, this was
not the only title, and part of the difficulty in evaluating the number of manu-
scripts in existence was also caused by their range of titles, among them one
may find Kunūz al-a‘zam, Tārīkh-i Sāhib-qirān, Tārīkh-i Tīmūrī, Tārīkh-i
Sāhib-qirān Amīr Tīmūr Gurgān, and so on.63 Of the Persian manuscripts
that clearly belong to Tīmūr’s heroic apocrypha, we can identify at this stage
at least five in St. Petersburg,64 at least three in Dushanbe,65 and a couple
in Europe (namely, in Berlin and in Budapest).66 The largest collection€– at
63
As mentioned in the introduction, these should not be confused with many other works bearing
similar titles. The sāhib-qirān-nama that circulated in Iran in the mid-to-late seventeenth century,
for instance, is an anonymous, versified “epico-religious saga” that has been concerned only with
pre-Islamic heroes and has nothing to do with Tīmūr. (Jean Calmard, “Popular Literature under the
Safavids,” in Society and Culture in the Modern Middle East:€Studies on Iran in the Safavid Period,
ed. Andrew J. Newman, Leiden, Boston:€Brill, 2003, 326.)
64
See N. D. Miklukho-Maklaĭ, Opisanie tadzhikskikh i persidskikh rukopiseĭ Instituta vostokove-
deniia. Vyp. 3 (Istoricheskie sochineniia) (Moscow, 1975), 279–94 (items no. 420–25).
65
For descriptions of the manuscripts in Dushanbe (formerly Stalinabad), see A. M. Mirzoev and A.
N. Boldyrev, Katalog vostochnykh rukopiseĭ Academii nauk Tadzhikskoĭ SSR (Stalinabad, 1960),
items 51, 52, and 53 (and possibly 54 and 55).
66
MS of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin€– Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Orientabteilung MS Or. Quart.
1231. For the description of the manuscript, see Verzeichnis der orientalischen Handschriften in
36 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

least twelve Persian manuscripts€– is in Tashkent at the al-Biruni Institute of

Oriental Studies of the Uzbek Academy of Sciences.67 The collections include
manuscripts of different lengths and sizes, copied throughout the eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries. Some seem to have been heavily used.68 Having
reviewed most of the manuscripts at al-Biruni, it seems that the speculation€–
that will be discussed shortly€ – that the text may have been an attempt to
construct a “real” history of the Ashtarkhanid dynasty as a “General History”
genre is difficult to support. If indeed this were the case, very quickly the orig-
inal aim was abandoned, perhaps in favor of constructing a “popular history”
of the region by concentrating on Central Asia’s most compelling indigenous
hero. It is also clear that most renditions of the text are very similar and are,
in essence, copies (with variations) of one another. The author’s identity, for
the most part, is not disclosed. Later manuscripts, depending on their standing
and availability of a colophon, sometimes provide the names of the scribes
who had copied the text.
As noted, there seem to be several renderings of the work in Turkic, and I
would not be surprised if more turned up.69 The quantity of manuscripts and
their diversity suggests that the Tīmūr-nāma enjoyed a vigorous presence in
Central Asian literature that began in the early eighteenth century and has
maintained a high degree of popularity through the nineteenth century and late
into the twentieth century.70
Because of the generic title and the relatively limited information in the
catalogs, let us examine first a work bearing the title Kunūz al-a‘zam that had
been identified more clearly and that may shed light on the original intent in
the biographies’ creation. This title is mentioned in one of the manuscripts
kept in St. Petersburg, which, according to Story-Bregel (still the most useful
point of departure for many explorations into Persian historiography), was
written by one ‘Abd al-Rahmān Sīrat, in Bukhara, during the early reign of the
Ashtarkhanid ruler, Abu’l-Fayż Khan (r. 1711–1747).71
According to the St. Petersburg catalog, the work was supposed to have
been a dynastic history, apparently dedicated to the Ashtarkhanids, rulers of

Deutschland, Bd. 14 (Wiesbaden:€F. Steiner, 1968), 88. There are probably more manuscripts that I
failed to mention. Many of the Persian manuscripts are cited in Storey-Bregel.
67
For the manuscripts in Tashkent consult the SVR, vol. I, items 185–88€ – all catalogued under
the rubric “history”€– and also SVR, vol. I, items 1526, 699, 1502/II, 1502/I; SVR, vol. X, items
6761–67, 1501, 2602, 4818, 4436, 6768.
68
Like TN 1526.
69
Although I still have to check whether all the titles correspond to the same work. It appears that they
do, based on their catalogue descriptions.
70
We will return to the question of popularity later.
71
C. A. Storey, Persian Literature:€A Bio-bibliographical Survey, translated into Russian and revised,
with additions and corrections, by Yu. E. Bregel (Moscow, 1972), II:€812–15. In fact, the author
notes that “in the year 1122 (1711) Abu’l Fayż Muhammad Bahādur Khan was established upon
the throne of the sultanate of Bukhara. In the year 1124 (1713), two years after the khan’s enthrone-
ment, this work was composed.” (Kunūz, 17).
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 37

Bukhara and Balkh from 1599–1756 (or 1785), and to have had two vol-
umes:€the first from Tīmūr’s birth to the ascent of the Shïbanid ruler ‘Abdallāh
Khan (r. 1583–1598) and the second from ‘Abdallāh Khan down to the
author’s time. The aim was, of course, to highlight and celebrate the rulers of
the Janid dynasty, presumably ending with the ruler that may have sponsored
this endeavor, the newly crowed Abu’l-Fayż Khan. This plan,72 if indeed there
even was such a plan, probably never materialized, and no such continuity to
the manuscript was ever recorded. All the manuscripts that we have at our dis-
posal tell the story of Tīmūr exclusively and do not venture to deal with other
rulers. In all the manuscripts that I examined, I found no hint at any intention
by the authors to write about anything other than Tīmūr himself.73 Bregel is
probably correct in his postulation that the second part was never actually
written.74
If indeed there was a design to write the history of the Ashtarkhanids with
Tīmūr as its starting point, this would be, in and of itself, a rather signifi-
cant development and would seem to be in line with other early eighteenth-
century Tīmūr-related developments. However, most other Central Asian
dynastic histories from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries typically
adhered to common Islamic historiographical principles, tracing their sub-
ject matter’s origins back to Creation or to the story of Noah (Nūh), the
Flood, and the reemergence of mankind, inevitably descended from one
of Nūh’s three sons. Several dynasties, particularly those led by Chinggis
Khan’s descendants, traced their origins back to Chinggis Khan or to his
eldest son, Jochi. Others concentrated solely on the history of one specific
ruler. In short, I know of no other Central Asian work in this time frame that
began with Tīmūr, and I see no reason why the Janids, and especially Abu’l-
Fayż Khan, would seek to be a part of a trend (Tīmūr’s revival) that would
be aimed against them.75
The understanding that this “history” was to have had two parts relied on
the observations of the renowned Russian orientalist Valentin Alekseevich
Zhukovskiĭ (1858–1918) and the noted Bashkir Turkologist Zeki Velidi Togan
(1890–1970), both of whom showed interest in these materials. Zhukovskiĭ
even translated, but never published, an anecdote from these biographies
about Tīmūr and Nāsir-i Khusraw, in which the latter was identified in the
manuscript with al-Muqanna’, the eighth-century leader of the “wearers of

72
Curiously, the plan to have two volumes on the history of the region is mentioned only once and
very late in one of the manuscripts in St. Petersburg, in folio 234a. See Miklukho-Maklai, Opisanie,
282.
73
Miklukho-Maklai writes that the second volume was never discovered.
74
Story-Bregel, II, 813. I would add that even the first part does not seem to support the alleged
plan.
75
Tīmūr is not even mentioned in Abu’l-Fayż Khan’s official dynastic chronicle. See Abdurrakhman-i
Tali‘, Istoriia Abulfeĭz-khana, tr. A. A. Semenov (Tashkent:€ Akademiia nauk Uzbekskoĭ SSR,
1959).
38 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

white.”76 Zhukovskiĭ was the first to posit that the work was called “Kunūz
wa-l-aa‘zam” and also identified a certain ‘Abd al-Rahmān Sirat as its
author.77 Probably following Zhukovskiĭ’s lead, Togan attempted to identify
a related manuscript in the summer of 1914. Journeying through the territory
of the khanate of Bukhara, still a Russian protectorate at the time, Togan
reported an interesting finding. Apparently, he was told that in Shahr-i Sabz,
several men, including a teacher in the madrasa of “Maliki Ajdar,”78 were
in possession of a library “rich in manuscripts” that also held a copy of a
history of Tīmūr, ostensibly named Kunūz al-A‘zam.79 This intrigued Togan.
He arrived at the Shahr-i Sabz library in late June 1914, was able to meet the
manuscript holders, and was shown several manuscripts for him to purchase
(including copies of works by Timurid authors such as Yazdī, Samarqandī,
and Mīrkhwānd). However, according to his report, he was interested partic-
ularly in the copy of the Kunūz, which Mullā Muhammad Rajab, the afore-
mentioned teacher, had in his possession. Togan realized that this manuscript
had some commonalities with so-called Tīmūr-nāma manuscripts described
in Kal’s 1889 catalog.80 He wrote that the manuscript’s author had stated, in
the first-person singular, that he had compiled the history of Tīmūr from his
birth until the reign of ‘Abdallāh Khan in one Â�volume and named the volume
“Kunūz wa al-a‘zam.” A second volume was to be dedicated to the history
from ‘Abdallāh Khan down to the author’s time (1125/1713), namely, to the
reign of Abu’l-Fayż Khan, whom the author, according to Togan, exalted
and praised. Togan mentioned that he was unable to locate the second vol-
ume of the work and that he gave the first volume to the Asiatic Museum (in
St. Petersburg).81 Although I have been able to identify, based on Togan’s
description, the exact place in the introduction to the Books of Tīmūr where
the author’s professed intentions might fit, in all the manuscripts that I have
seen, such claims do not exist. Moreover, the texts that I examined were not
written in the first person.
Both Zhukovskiĭ and Togan, as well as Semenov later on, realized that this
“Kunūz wa al-a‘zam” held some sort of a relationship with other works about
Tīmūr, works ostensibly labeled Tīmūr-nāma. However, they did not seem

76
We will revisit this story in Chapter 5.
77
On Zhukovskiĭ and his comments, see Yu. E. Borshchevskiĭ, “K kharakteristike rukopisnogo nasle-
diia V. A. Zhukovskogo,” in Ocherki po istorii russkogo vostokovedeniia, Sbornik V:€Pamiiati V. A.
Zhukovskogo (Moscow, 1960), esp. 11–13.
78
Apparently adjacent to the fifteenth-century Malik Ajar mosque.
79
A. Z. Validov, “O sobraniiakh rukopiseĭ v Bukharskom khanstve,” Zapiski Vostochnogo otdeleniia
(Imp.) Russkogo arkheologicheskogo obshchestva 23/3 (St. Petersburg, 1916), 245–62. Togan’s
research was often published in Russian under the name A. Z. Validov (A. Z. standing for Ahmad-
Zaki).
80
E. Kal’, Persidskiia, arabskiia i tiurkskiia rukopisi Turkestanskoĭ Publichnoĭ Biblioteki (Tashkent,
1889), items no. 18–20, pp. 17–18.
81
Validov, “O sobraniiakh rukopiseĭ,” 246.
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 39

to pursue their initial observations.82 The most elaborate description of the

Tīmūr-nāma to date was provided by N. D. Miklukho-Maklaĭ in the volume
on historical sources, part of the catalog “Description of the Tajik and Persian
manuscripts at the Institute of Oriental Studies” in St. Petersburg.83 As cata-
loger of manuscripts, Miklukho-Maklaĭ’s primary goal was to establish the
essential information about each manuscript, including authorship, date and
location of authorship, the very basic structure of the work, information given
in the text’s introduction, and various technical details (size and type of paper,
type of ink, number of folios, date and location of copying, identity of the
scribe, and the type of script). Miklukho-Maklaĭ, following Zhukovskiĭ, men-
tioned the author of at least one manuscript of the five or six Persian manu-
scripts in St. Petersburg as ‘Abd al-Rahmān Sīrat.84 However, the cataloger
reported that in other manuscripts the name of the author appears as Mīrzā
Rumūz. Nothing is known about either of these individuals, and there is no
explanation in any of the manuscripts of the circumstances under which they
had been written. Miklukho-Maklaĭ accepted Zhukovskiĭ’s first impressions
of the work and continued his line of reasoning. Because both scholars deter-
mined that the author’s intention was to compose a so-called general history,
the cataloger decided to register the work as a “historical text” in the History
section. Yet, he expressed his doubts about the decision because the work
contained a good deal of “folkloric material” and had a “fantastic, legendary
character.” Such attributes made the Tīmūr-nāma, Miklukho-Maklaĭ argued, a
literary work rather than a historical one, and he cautioned his readers to treat
it accordingly.
Herein lies the problem, because such a statement immediately rendered
the work worthless in the eyes of most historians. This way of thinking was
obviously supported or even encouraged by other statements (in the vein
of Semenov’s comments, noted later), and therefore there were almost no
attempts to actually deal with the text at any level. Not surprisingly, many
Central Asians remained unaware of the professional evaluations of the work
as they continued to copy and recopy the text for generations, read it, and be
captivated by its contents, probably more so than many other works in the his-
tory of “early modern” Central Asia.
In addition to the curious gaps in the author’s identification, scholars also
did not try to solve the problem of patronage and sponsorship of the biogra-
phies. After all, the production of such lengthy manuscripts required resources,
and the texts did have some value as material objects. The manuscripts vary
in their appearance and condition€– some are rather fancy copies, written in
a variety of inks and gilded marks (although all the texts lack illumination
and paintings) while others look well-used and run down. One extravagant

82
Zhukovskiĭ may have, but he never published his findings.
83
Miklukho-Maklaĭ, Opisanie.
84
He indicates three occurrences of the name in the text.
40 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

manuscript (TN 4436) was even endowed as waqf. In the absence of any clear
acknowledgment of patronage by the authors, the question of the text’s popu-
larity becomes even more difficult to explain. After all, patronage could influ-
ence the status, reputation, and circulation of literary works. The author of
the Kunūz al-a‘zam only stated that the work was written during Abu’l-Fayż
Khan’s reign and did not acknowledge the khan’s patronage or even express
gratitude to him. Abu’l-Fayż also was not described in any lofty terms and
received no special consideration from the author€– something that one would
expect in a sponsored work.85 Even if there had been any involvement by the
khan’s office in the initial planning and production of the work, is it possible
that the original plan had been neglected, perhaps for lack of resources, and
the manuscripts were “free” to be utilized in a different fashion?
Regrettably, we have no information about the author. We do not know if
he held any official position, whether at the court or in other institutions. This
too may be discovered with further exploration. However, it is safe to assume
that the author had access to many different sources (both textual and oral),
some of which may had been preserved at the court. Not only that, he proba-
bly had access to ideas of political authority discussed at the court and to the
“exercise of power.”86 He was clearly “in the know,” aware of not only a range
of political and ideological considerations but also of many characteristics of
Sufism in Central Asia. For now, we would reserve answers to questions on
the possible identity of the author and on who would have to gain from such a
composition until our more elaborate analysis of the biographies themselves.

Scholarship (or lack thereof) on Books of Tīmūr

The Tīmūr-nāma was probably one of the most familiar works to Central Asian
audiences in the history of the region in the so-called early modern era, but
despite the continuity in its copying from the eighteenth century until the pre-
sent, it has attracted very little scholarship. Books of Tīmūr, on their numer-
ous copies and renditions, are not even mentioned in important codices of
Persian or Turkic literature such as Rypka’s History of Iranian Literature or
the Philologiae Turcicae fundamenta.87 They are not referred to in surveys of
Central Asian literary history;88 they remain equally ignored in bibliographical

85
One still needs to ascertain whether the Dāstān-i Amīr Tīmūr (in Turkic) may have received the
patronage of Yār-Muhammad Bahādur Khan.
86
Cf. with Gril’s assumptions about the author of the Sīrat Baybars. Denis Gril, “Du sultanat au cali-
fat universel:€le rôle des saints dans le Roman de Baybars,” in Lectures du Roman de Baybars, ed.
Jean-Claude Garcin (Marseille:€Parenthèses, 2003), 196.
87
For example, Jan Rypka (ed.), History of Iranian Literature (Dordrecht, 1968); Jean Deny, ed.,
Philologiae Turcicae Fundamenta (Wiesbaden, 1959–1964).
88
See for example, M. Bogdanova, Istoriia literatur narodov Srednei Azii i Kazakhstana (Moscow,
1960).
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 41

surveys devoted to Tīmūr and to his legacy.89 There have been almost no schol-
arly treatments of the Tīmūr-nāma, not even a scholarly edition of the text.
The only author of a biobibliographical survey who had mentioned the text, in
addition to its description in Storey-Bregel noted previously, was H. F. Hofman
in his extensive survey of Turkish literature. Hofman was aware of the textual
tradition surrounding Tīmūr’s biographies and promised to discuss what he
referred to as the “Tīmūri vitae” in a section devoted to motifs in Turkish liter-
ature, which, apparently, he never completed.90
In 1897, the renowned Hungarian scholar and traveler Arminius Vámbéry
(d. 1913) published short fragments of a manuscript of, apparently, one of
the Books of Tīmūr. The publication, titled “Eine legendäre Geschichte
Tīmūrs,” presented three previously unknown (to Europeans, at least) sto-
ries about Tīmūr. The first related Tīmūr’s campaign to Dasht-i Qïpchaq to
fight Toqtamïsh Khan; the second described how Tīmūr came into posses-
sion of the Christian Gospel, a gospel written, as it were, by Jesus himself;
and the third recounted Tīmūr’s conquest of Moscow. Vámbéry published
only fragments of these stories (by no means the full stories, which in the
manuscript would be much longer). He treated the accounts with a degree
of amusement and did not identify them as part of the much larger textual
tradition. Part of his mistrust of the work may have stemmed from the con-
fusion about the time of composition of the narratives because the copier
apparently got the dates mixed up.91 Vámbéry edited and translated the three
excerpts, which he only identified as legends of a fantastic nature about
Tīmūr. He offered no commentary to the stories and, as far as I know, did
not pursue the matter elsewhere.
The next to engage the corpus was V. Klemm when, in 1900, he translated
into Russian the story of Tīmūr’s birth as it appeared in a manuscript titled
Tarikh-i Tīmūri. According to Klemm, the manuscript was written in 1712 by
a nameless “Bukharan Tajik” who had compiled his account based on vari-
ous historical works. Klemm’s translation was a contribution to a book that

89
See for example, Lucien Bouvat, Essai sur la civilisation timouride (Paris:€ Imprimerie nation-
ale, 1926); Marcel Brion (ed.), Tamerlan (Paris:€ A. Michel, 1963); Michele Bernardini, “The
Historiography Concerning Tīmūr-i Lang:€ A Bibliographical Survey,” in Italo-Uzbek Scientific
Cooperation in Archaeology and Islamic Studies:€An Overview, ed. Samuela Pagani (Rome:€Istituto
Italiano per l’Africa e l’Oriente, 2001), 137–96.
90
H. F. Hofman, Turkish Literature:€A Bio-bibliographical Survey (Utrecht, 1969), 14–15.
91
From the preface to the manuscript, Vámbéry was given to understand that the work was copied
during the “21st year of reign of Abu’l-Ghāzī Khan, under the governorship of Muhammad Dāniyāl
Biy Atalïq in the year 1024 A.H.” Vámbéry knew that the year 1024 preceded Abu’l-Ghāzī’s (the
famous Khan of Khiva) reign by approximately 30 years, whereas Dāniyāl Biy Atalïq ruled approx-
imately 110 years after Abu’l-Ghāzī had died (it did not occur to Vámbéry that the Abu’l-Ghāzī in
question may have been the puppet khan Abu’l-Ghāzī who was khan during some of Dāniyāl Biy’s
tenure, although he did not rule for 21 years). The scribe further explained that since Tīmūr’s death
399 years had passed, and that he copied the work around 1092 A.H. All the dates, of course, do not
make much sense (H. Vambéry, “Eine legendäre Geschichte Tīmūrs,” ZDMG [1897], 216.)
42 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

featured a collection of “Turkestani” tales. Again, Klemm did not attempt to

analyze any aspects of the story and merely provided a translation.92
During his expedition in Central Asia in the early 1920s in order to catalogue
manuscripts in Bukhara, the Russian orientalist A. A. Semenov encountered
a significant number of literary productions consisting of stories and narratives
about Tīmūr. Semenov dismissively associated these tales with the “Â�typical
chatter that dominates idle conversations in tea-shops and guest-houses”
(choikhonas and mihmonkhonas).93 Nevertheless, in his efforts to identify the
origins of these Tīmūr-nāma manuscripts, Semenov came to the Â�conclusion
that they were based on a late fifteenth-century poetic work titled Tīmūr-
nāma, authored by ‘Abdallāh Hātifī, the celebrated poet of the Safavid court
who had worked for a while under the patronage of Shāh Ismā‘īl Safavi.94
However, it seems that the connection is not strong. Hātifī’s Tīmūr-nāma is
a long poem, whereas the biographies in question are in prose. Although the
rendering of poetry into prose was a rather commonplace phenomenon in the
Muslim world, the problem lies elsewhere. First, although authors of Tīmūr-
nāmas acknowledge€– already in the introduction, as we have seen€– Hātifī
as one of their many sources, his poem is not prominently featured in the
legendary biographies and is relatively insignificant. Almost all the anecdotes
and stories reported in the Books of Tīmūr are not found in Hātifī’s Tīmūr-
nāma. In fact, the compilers of Tīmūr’s biographies probably copied verses
from Hātifī and inserted them every once in a while into the text.95 Semenov’s
comments from the early 1920s were, for several decades, the only reference
to the Tīmūr-nāma, notwithstanding descriptions in other catalogues and bio-
bibliographical surveys.
In the mid-1990s, Devin DeWeese used the Kunūz al-a‘zam as part of his
extensive study of the Islamization of the Golden Horde, the westernmost
part of the Mongol Empire, and the narrative cycle about Sayyid Ata and his
descendants. Sayyid Ata fulfilled a crucial role in the conversion to Islam of
the peoples of the Golden Horde, and his reputation in the region is still pre-
sent today. He was described in different sources as occupying the position of
naqīb, a military rank carrying special administrative duties and ceremonial

92
V. Klemm, “Predanie o rozhdenii Tamerlana,” in Turkestanskiĭ literaturnyĭ sbornik v pol’zu proka-
zhennykh (St. Petersburg, 1900), 304–14. Much like the modern Uzbek rendition, this transla-
tion, too, has many errors in transcription:€Amir Qazaghan is introduced as Amir Karagan, Mount
Ghazgham as Mount Karagan, Tegina Begïm as Neki Bigim, and so forth.
93
A. A. Semenov, Katalog rukopiseĭ istoricheskogo otdela Bukharskoĭ Tsentral’noĭ biblioteki
(Tashkent, 1925), 26.
94
See Abdallāh Hātifī, Tīmūr-nāma, ed. Abu Hashim Sayyid Yusha’ (Madras:€University of Madras,
1958). On Hātifī’s work, see Michele Bernardini, “Hātifī’s Tīmūrnama and Qasimi’s Shahnameh-yi
Ismā‘īl:€Considerations towards a Double Critical Edition,” in Society and Culture in the Modern
Middle East, ed. Andrew J. Newman, 3–18; and more recently by the same author, Mémoire et pro-
paganda à l’époque Timouride (Paris, 2008), 127–44.
95
Miklukho-Maklai reported that verses from Hātifī were interlaced in the beginning of one of the St.
Petersburg manuscripts.
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 43

functions, in the army of Özbek Khan, leader of the Golden Horde (r. 1313–
1341). In one of the stories featured in Tīmūr’s legendary biographies, the
khan vowed to assign the office of the niqābat to Sayyid Ata’s descendants.
DeWeese was justifiably reluctant to try and define the Kunūz, but he did
point out correctly that although the work seemed to be fraught with “consid-
erable problems,” it had been unduly denigrated by historians.96

Popularity, Orality, and Genre

While discussing the narrative cycle of Edigü, the powerful military com-
mander of the Golden Horde and celebrated founder of the Noghay state,
DeWeese noted the “remarkable persistence and widespread popularity of
tales and legends” about Tīmūr. The most prevalent feature that both Edigü
and Tīmūr shared was their status as tribal leaders who successfully chal-
lenged the power of the khans. This recognition, according to DeWeese, con-
tinued to “dwarf any popular literature devoted to Chingisid khans.”97
In other words, evaluating this body of literary works as “popular” should
take under consideration not only its considerable production, its continued
circulation, its relatively straightforward language, and its oral dimension, but
also its distinct standing as providing a voice for the “tribal” element. The
contents of Tīmūr’s biographical corpus were, in fact, positing an alternative
to the aq-süyek (the “white bones”) or altan urugh (the “golden clan”), that is,
to the elite of the originally steppe-born hierarchies that elevated the descen-
dants of Chinggis Khan to the position of exclusive claimants to legitimate
monarchy, a claim that they (or their ancestors) initiated, fashioned, and per-
petuated. Of course, the Chinggisid ideal was so potent, so well-engrained in
society and principles of governance, that it was not easily dismissed (or even
necessarily desired to be dismissed). The pressure for a new vision for state
and society that emerged in Central Asia in the eighteenth century certainly
also came into play in Tīmūr’s biographies.
The popular standing of Books of Tīmūr€– that we have labeled the “popular
history” of Central Asia€– is naturally difficult to determine. Popularity has
been always a rather vague term, and the tools that we posses to measure it
in eighteenth-century Central Asia are far from ideal. As outlined previously,
one may argue that what made Books of Tīmūr popular are the sheer num-
ber of surviving manuscripts when compared to other works from the era;
the continuity in production and copying of the biographies, almost without

96
Devin DeWeese, “The Descendants of Sayyid Ata and the Rank of naqīb in Central Asia,” JAOS
115/4 (1995), 613. Elsewhere, DeWeese referred briefly to the Kunūz as a “legendary history” of
Central Asia. (Devin DeWeese, Islamization and Native Religion in the Golden Horde:€Baba Tükles
and Conversion to Islam in Historical and Epic Tradition, University Park, PA:€Pennsylvania State
University Press, 1994, 228, n. 155.)
97
DeWeese, Islamization, 340.
44 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

interruption, from the eighteenth century down to the present; the notion that
parts of the work began as oral traditions that were ultimately put into writing;
the unclear provenance and the absence of apparent official patronage that
would have dictated a clear agenda for the texts (and the fact that the work
survived despite not having clear patrons); and finally, the language used in
the text that has been clearly modified to accommodate a more “ordinary”
audience. We will revisit some of these criteria next.
In his work on the Sīrat ‘Antar, the well-known epic of the pre-Islamic
Arab poet ‘Antara ibn Shaddād, Peter Heath designed a scheme to help
define the characteristics of popular literary works. He made several dis-
tinctions between “elite,” “popular,” and “folk” compositions by following
several categories of assessment:€the qualifications of the text’s author or
creator,98 the venue of performance or publication, the accessibility of the
text, the audience, the aesthetic goals of the text, the social and geograph-
ical circumstances, and the context. To be considered “elite,” a text would
be characteristically produced by a professional, namely one who was
explicitly compensated for his work and also may have belonged to a cer-
tain social or economic class. The venue for the performance or publication
of “elite” texts would be restricted and unique, inaccessible to the general
public. The audience would be educated, adult, and “hierarchical” (partic-
ularly by status). Furthermore, the text itself would tend to be, in Heath’s
words, “restricted, set, unique and equivocal,” emphasizing the significance
of its integrity and complexity. The text’s aesthetic goals would aim for
“edification and singularity,” and its social/geographical setting would be
city-oriented. Based on these criteria, most of the official court chronicles
from Central Asia in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries would easily
be classified as elite.
The picture changes somewhat with Heath’s introduction of “popular” texts.
Although most also seem to have been produced by professionals or special-
ists, the venue for their performance was more public and less restricted, invit-
ing diverse audiences, including “elite” audiences, to attend. Audiences were
not necessarily specialist and educated, but more broad and diverse, including
both urban and rural spectators and listeners. Significantly, the audience in
this grouping was not limited to adults.99 The texts were not as constrained
by certain forms and content, but, in Heath’s words, remained “accessible,
variable, formulaic and univocal.” One of their aesthetic goals, in addition
to their didactic aspirations, was clearly to entertain, and their contexts were
“transportable.” The main difference between “popular” and “folk” in Heath’s
categorization seems to be the emphasis in the latter group on the works’ very

98
Whom Heath referred to as the text’s “producer.”
99
The idea that orientation toward the younger members of the audience was one of the ways to
measure the text’s popularity supports our consideration of Books of Tīmūr as popular, particularly
given the recent edition of the text published in Uzbekistan.
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 45

local, communal, and regional appeal that may imply fairly restricted geo-
graphical and social settings.100
If we follow Heath’s classification, Tīmūr’s heroic apocrypha appear to
have embraced the first two levels of production and performance (“elite”
and “popular”). Nevertheless, before jumping to conclusions let us examine
more ways to assess popularity. Efforts to identify and characterize popular-
ity of written works in different parts of the Muslim world also pointed to
more culture-specific and less thematic criteria. Most of these efforts were
attempted with a certain degree of reluctance due to the illusive nature of the
evidence. Jean Calmard, for example, recognized two decisive factors for the
classification of “popular literature” in Safavid Iran:101 On the one hand, he
considered popular the literary works that were recited by professional sto-
rytellers (qisseh-khvān, daftar-khvān, naqqāl, ma‘rakagīr, and so on), a sur-
prisingly poorly researched topic in Central Asian history. On the other hand,
Calmard considered popular those literary creations that were banned by reli-
gious decrees, mostly issued by Twelver Imami mujtahids. Calmard claimed
that such banned texts were either inevitably popular or had the potential of
becoming popular, otherwise there would be no need to outlaw them. I am
unaware of similar Islamic rulings against particular stories or storytelling in
Central Asia in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and even if they did
exist (in a counter-Shi’ite, Sunni context), they probably would not apply to
Tīmūr’s biographies.
The Persian folklorist Mohammad Ja‘far Mahjub suggested the following,
content-based groupings for popular literature during Iran’s Qajar era:€ sto-
ries that emanated from the storytellers’ imagination; stories that somehow
related to historical figures (here he lists such texts as the Eskandar-nāme
and Rostam-nāme); stories that centered on illustrious religious figures; sto-
ries that “embellished the historical role of religious characters (such as the
Moxtār-nāme)”; stories about romantic adventures (here he lists Haft paykar-e
Bahrām-gur, Čahār darviš, Sendebād-nāme, and so forth); stories focusing
on animal actors; and also “minor works of classical Persian poets in pop-
ular editions.”102 Interestingly, this division was not necessarily the division
that the Iranians themselves made at the time. For instance, in Hājji Musā’s
catalogue of printed books dated to the middle of the nineteenth century, we

100
Peter Heath, The thirsty sword:€Sīrat Antar and the Arabic popular epic (University of Utah Press,
1996), 47. Heath cautioned that the picture that he painted was not a pure and simple elite/populace
dichotomy.
101
Calmard admitted that the concept of popular literature was “difficult to delineate.” In the end, he
did not, in fact, define popularity (Calmard, “Popular Literature”).
102
Cited in Ulrich Marzolph, “Persian Popular Literature in the Qajar Period,” Asian Folklore Studies
60/2 (2001), 217. Marzolph explained that this categorization applied to the late Qajar era, and
that the popularity of these works also depended heavily on their distribution in the advent of
print and therefore tended to ignore their oral heritage. (Work titles are given here in Marzolph’s
transcription.)
46 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

find a different kind of classification of literary works. This included books,

mainly texts on historic people and events as well as many works that we
would probably label “hagiographies,” texts on Shi’i materials such as Hasan
and Husayn’s martyrdom, collections of poetry, tales and stories, and readings
for children.103 In the group classified as tales and stories (qesse ve hekāyāt)
we find, among other works, the Alexander Romance, One Thousand and
One Nights, ‘Ajā’eb al-maxluqāt, Rostam-nāme, and the Anvār-e Sohayli.
This grouping would clearly be at odds with the division of popular literature
in the late Qajar era outlined by Mahjub or even with our understanding of
the history of Persian literature today. In the books for kids (BaččE-XvĀNI, in
Marzolph’s unusual transcription), the catalogue’s compiler also listed works
that had been considered an essential part of the canon of popular literature in
many parts of the Muslim world, such as Layli va Majnun, Širin va Farhād,
Čehel tuti, and Yusof va Zolayxā.104
In contrast with Iran, the study of institutions of professional storytellers in
Central Asia in comparable eras is still in its infancy. There seems to be enough
indirect evidence in Tīmūr’s biographies to suggest that they formed an essen-
tial part of the repertoire of storytellers in Central Asia; and the chapbook-like
features of the biographies, albeit rather modest and sometimes ambiguous,
may bear a distant resemblance to the tumār, the outline in prose of the more
developed narrative or epic poem that the storyteller used in order to help him
memorize and improvise upon the original text.105 In some cases, the tumār
is reputed to have been as long as the text it was purported to �represent.106
Although Books of Tīmūr do not feature the same tumāresque markers
that storytellers used, for example, to indicate a variety of interjections and
sequences, the language of the biographies is abundant with expressions that
reveal a clear function for a storyteller (such as “the storyteller says that,”
“now let us hear about,” “we have now arrived at the story of,” or “listen to”
this or the other). This would indicate a performative aspect for our texts and
also perhaps serve as evidence that some of the stories were pulled from a
reservoir of tales that fit the general premise of the biographies.107 It is fairly
clear that among the host of sources used by the author of the Tīmūr-nāma, a

103
Ibid., 223.
104
Marzolph argued that one of the guidelines that seemed to inform the compiler had been the length
of the text€– the “children books” were generally much shorter than their counterparts in other sec-
tions. (Marzolph, “Persian Popular Literature,” 231.)
105
See also Mary Ellen Page, “Professional Storytelling in Iran:€Transmission and Practice,” Iranian
Studies 12/3–4 (Summer-Autumn, 1979), 198.
106
See for example, Kumiko Yamamoto, The Oral Background of Persian Epics:€ Storytelling and
Poetry (Boston, MA:€Brill, 2003), 29.
107
We should add that, as opposed to most (by no means all) oral epic poetry in Eurasia, the hero of
the Tīmūr-nāma was a real, historical figure. Whether or not it made a difference for the audience
is unclear.
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 47

special place was reserved for oral traditions, again judging by the language
of the text. Nevertheless, with no access to the original “oral tradition,” many
questions are left unanswered:€What exactly happened to the oral tradition
part of the narrative once it was put into writing? Was this a genuine turning
point in the history of the “work”? Was there a change in language from oral
usage to literary usage? Has the language become more simplified or more
embellished for the readers? And how does the oral tradition function along-
side the written text?108
Orality has always been important in Central Asia, in both official and
unofficial capacities.109 Under certain circumstances, formal records (not
only popular tales) also required public recitation. The stipulation for pub-
lic readings or reenactments of a document (for example, on the occasion
of its renewal or on a periodic basis) was often specified in the documents
themselves. Consequently, the act of announcing a document’s contents or the
reading of the paper out loud for the purpose of its public confirmation helped
maintain, as Florian Schwarz convincingly suggested, “the integrity of the
community” in what became a genuine communal ritual.110 Although the oral
dimensions of the Books of Tīmūr were clearly important, we have no direct
evidence, beyond our earlier suggestions, that these texts were actually per-
formed and served in a similar capacity as, for example, the aforementioned
formal document. Besides several clues in the language of the biographies, all
other evidence that points to the public retelling of Tīmūr’s life story remains
fundamentally circumstantial.
The existence of storytellers in Central Asia in the eighteenth century,
whether as individuals or arranged in guilds, is assumed but not confirmed as
they emerge more compellingly in the sources only later. Arminius Vámbéry,
for example, reported that during his visit to Bukhara, he saw in front of the
mosque and the palace, “dervishes and meddahs (storytellers) recount the
heroic deeds of renowned prophets and warriors, distorting their features in
every possible way as they do so, to a large and curious audience.”111 By the
end of the nineteenth century, Ole Olufsen, a Danish officer and explorer,
reported that

108
See also the previously mentioned recent work on the interaction between oral and written tradi-
tions in the Shāh-nāma (Yamamoto, The Oral Background).
109
A general discussion about orality and textuality in Central Asia, primarily in the realm of Islamic
education, may be found in Adeeb Khalid, The Politics of Muslim Cultural Reform:€Jadidism in
Central Asia (Berkeley:€ University of California Press, 1999), 22–25. In this part of his study,
Khalid relied primarily on the memoirs of Sadr al-Din Aini (1878–1954), one of Central Asia’s
most prominent Tajik authors.
110
Florian Schwarz, “An endowment deed of 1547 (953 h.) for a Kubravi khanaqah in Samarkand,”
in Die Grenzen der Welt:€Arabica et Iranica ad honorem Heinz Gaube, eds. Lorenz Korn, Eva
Orthmann, and Florian Schwarz (Wiesbaden:€Reichert Verlag, 2008), 195.
111
Arminius Vámbéry, Arminius Vambery:€ His Life and Adventures, written by himself (London,
1884), 224.
48 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

“Public readers are seen everywhere, especially in the larger towns. Outside the mosques
or medresses they take their stand on the pavement where they begin their recital of
Persian fables, Persian poets or the like, sometimes they also read a section of the history
of Bokhara, Samarkand or Tīmūr or some saint’s legend. Sitting on a small carpet or a mat
they deliver their subject in a monotonous voice and pray Allah to yield the number of Puls
which have to be thrown to them during the recital. Nearly every afternoon such recitals
take place at Bokhara and the larger towns; in the villages the public readers are often itin-
erant mullahs.”112

The Danish officer’s useful account of the “public readers” was immediately
followed by a description of “bear-leaders,” “itinerant jugglers with Â�monkeys,”
“performing goats, civets or venomous serpents,” and the like. Olufsen clearly
assigned to the entire range of these “folk-arts” a primarily entertaining
component, even if he seemed to consider storytelling the least entertaining
medium, at least with respect to the performers that he had seen.
Similar descriptions, perhaps with more appreciation for the storytellers,
were provided by other visitors to the region, among them also Olufsen’s
contemporaries, Francis Henry Skrine and Edward Denison Ross. They stated
that “the Rigistan113 is a happy hunting-ground for the ethnologist. Here one
may listen unmolested to the professional storyteller, who holds his audience
enthralled by oft-repeated tales of ancient chivalry.”114 They mentioned the
maddāh, “who stands while he relates edifying or amusing anecdotes,” and
the risālachi, “who, seated on the ground, recites tales and legends in verse
to a monotonous accompaniment on the two-stringed lute.”115 The storytellers
were attended by an audience, some of whom came for the story and others
who were helping the storyteller achieve his goal:€“Two or three men or boys
sit down at a distance of some ten yards facing the story-teller, and, through-
out the entertainment, ejaculate at fixed intervals (as it were punctuating the
commas and full stops in the story) such words as hakkan, ‘of a truth,’ and
khūsh, ‘bravo,’ etc.”116 Among the repertoire of stories that they heard, Skrine

112
Ole Olufsen, The Emir of Bokhara and His Country:€ Journeys and Studies in Bokhara (1911),
434.
113
The main square in Samarqand.
114
Henry Francis Skrine and Edward Denison Ross, The Heart of Asia:€ A History of Russian
Turkestan and the Central Asian Khanates from the Earliest Times (London:€ Methuen & Co.,
1899), 401. Nicolai Khanykov reported in the early 1840s that the places for performances often
were large spaces in front of religious and administrative institutions, town squares, and special
areas in markets. Apparently, during holy days people would gather in the courtyards of the great
mosques in Bukhara “for amusement.” Unfortunately, Khanykov was not specific about the types
of said amusements. (N. Khanykov, Bokhara; Its Amir and Its People, tr. Baron Clemet A. de
Bode, London:€J. Madden, 1845, 120.)
115
On the terminology of the different performers in Central Asia, see later in the chapter, and also
Karl Reichl, Turkic Epic Oral Poetry:€Traditions, Forms, Poetic Structures (New York:€Garland,
1992), 57–91.
116
Skrine and Ross, The Heart of Asia, 401.
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 49

and Ross mentioned only one, a story about a certain Bukharan amir named
‘Abdullah.117
As mentioned, we have little research on storytellers in Central Asia, even
if Semenov gave the impression that the Tīmūr-nāma was the topic for count-
less exchanges in tea shops and guest houses almost a century ago.118 It is safe
to say that most attention in this regard has been directed to the study of simi-
lar institutions of singers and reciters of epic tradition among Central Asia’s
nomads.119 Although there is some overlap between the different traditions
and their presentations, it seems that this study deals with a different type
of story and context and with performers and singers in the khanates’ more
urban �centers, who had served a different function and performed an entirely
�different repertoire.120 There is also a difference between the �professional
�storytellers of Iran and those of Central Asia.
Probably the most useful anthropological study on this subject was con-
ducted by A. L. Troitskaya. Focusing primarily on Samarqand, Tashkent,
and Qoqand, Troitskaya maintained that by the end of the nineteenth century
most qalandars (itinerant dervishes) in the areas under Russian rule could be
found in Samarqand.121 In addition, according to Troitskaya’s informants, in
late-nineteenth-century Tashkent there were approximately two hundred sto-
rytellers (maddāh) and their families organized in corporations€– in Tashkent
the corporation maintained close ties with guilds of qalandars.122 Often the
maddāhs would walk around the city in small groups that included students or
followers, and once they arrived at their designated place, the students would
begin to attract the audience with singing and acting. When enough audience
had gathered, the storyteller would begin his recitation.123 In Qoqand dur-
ing the colonial era, the maddāhs had gathered around the great mosque on
Fridays. Some recited verses by Sufi poets; others recited hadiths or Qur’anic

117
It is unclear whether the two authors witnessed these performances together or independently.
118
See Semenov, Katalog, 26.
119
For general references on the significance of oral epic poetry in the region see DeWeese,
Islamization, 517, n. 27.
120
See for example, Karl Reichl, “Oral Tradition and Performance of the Uzbek and Karakalpak Epic
Singers,” in Fragen der mongolischen Heldendichtung. Teil III (Vorträge des 4. Epensymposiums
des Sonderforschungsbereiches 12, Bonn 1983), ed. W. Heissig (Wiesbaden:€Otto Harrassowitz,
1985), Asiatische Forschungen, Bd. 91/III, 613–43. I am also unaware of the historical continuity
of institutions of reciters of religious works, such as Dr. Kleinmichel describes in her study about
the twentieth century. See Sigrid Kleinmichel, Halpa in Choresm und Atin Ayi im Ferghanatal, Zur
Geschichte des Lesens in Usbekistan, ANOR 4 (Berlin:€Das Arabische Buch, 2001).
121
A. L. Troĭtskaia, “Iz proshlogo kalandarov i maddakhov v Uzbekistane,” in Domusul’manskie
verovaniia i obriady v Sredneĭ Azii (Moscow:€Nauka, 1975), 192. See also E. Allworth, “Masrah.
5. In Central Asia and Afghanistan,” EI² VI, 764–72.
122
The maddāh, sometimes pronounced maddakh in Central Asia, originally signified a panegyrist
but came to be known as a storyteller in the Turkic world. See also P. N. Boratav, “Maddāh” EI² V,
951.
123
Troĭtskaia, “Iz proshlogo kalandarov,” 199.
50 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

passages. Typical performance places used to be the open courts in front of

mosques, particularly after the midday prayer, or in town squares, and during
holidays also in tea shops and in bazaars. Their repertoire, once they started
their performance, would be composed of dāstāns.124 As examples for popu-
lar tales, Troitskaya mentions stories about Baba Rahīm Mashrab125 or Mulla
Nasradin Effendi,126 or even stories about Bāyazīd Bistāmī and ‘Abd al-Qādir
al-Jīlānī.127 One famous personality, the subject of numerous heroic tales,
that is missing from Troitskaya’s report is Tīmūr. Granted, Troitskaya did not
conduct her research in Bukhara, seemingly the capital of the Tīmūr-related
stories that are the subject of this study, but she did visit Samarqand. Her
research, as revealing as it was, was conducted in the 1940s and was undoubt-
edly burdened with restrictions, whether placed directly by Soviet academic
standards or by implied understanding of the populace of their required degree
of cooperation. Could it be that this is why she did not report any Tīmūr-
related stories as part of the storytellers’ repertoire? We have little indication
of the performance of these or related stories also before Soviet rule. Neither
earlier scholars who had excelled in the collection of folkloric materials (such
as Wilhelm Radloff and Chokan Valikhanov) nor more recent specialists on
Central Asian epic traditions (such as Victor Zhirmunsky and Karl Reichl)
reported witnessing or collecting any Tīmūr-related materials.128 The same
is probably true for the more “national” phase under Soviet rule. The type of
materials that the Soviets encouraged to collect regarding the “national” folk-
lore of the different Central Asian groups did not include Books of Tīmūr. This
lack of registration of such materials may be due to scholars’ concentration on
the more nomadic populations of the region and may provide further evidence
that Tīmūr’s reputation was both more limited to Central Asia’s urban parts
and may have been less “folkloric” than other materials.

124
The dāstān, in its Uzbek context, was a written version of an oral epic, typically a mixture of verse
and prose. The first versions of dāstāns that we have date to the late nineteenth century, although
many had been collected later by the Soviets. On the variations of the term, see Reichl, Turkic
Oral Epic Poetry, 124. See also Dan Prior’s recent introduction to Central Asian folklore (D.
Prior, “Folklore€– Central Asia,” in Encyclopedia of Modern Asia, eds. David Levinson and Karen
Christensen, New York:€Charles Scribner, 2002, vol. 2, 392–95).
125
Baba Rahīm Mashrab (or Shah Mashrab), nicknamed dīvāna (the madman), was a poet and an itin-
erant dervish in early eighteenth-century Central Asia (he was executed in 1711) who composed
poetry that has been usually interpreted as criticism of the upper echelons of society. Mashrab
became a popular folkloric figure in Central Asia in later centuries.
126
Mulla Nasrudin is a legendary folkloric figure, often comical, whose tales and jokes served (and
still serve) audiences across the Middle East and Central Asia as a source of entertainment and
instruction.
127
Bāyazīd Bistāmī was one of the most well-known early Muslim mystics (d. 874) who had spent
most his life in Khorasan and whose sayings have been celebrated throughout the Muslim world.
‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī (d. 1166) was a Hanbali scholar and eponymous founder of the Qādiriyya,
one of the oldest Sufi orders.
128
Nora K. Chadwick and Viktor M. Zhirmunskii, Oral epics of Central Asia (London:€Cambridge
University Press, 1969).
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 51

Therefore, if we accept Heath’s classification of the elite, popular, and

folk repertoire, although Tīmūr’s biographies may carry folkloric elements, it
seems that they primarily matched both elite and popular standards. The texts
probably emerged within an elite setting, perhaps with different goals than
what they had later become, but made their way beyond the elite to other seg-
ments of the population. They were supported and sponsored€– as an expen-
sive production€ – by donors of means. We may assume also that stories in
the biographies had survived in oral tradition, even if the bulk of evidence
supports their preservation in written form, having been copied painstakingly
in lengthy oeuvres. Although we can acknowledge or identify the oral dimen-
sions or motifs in the prose, some of them clearly manifested in the language
of the text, it is hard to apply the same judgment that folklorists would to a
performance of a tradition that they observe, record, and collect testimonies
about.
Returning to the questions of genre and genre boundaries, the exclusion of
the biographies from the registry of the Central Asian epic repertoire adds to
all the other factors (language, style, presentation, and so forth) that rule out
the consideration of the Books of Tīmūr as epics. We refrain from labeling
Tīmūr’s legendary biographies as “hagiographies” even if they carry hagio-
graphical properties and even if shaykhs and mystics played very important
roles in them. The manāqib genre, too, is inappropriate, as this is not really the
kind of an exemplary biography “of a laudatory nature,” and the main char-
acter (Tīmūr) does not perform miraculous deeds, even if he is surrounded by
Sufis and holy men who accomplish such feats on a regular basis.129
The biographies bear some resemblance to the sīra (biography) genre, par-
ticularly to the later segments of the genre that had been dedicated mostly to
heroes and rulers. Possible insights into the world of the Books of Tīmūr may
be gained by comparing them€– guardedly€– with the Sīrat Baybars, one of the
great sagas of the Arab World.130 This narrative cycle about the Mamlūk sultan
al-Zāhir Baybars (r. 1260–1277) seems to have been a collection of stories€–
mostly oral traditions, it is assumed€– that were remembered and performed
in front of an audience and continue to serve in this very capacity today. The
comparison with Tīmūr’s biographies is worthwhile, not only because the
works have much in common, but also because the state of research on the

129
See Ch. Pellat, “Manākib,” EI² VI, 349.
130
For the purpose of this study I used the French translation of the sīra. See Roman de Baïbars,
traduit de l’arabe et annoté par Georges Bohas et Jean-Patrick Guillaume (Paris:€Sindbad, 1985),
4 vols. On the history of the Sīra, see Thomas Herzog, “La Sîrat Baybars, histoire d’un texte,” in
the recent valuable collection of articles on the work under the editorship of Jean-Claude Garcin
(ed.), Lectures du Roman de Baybars, 31–60. This collection features thirteen articles about the
sīra and its implications, from a history of the text itself, a history of research, the placement of
the text within certain literary and folkloric traditions, the implications of the text for today’s Arab
world, and so forth. One can only hope that Tīmūr’s biographies will receive similar attention in
the future.
52 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

sīra is much more advanced than the research on the Books of Tīmūr. Similar
to Tīmūr’s legendary biographies, the sīra was also put into writing several
centuries after the ruler’s death, although almost all of the existing manu-
scripts of the work are from the nineteenth century.131
The sīra begins with the story of Baybars’ climb to kingship in accordance
with an ancient prophecy that would coincide with bringing about the final
victory of the Muslims over their great rivals€– the Christian Franks and the
“fire-worshipping” Mongols. Sīrat Baybars tells the story of the young prince
who was betrayed by his brothers and thrown in a pit only to be rescued by
a passing caravan of merchants who then sold him to slavery.132 He subse-
quently fell gravely ill. More or less at the same time, the Ayyūbid Sultān of
Egypt, al-Sālih Ayyūb (r. 1240–1249) had a forceful dream in which he was
attacked in the desert by a band of ferocious hyenas. As he was on the verge
of losing the battle, he was rescued by a group of lions, led by a most formi-
dable large lion. After consulting with his astrologers and dream interpret-
ers, the Sultān decided to purchase Turkic mamlūks to help him withstand
a potential onslaught. Among these mamlūks one was supposed to possess
extraordinary qualities. The Sultān sent a merchant to Asia Minor to pur-
chase the slaves and among them was young Baybars who was then seriously
ill. He was so ill that the merchant was forced to leave him in Damascus on
his way to Cairo. It is in Damascus that Baybars would begin to acquire a
reputation for being the shield of the poor, the companion of the high and
mighty, and the protector of Islam. He eventually moved to Cairo, where
his adventures continued. Reminiscent of Tīmūr’s biographies, the sīra is a
collection of half-historical tales brought to the reader (or listener, or specta-
tor) in a chronological order, from the hero’s birth (or rather, the prophecy of
his imminent birth) to his death. Because each tale is complex and, to some
extent, independent, the stories could be read separately. In other words,
there was no real need to read (or recite) those stories from the beginning of
the narrative to its end. It sufficed to join the text at some point and assume
that matters would become clear independently of the other stories. One may
assume that the stories gradually became familiar to the audience, and they
already knew what to expect. For the most part, Tīmūr’s biographies seem to
offer more continuity than the sīra.
Why was the sīra written? Similar to the Books of Tīmūr, Sīrat Baybars
also offers no explanation regarding the circumstances of its composition.
Perhaps surprisingly, there have been hardly any attempts to examine the

131
But even after 180 years of scholarship (by no means extensive) on the work, scholars are still
incapable of finding the “mother” copy of the text. Our earliest copy (merely a few fragments) of
the work is from the seventeenth century, although it seems likely that some version of the sīra
existed in the sixteenth century and even earlier. See Jean-Patrick Guillaume,€“La Sîrat Baybars et
la tradition du roman épique Arabe,” in Lectures du Roman de Baybars, 62–63.
132
Echoing the story of the biblical Joseph.
 The Origins and Usages of Tīmūr’s Heroic Apocrypha 53

reasons for the production of Sīrat Baybars. Recently, Jane Hathaway raised
the possibility that the sīra, as well as other folkloric materials, were used
for the indoctrination of various “grandees” who came from many different
backgrounds to Ottoman Egypt. Thus, the work complemented the sources of
knowledge of the Ottoman rulers of Egypt when they came to administer the
territories that had previously been under Mamlūk rule.133 Hathaway claims
that nostalgia to the Mamlūk era was “nurtured by folkloric presentations of
key sultans” and that “the transmission of such stories was part of the future
grandee’s education and acculturation.”134
It seems more plausible that the sīra served initially as a counteraction
against external threats or internal predicaments.135 In Sīrat Baybars, the
Franks, the Mongols, and sometimes the Ismā‘īli assassins serve as the per-
sonification of a menacing Other. While fighting them together, Baybars and
the Mamlūks also reinforce their own identity. As we will see later, in Tīmūr’s
biographies Central Asia is constantly challenged, from within and from the
outside, and the challenges often reach apocalyptic dimensions. There is no
single entity that acts as the Other:€The hero, Tīmūr, fights against corrupt
kings, against false prophets, against external enemies (invasions of Qalmuqs,
for example), and against the collapsing world around him. Tīmūr fulfils his
destiny, decreed by the divine, to conquer the world (even if he does not betray
a clear desire to do so) and thus prevent its downfall. Moreover, the legendary
biographies presented an ethos, a moral code and a set of guiding principles
for Islamic communities in Central Asia at a time of crisis (and did so while
providing some entertainment as well). This new ethos called for a collective
effort and for an understanding of the individual’s place in the Islamic society.
At the same time, another message was clearly articulated:€the codependence
of ordinary people and “men of God.” As Gril put it, “the government of
ordinary man depends entirely on the government of the men of God, even if
the latter remain hidden.”136 This vision served different purposes for different
constituencies.

133
Jane Hathaway, “Mamluk ‘Revivals’ and Mamluk Nostalgia in Ottoman Egypt,” in The Mamluks
in Egyptian and Syrian Politics and Society, edited by Michael Winter and Amalia Levanoni
(London:€Brill, 2004), 387–406 (387).
134
Hathaway, “Mamluk,” 389. Hathaway maintains that the construction of an “idealized vision” of
the past and the “exploitation” of the pre-Ottoman past in the provinces served as a source of the
grass-roots authority far from the center and enhanced the grandees’ status within their respective
localities. She further argues that the sīra reflected “Ottoman-era popular memory of the events
of the early Mamluk sultanate, embellished with stock elements of shape-changing wizards and
damsels in distress.” (Ibid., 401.) We have no proof that any “grandees” actually read this material,
and we have no explanation of the transition of the work from a manual for administrators (one
might assume that such a “manual” would enjoy official patronage and we have no evidence of
patronage of any kind) to a popular, public narrative.
135
As hinted by Herzog in “La Sîrat Baybars.”
136
Gril, “Du sultanat au califat universel,” 180.
C hapt e r 2

Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood

Timurid historiography from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries offered

almost no details regarding many aspects of Tīmūr’s private life. We seem
to have no official stories about the ruler’s birth and youth or about his par-
ents. The earliest developed account concerns Tīmūr’s struggle for power in
Mawarannahr when he was already in his twenties and possibly in his thirties.1
Stories in outside sources, either contemporaries such as Ruy Gonzáles de
Clavijo (ambassador to Tīmūr’s court of Henri III, king of Castile and León)
or the historian Ibn ‘Arabshāh (d. 1450), provided a few more details, albeit
briefly, concerning Tīmūr’s humble economic origins€– even if his father did
serve in some function at the court of a local amir€– and his early career in
sheep stealing and brigandage.2
The story that begins the biographical cycle details the circumstances sur-
rounding Tīmūr’s birth and his early childhood. The city of Bukhara emerges
as the seat of power of the Chaghatayid realm. Parts of the Chaghatayid
lineage, as perceived by the storytellers of the eighteenth century, are intro-
duced, as well as the connection to Chinggis Khan. They explain the claim
to the kingship of Central Asia not only of the Chaghatay khans but also of
the Barlas tribe. As they treasure Bukhara’s prominence, readers and listeners
become acquainted with one of the pivotal figures in the city’s history and in
Tīmūr’s early life, Sayf al-Din Bākharzī, who performs a commanding role
as the formidable Central Asian Sufi shaykh. He is a spiritual leader but also
a man of means, a mediator between the people and the authorities, and a
possessor of hidden knowledge communicated to him by the divine. He is the
true king maker in the initial story. The Chinggisid khans, with the exception
of Bayān-Qulī Khan’s three-year reign, are portrayed as heartless, brutal, and
corrupt. Their destructive traits and malevolent conduct even engender an alli-
ance of ordinary folk, Sufis, and amirs (the military commanders) against the

1
Beatrice F. Manz, “Tamerlane and the Symbolism of Sovereignty,” Iranian Studies 21/1–2 (1988),
115–16.
2
Ibid., 116.

54
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 55

Chinggisid stratum, and time and again the storytellers depict the decline of
the Chinggisid house down to its near-final demise.
Owing to the mediation of the shaykh, who is aware of the divine backing
for Tīmūr’s eventual rise to prominence, Taraghāi Bahādur, the Barlas chief-
tain destined to become Tīmūr’s father, encounters Tegina Begïm, a daugh-
ter of a prominent legal scholar, destined to become the hero’s mother. This
blessed union is achieved with some difficulty, as there are many constituen-
cies in Bukhara€– and throughout the rest of the known world of the time€–
who are unhappy with the emergence of a new world conqueror. Following
Tīmūr’s birth, a birth that Tīmūr’s father (away in battle at the time) was
unable to witness, the mother and infant find refuge in the estate of Amir
Chāku, another prominent member of the Barlas. News of the birth of the
ordained child spreads far and wide, and the rulers of the known world send
their representatives to assassinate him. Tīmūr is saved through the interven-
tion of Shaykh Bākharzī (by then already deceased), and the end of the chap-
ter witnesses the final reunion of the family.

Account of the Birth of Sāhib-qirān, Conqueror of the World3

The storyteller narrates that Sāhib-qirān’s father was Amir Taraghāi Bahādur,
a descendant of Qarāchār Noyān,4 who was a relative5 of Temüjin, who is
now known as Chinggis Khan. When Chinggis Khan returned from the anni-
hilation of Iran6 to his capital Qaraqorum in Moghulistan, he summoned
his beloved son whose name was Chaghatay Khan and appointed him gov-
ernor of Mawarannahr and Ferghana. Chaghatay made his vizier Qarāchār
Noyān accompany him,7 and made representatives of the thirty-two tribes go
with him as well, and now they are called Aimāq.8 Chaghatay Khan made
the city of Kashghar his capital and gave Mawarannahr to Qarāchār Noyān.9
Chaghatay’s descendants became the kings of Mawarannahr and Ferghana

3
Kunūz, 17–50. The manuscript has two systems of pagination (pages and folios). I refer to the page
system.
4
Noyān was a Mongol military rank, by and large meaning “commander.”
5
Amm-zāda. Literally, a paternal uncle’s son.
6
Probably a reference to the famed devastation in Khorasan after the Mongol invasions in the early
1220s.
7
Qarāchār was Chaghatay Khan’s head of the keshik (imperial household guard).
8
Cf. with TN Kullīyāt:€“… and made the thirty-two tribes go with him as well, and so the people of
Chaghatay were formed.” The term aimāq, as it appears in the Kunūz, seems to mean only a loose
confederation of mixed tribes and not a specific group. Since the sixteenth century, various traditions
ascribed different numbers for the Uzbek tribes. The most common were either thirty-two or ninety-
two. See also Wolfgang Holzwarth, “The Uzbek State as Reflected in Eighteenth-Century Bukharan
Sources,” AS/EA 60/2 (2006), 342–46.
9
This grant would serve to facilitate Tīmūr’s claim to the throne of Mawarannahr as Qarāchār Noyān’s
descendant.
56 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

one after the other, until the turn of kingship reached Bayān-Qulī Khan ibn
Dūrān Khan.10
Such was the turn of events that in the year 720 Qazān Khan (known as
Malikshāh) sat on the throne in Bukhara.11 And at that time the axis of holy
men, His Holiness Shaykh al-‘Ālam, that is, Shaykh Sayf al-Dīn12 came to
Bukhara.13 The people of Bukhara became his loyal disciples. Such was the
grace of God on the shaykh that he had in his possession seven hundred fine
horses. Qazān Khan was such a tyrant that whomever he summoned, whether
he was of the amirs or of the ordinary folk, had to come to him and, together
with his wife and children, became his property. When the men came to the
shaykh to complain he told them to be patient. Malikshāh heard that the shaykh
had excellent horses and ordered the mounts to be brought to him. “What’s the
use of so much fortune to such a beggar?” he wondered.
He sent a man to the ishān14 to tell him. The shaykh became angry and
wrote an insulting quatrain (rubā‘ī) and sent it to him,
How much longer will you spread your tyranny?
Your virtues could have united the hearts of men.
O tyrant, renounce your intention, abandon oppression.
We have told you that you are inducing your own blood.

That man took the rubā‘ī and gave it to the khan. The khan studied it and
became angry.
“This man has such nerve to write something like this to me,” he thought.
He mounted his horse and prepared to leave with the intention of killing the
shaykh, while his amirs tried to detain him.
News reached the shaykh that the khan was on his way. The shaykh took
an apple and threw it up in the air, saying, “By the time it reaches the ground
God will advise me how to act.” Then he went into meditation. After a while
he said:€“Allāhu akbar,” and raised his head.
When Qazān Khan arrived in Qal‘a-jui a farmer gave him an apple as a gift.
The khan took the apple as he was riding, and started playing with it, tossing
it up in the air. Suddenly, he missed and the apple struck the drum that was
hung at the saddle, making such a noise that the horse threw the khan to the

10
Bayān-Qulī Khan (or Buyān-Qulī Khan) was in fact the son of Surughu Oghul, son of Du’a (r.
1282–1306).
11
Qazān Khan, son of Yasa’ur, son of Du’a, was ruler of the Chaghatayids from 1343 to 1346.
12
Shaykh al-‘Ālam was the appellation of Shaykh Sayf al-Dīn Bākharzī (who was known by this
appellation also in the sixteenth-century work by Öttemish Hājjī). See Devin DeWeese, Islamization
and Native Religion in the Golden Horde:€Baba Tükles and Conversion to Islam in Historical and
Epic Tradition (University Park:€Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994), 357, n. 87.
13
Bākharzī is reputed to have arrived in Bukhara from Khiva, having studied there with Shaykh Najm
al-Dīn Kubrā, the eponymous founder of the Kubravi order (Kubrā is discussed in greater detail in
Chapter 4).
14
That is, to the shaykh.
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 57

ground and his neck broke. Everyone realized that this was the miracle of His
Holiness the ishān. The amirs and the rest of the people came and stood before
the shaykh. Now the people wondered who would be king.
Someone suggested:€“The shaykh is worthy to be the king.” But the shaykh
refused. The people kept coming for a whole year to the shaykh’s khānqāh in
the east of Bukhara to seek his just council.15
One day the shaykh said:€“Take this staff of mine. He who suits this staff
can be king even if he appears to you to be a wretched fellow.”
The people returned to the shaykh asking for further explanation and he
said:€“Go and call out loud the name of Bayān-Qulī Khan. Go to the direction
of Kuhinor. Whatever happens, this staff should fit his stature.”
After that, the people of Bukhara, full of enthusiasm, took the staff and left.
They measured the staff against every man they met, but no person suited the
staff until they reached Bayān-Qulī Khan.
[The story of Bayān-Qulī Khan]
When his uncle Malikshāh was sitting on the throne of kingship, Bayān-
Qulī Khan was eighteen years old. His uncle had ordered him killed, but the
amirs secretly bribed the executioner and put him to flight. Since then he had
been roaming the land in the vicinity of Kuhinor. At that time, the people of
Arlat were settled there.16 One day, he looked to the sky and was watching a
bird of prey17 when something fell from its beak. He came closer and real-
ized that it was a money-belt full of gold coins. He took it and went to the
residence of the Arlat. Someone saw him and recognized the belt and went to
Amir Mu’ayyad Arlat (the gold belonged to Amir Mu’ayyad).18 He accused
the khan of stealing the money. The khan tried to explain what had happened
but he did not believe him and imprisoned him. The khan never told him that
he was actually a prince.
At night he saw Shaykh al-‘Ālam in a dream. When he woke up he man-
aged to break his chains. He fled, pretending to be a beggar, and reached
Mount Ghażghām.19 He hid in caves and lamented his misfortune until an
old woman and her husband, a shepherd, found him and adopted him as their
son. The shepherd trained him for one year, and he worked as a shepherd until
the group of men from Bukhara happened upon him. He saw them walking
around shouting, “Bayān-Qulī Khan.”
“Young man,” they asked him. “Did you see Bayān-Qulī Khan?”
“What do you want with him?” he asked.

15
On the shaykh’s khānqāh, see fn. 23 to this chapter.
16
On the Arlat, described by Ibn ‘Arabshāh as one of the four main tribes in the ulus Chaghatay, see
Beatrice Forbes Manz, The Rise and Rule of Tamerlane (Cambridge:€Cambridge University Press,
1980), 155–6.
17
Most likely, a kite.
18
The historic Amir Mu’ayyad was Tīmūr’s brother-in-law and one of his close companions.
19
A mountain in the vicinity of Samarqand.
58 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

The men explained the situation. Then they placed the staff in his hand and
saw that it was exactly his height.
They were all amazed, thinking, “How can this miserable fellow be our
king?” One of them recalled that the shaykh had said that even a beggar might
be king. They brought Bayān-Qulī Khan to the city of Bukhara and the shaykh
came immediately to greet him. The city was adorned and they seated the
khan on the throne of Bukhara. He ruled for three years and was known to be
a just ruler.
[The story of Taraghāi Bahādur]
(And so we arrived at the story of Taraghāi Bahādur.) He was of the descen-
dants of Qarāchār Noyān, and at that time the commands of council used to
come out of his house. He was a rich man and the people showed him much
respect. His house was in Shahr-i Sabz (which today is known as Taraghiyya).
At that time in Bukhara lived Sadr al-Sharī‘a.20 One day, as he was teaching,
a dervish entered the classroom, saying, “Your daughter Tegina will soon be
wed and give birth to the conqueror of the world!”
Sadr asked:€“You madman. Do you think you have knowledge of the secrets
of the unseen?”
“I do,” said the dervish.
Sadr ordered him locked up in his house and he went to the khan and
explained what had happened. The khan commanded him to bring the dervish
before him, but when Sadr returned home he found his daughter in chains
where the dervish was supposed to be. He became very concerned; his daugh-
ter was going mad, and so they decided to bring her to Shaykh al-‘Ālam.
The shaykh smiled and said:€“That dervish was a holy spirit. From this for-
tunate daughter a very lucky son will be born.”
Immediately the girl regained her senses from her auspicious meeting with
the shaykh’s nobility.
“I will take care of this daughter myself,” said His Holiness.
“It is your choice,” said Sadr al-Sharī‘a.
The people heard that the daughter became very devoted to the shaykh.
Many amirs and ‘ulamā’ asked for her hand in marriage, but the shaykh
said:€“Her husband has not yet entered Bukhara.” However, people suspected
that he probably wanted to keep her for himself.
(But now let us hear about the events of Taraghāi Bahādur.) One day
Taraghāi Bahādur was hunting in the vicinity of Shahr-i Sabz when he started
in pursuit of a gazelle. The gazelle broke off through a flock of sheep and
escaped. Bahādur looked up and saw that a wolf had cut off one sheep from
the flock. He aimed an arrow at the wolf and fired, and his shot woke a shep-
herd from his dream.

20
See the introduction for probable identification. The audience, apparently, needed no explanation.
Perhaps the Sadr was well-known, but then possibly this was a symbolic title (in the audience’s
mind) for one who clearly represented the highest rank among the ‘ulamā’.
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 59

“O amir,” said the shepherd. “Do not kill me for I just saw you in my
dream.”
“Speak!” said Bahādur.
“I saw,” said the shepherd, “that a man dressed in green21 called me and
said, ‘Tell your master that he should leave for Shaykh al-‘Ālam and marry
the daughter of Sadr al-Sharī‘a because from her will be born the conqueror
of the world.’”
“You are trying to deceive me out of fear,” said Bahādur.
“O Bahādur,” answered the shepherd. “I never heard the name of the Shaykh
or that of Sadr al-Sharī‘a before. I swear before God that a great fortune has
befallen you.”
Bahādur, not trusting him, wanted to hit him. Suddenly, the shepherd’s dog
jumped up and barked. It seemed to the Bahādur as if the dog had said that
the shepherd was telling the truth. After that the Bahādur, believing the words
of the shepherd, prepared all the provisions for the journey and set out to
Bukhara.
After a few stops on the way he reached Bukhara. In Bukhara, he first went
to Shaykh al-‘Ālam. Ishān was praying at the time, but he took notice of the
Bahādur’s arrival. Taraghāi Bahādur sat in the circle of Sufis and waited.
At last, the shaykh raised his head and said:€“Welcome, father of the Sāhib-
qirān!” (The shaykh was the one who gave the title Sāhib-qirān to Amir
Tīmūr).22
Taraghāi Bahādur repeated the strange story of the shepherd.
“The shepherd’s dream is correct,” said the shaykh. “I reserved Tegina
Begïm for you, but I did vow to finish first the construction of a khānqāh and
you should embrace this project.”
“I am your servant,” said Taraghāi. “I will help you build it.”23
Then the shaykh said:€ “We will not begin, young man, until you have
released yourself from your sin.”
The amir fell at the shaykh’s feet. Ishān sent away all his students so that no
one was left beside Amir Taraghāi.
“Rise and perform the ablutions!” said the shaykh.
The amir did as the shaykh ordered.
Then the shaykh said:€“Pray!”
The shaykh wrote a letter and handed it over to the amir, saying, “Go out of
town to the cemetery of Fayż Athar where the spring of His Holiness Ayyūb is
located.” (And at that time the shrine of His Holiness Ayyūb was outside the

21
Green has been associated with the color of garments worn by righteous men in Islam already in the
Qur’an (see for example, Qur’an 18:31).
22
The narrator will explain the title’s meaning later on.
23
Historically, the construction of the shaykh’s khānqāh (a structure that served Sufis for various
purposes) in the Bukharan suburb of Fathabad was sponsored by Sorqaqtani, mother of the Mongol
Great Khan Möngke (r. 1251–1259). The restoration of the building was undertaken by Tīmūr in
the 1380s.
60 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

citadel of Bukhara. ‘Abd al-‘Azīz Khan ibn ‘Ubayd Allāh ordered the inclusion
of the shrine in the city).24 “When you reach the shrine of His Holiness Ayyūb
sit on the bank of the spring. You will see the closed door of the khānqāh. Do
not try to open it and remain silent. A Sufi will come out and will bring you a
pot. If its contents are permissible (halāl), then God will grant you a son who
will be true to the sharī‘a. If, however, the food is unacceptable (harām), you
will have a son who will do nothing but evil deeds. After eating, give my letter
to the Sufi. Then leave. Be careful not to look back.25 If someone speaks to
you, do not respond. Return to us.”
Taraghāi Bahādur thanked him, took the letter and set out. Leaving the city
gates, he reached the shrine of His Holiness Ayyūb and saw that a heavenly
ray was emanating from the dome. Beautiful music of lute and tambourine
and the sound of a flute reached his ears.
“God be praised!” he said. “What does all this mean?”
Then he recalled what the shaykh had told him and sat on the bank of the
spring. Suddenly, a door opened and out came a Sufi, dressed in green, car-
rying a tablecloth and dishes, which he placed before the amir. Taraghāi was
tormented by thoughts of whether the food would be prohibited or permitted
because the fate of his son depended upon it. When he took the lid off the pot,
he saw€– much to his dismay€– that the pot was full of milk.26 He drank all the
milk, gave the letter to the Sufi and headed back.
All of a sudden, he heard cries of “Allāhu akbar, Allāhu akbar, lā ilāha illā
’l-lāh, Allāhu akbar, Allāhu akbar”27 behind him, and he began to tremble. He
went out to the garden of Shams al-Mulk (which today they call Namazgah).28
Out of the garden came an old man who said:€“Why don’t you look around?
Take a chair and admire the wondrous things around you.”
The words of the old man had such an effect on Taraghāi that he nearly
stayed. Suddenly, a mysterious breeze touched his face, and the Bahādur con-
tinued on his way to the shaykh. The old man disappeared.

24
The author refers to the Shïbanid ‘Abd al-‘Azīz ibn ‘Ubayd Allāh Khan (d. 1550) who had rebuilt
and expanded the walls of the city of Bukhara. Ayyūb is the biblical Job.
25
Perhaps a reference to the warning against the temptation of looking back at the destruction of
Sodom issued to the wife of the biblical Lot (the Qur’anic Lūt).
26
Milk, mare’s milk in particular, was an important dietary staple of the peoples of Central and Inner
Asia. It also carried a special ceremonial significance. In Islam, milk was typically a symbol of
good fortune, a reminder of the rivers of fresh milk that flow through heaven (Qur’an 47:15).
27
The Islamic profession of the faith€– “There is no God but God.”
28
This may be a reference to Shamsabad, a complex built by Shams al-Mulk, the Qarakhanid ruler of
Bukhara (r. 1068–1080), to the south of the city. One of Shams al-Mulk’s successors, Arslan Khan
Muhammad (r. 1102–1129), built a namāzgāh (an open space for prayer adjacent to a mosque) near
the old site. In the eighteenth century, Bukhara’s southern gate was known as the Namazgah gate.
For information about Bukhara’s topography and neighborhoods in the period under discussion,
see Olga Sukhareva’s publications Bukhara:€XIX-nachalo XX veka (Pozdnefeodal’nyi gorod i ego
naselenie) (Moscow:€Izd-vo ‘Nauka, 1966) and Kvartal’naia obshchina pozdnefeodal’nogo goroda
Bukhary:€(V sviazi s istoriei kvartalov) (Moscow:€Nauka, 1976).
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 61

Returning to the khānqāh, he looked for the shaykh.

“That old man was the devil (iblīs), curses on his head, but the mysterious
breeze came from me,” said the shaykh. “Had I not done so, you would have
looked back and your work would perish. Now come and look through my
fingers.”
When Bahādur looked, he saw that many people wearing green were walk-
ing with bricks and alabaster in their hands. The shaykh remarked to him that
these people were the men of the unseen world.29
“Who of these people is their leader?” asked Bahādur.
“Their leader died and they asked me to become their leader,” said Ishān.
“I know most of them,” objected Bahādur. “Outwardly, they used to be
soldiers but inwardly they are of the people of the unseen world.”
“O Taraghāi!” said the shaykh. “If our succession is not secured, you will
not have the power to see them.”
However, the men approached the shaykh and after greeting him respect-
fully, they said:€“The first time we came here you refused to take leadership
upon yourself, but now we have received word from you to come.”
“Although you did not intend to lead us,” they said, “we will yield to
Bahādur’s destiny and build a khānqāh for you until morning.”
And in so saying, the men of the unseen removed their mourning clothes
and put on clothes of joy, and began building the khānqāh. And so the khānqāh
was built by morning and the sun was shining upon the dome. The people of
Bukhara the Noble saw the dome the next day towering above His Holiness’s
head, and were amazed and mentioned this miraculous deed in honor of
the shaykh. But the shaykh declared that the building was built by Taraghāi
Bahādur. He then led Taraghāi and Tegina Begïm to the wedding, when the
sun was in the sign of Capricorn. And within one hour the pure seed was
secured in the womb of the new mother.
But there remained one obstacle, Amir Qazaghan,30 known as the amir
al-ulus (today it is called atalïq. He was a Qongrat. Everything was in the hands
of the atalïq).31 He desired Tegina Khātūn; he tried to influence the khan that the
girl should not be given to the descendant of Qarāchār Noyān and threatened

29
The unseen world (al-ghayb), in its Sufi context, was an expression for a world beyond the senses
of ordinary men that could be accessed by the Sufi after mastering the path.
30
Qazaghan was leader of the Qara’unas (a powerful fourteenth-century confederation) and ruler of
the Chaghatay ulus in the 1340s.
31
The amir al-ulus was the senior leader in the office of the four amirs (on this important rank, see
Uli Schamiloglu, “The Qaraçi Beys of the Later Golden Horde:€Notes on the Organization of the
Mongol World Empire,” AEMA 4, 1984, 283–97). The atalïq in the first half of the eighteenth cen-
tury in Bukhara held one of the most influential positions in the khanate, acting as senior counselor
to the khan and as mentor to the heir apparent. The line of atalïqs was largely responsible for depos-
ing the Chinggisid khans in Bukhara by the middle of the century. (Cf. with TN Kullīyāt:€“And
things were such that he would not allow the khutba and sikka to be in [the name of] another
king.”)
62 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

to fight the shaykh. Bayān-Qulī Khan tried to dissuade him but with no
�success. He sent a man to the shaykh to ask him for the place of battle. Amir
Qazaghan assembled an army and approached the khānqāh of the shaykh. The
shaykh assembled four hundred of his disciples and instructed them to meet
Qazaghan’s army. He remained in his khānqāh in prayer. Qazaghan called
him to come out and when the shaykh stepped outside, Qazaghan challenged
Taraghāi Bahādur to a duel. Both men stepped into the battlefield and began
to fight. As they were fighting an arrow hit Taraghāi in the eye and he fell off
his horse. Taraghāi became blind in one eye. At that time Bayān-Qulī Khan
arrived and stood at the shaykh’s side, and the battle stopped. Taraghāi took
Tegina Begïm to Shahr-i Sabz.
That year the royal falcon of the spirit of the ishān departed this frail world
to the everlasting abode. (Amir Tīmūr was then six months old.) This hap-
pened in the year 736 and the shaykh was then one hundred and fifteen years
of age.
At that time Bayān-Qulī Khan was informed that a Mongol army was on its
way to Kashghar. The khan sent a letter to Taraghāi Bahādur in Shahr-i Sabz
to take the Barlas army and go to Kashghar. Taraghāi went to the service of
the khan. Taraghāi had a chief wife who was the daughter of Amir Qazaghan.
Her name was Yuqun Aqa. He entrusted Tegina Begïm to her charge, and he
started the journey to Kashghar.
[The story of Amir Tīmūr’s Birth]
(Now let us hear about the Amir’s birth.) It was Tegina Begïm’s time to give
birth. She had completed nine months and nine days, and it was time for her
to be released from her burden. However, Yuqun Khātūn32 harbored malice
against Tegina Begïm for her father’s ruin would come from her. She had a
dream one night in which she saw that the sun was emanating from Tegina
Begïm’s womb and was illuminating the world from east to west, eventually
turning to Hindustan, where, after a while, it set. Immediately she awoke from
her sleep, suspecting her rival who lay there in her blissfulness. Out of envy,
she lulled her back to sleep, and summoned a slave who was left to her by her
father, by the name of Qaidun (he was a native of the tribe Hezarlachin33 and
was faithful to her father).
She told him:€“I have something I wish to convey to you, that you should
swear to keep a secret.”
“I was left here by your father,” answered the slave. “I shall not betray your
secret.”
Then she told him what she had seen in her dream about the wretched
Tegina Begïm and asked him whether he could find a knowledgeable inter-
pretation of the dream.

32
The aforementioned Yuqun Aqa.
33
Presumably an offshoot of the Turkmen Lachin tribe.
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 63

“There are no dream interpreters here,” said Qaidun. “But I heard that there
is a man named Soyulik Ata34 who lives in a cave. They say that he can solve
all the people’s difficulties.”
Yuqun embraced her slave, and putting her confidence in him, sent him to
Soyulik. When the slave approached the cave, he saw Ata sitting in the midst
of many people who were waiting to hear his words. He realized that it would
take him a whole night and a whole day to be able to approach the man. As he
observed him, he saw a man dressed in animal hides, who seemed as though
he were not of this world.
He began to explain his story, when Ata said:€“Yes, in this year a child will
be born who will become the conqueror of the world. I believe that the time
of his appearance in this world is beginning. The child who will be born from
this woman will have descendants who will rule the world.”
When the slave heard these words from Soyulik Ata he took his leave,
returned home and told the whole story to Yuqun Aqa. The fire of envy from
the hearth of her bosom consumed her.
“Can’t you kill Tegina Begïm?” she said to the slave.
When the slave heard her words he tried his best to talk her out of it, but
without success. Finally, seeing that Yuqun was firm in her decision, and not
finding any means to calm her down, he agreed to the murder conspiracy.
Writing a false letter, he gave it to Tegina Begïm. The letter’s contents were
as follows:
From your father (that is, Sadr al-sharī‘a):€O, dear daughter, know that if you do not leave
soon you may not see me alive again, for I do not have long to live.

When Tegina Begïm studied the letter, she was burning with impatience to
see her father. She rushed to Yuqun Aqa, explained what had happened and
asked her permission to leave (for she was entrusted to Yuqun’s charge by
Taraghāi Bahādur). Yuqun appointed two maids to escort Tegina and sent the
slave with them.
When they came to a well, Qaidun killed the two maids and was ready to
murder the unfortunate Tegina.
“O Baba,” she cried. “What use will it be if you kill me? In my womb there
is a premature child. What will become of him?”
“I am killing you because of him,” answered the slave. “For your child is
going to conquer the world.”
Immediately he drew his sword and was about to slash Tegina Begïm.
Fearing for her life, Tegina Begïm jumped into the well. The slave bent over
the well’s opening and shouted at her to quickly climb out. Suddenly (because
of the fortunate fate of Amir Tīmūr güregen) a lightning bolt from Heaven

34
Ata (literally “father” in Turkic) was a form of honorific address usually reserved for older men or
for revered persons.
64 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

flashed, hit the slave in the chest and cut him in two. The princess was saved
from his conspiracy but was unable to climb out of the well, which was dry.
It so happened that a shepherd was walking by and, seeing her inside,
dropped a rope and managed to pull her out. He saw before him an extraordi-
narily beautiful woman. The shepherd inquired about the circumstances of her
fall, and she replied:€“I am of the tribe Aimaqiyya.35 We passed here at night
and I fell into the well. The dead body over there is my husband, who was hit
by lightning.”36
The shepherd was seized by lust and desired to commit some unsavory act
against Tegina Begïm, but God would not allow such a thing. Suddenly, a man
appeared who looked like an Arab. He frightened away the shepherd.
“O princess,” he said. “My name is Amir Chāku Barlas and this is one of
my shepherds. Be like my own daughter, come with me to my home, and then
we will learn of your origins and your name.” And uttering these words, he led
her to his home and charged her to his wife.
It was at night, on Wednesday, the 25th of Sha’ban, in the Year of the
Mouse, 735, in the sign of Cancer, when the sun was in the first of Capricorn
and the moon was in the twenty-ninth of Aquarius, and both signs are con-
nected.37 And this occurrence is as follows:€Whenever there are seven stars
in the sign of Cancer and in the sign of Capricorn occurs a conjunction, the
fortune of a child who is born in that hour will always be blessed until his
death. (Sharaf Yazdī in his Zafar-nāma says that three children were born in
such an hour. The first was Iskandar Dhū’l-Qarnayn;38 the second was His
Holiness Muhammad Mustafā, blessings of Allah upon him; and the third
Amir Tīmūr güregen. From the birth of Iskandar until the blessed birth of His
Holiness the Messenger, peace be upon him, eight hundred years passed, and
from the noble birth of His Holiness until the birth of Amir Tīmūr güregen
another eight hundred years passed. Every eight hundred years the stars in the
sign of Capricorn are in conjunction, as was mentioned.) (The storyteller says
that Sāhib-qirān’s mother suffered no pain during the birth, such as happens
to other women.)

Account of the Arrival of Seven Wise Men from the

Seven Climes in order to Kill His Highness Amir Sāhib-qirān,
Conqueror of the World
After Amir Tīmūr’s birth, Amir Chāku was engaged in his upbringing. Tīmūr
was then six months old. At that time in the country of Rum39 Yïldïrïm Sultān

35
See footnote 8.
36
The bodies of the slain maidens apparently had been forgotten.
37
The sign of Aquarius follows the sign of Capricorn.
38
I.e., Alexander the Great.
39
I.e., Turkey (or the Ottoman Empire).
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 65

Bāyazīd, grandson of Osman Ghāzī, was the successor to the throne.40 And
Osman Ghāzī was of the descendants of Yāfith ibn Nūh, peace be upon him.
During the time of Sultān Sanjar Ghāzī, the Saljuqs had conquered the king-
doms of Rum.41 The origins of the kings of Rum were close to that of the kings
of Tūrān, for both are descendants of Yāfith ibn Nūh, peace be upon him.42
When the turn of the kingship of Rum reached Yïldïrïm Bāyazīd, whose name
was Sultān Tuhūr,43 he conquered seventy cities of Farangistan,44 and achieved
more than his ancestors.
One day, as the Sultan of Rum was returning from the hunt, he spotted a
cave at the side of a mountain. When he asked what kind of cave it was, he
was told that it was the cave in which Iskandar was born, and that the sultans
of that region go on pilgrimage to that cave. He decided to visit the cave. Upon
entering he saw a table with various diagrams inscribed upon it. His wise men
explained that eight hundred years after the birth of Iskandar Dhū’l-Qarnayn,
the Prophet€– praises of God upon him€– was born, and eight hundred years
after the birth of Muhammad, peace be upon him, a man will be born who will
capture the earth and vanquish its kings. Such was written by Aristotle.45
“This Sāhib-qirān must be me,” said Caesar.46 “I should conquer all the
lands.”
He summoned one of his wise men, a man named Abu’l-Mufākhir to his
service and asked:€“What have you to say about it?”
“I have found in these writings that this year in Mawarannahr an infant
seems to have been born,” said Abu’l-Mufākhir. “He will be known as the
second Iskandar. The province of Rum will become his for the taking, and
Yïldïrïm Bāyazīd will become his prisoner.”
When the Sultān of Rum heard these words, he immediately ordered that a
letter be written to Bayān-Qulī Khan. He made Abu’l-Mufākhir an ambassa-
dor and sent him to see that the infant would be destroyed.
The storyteller says that at that time there were seven climes in the world.47
Three were ruled by Muslims, and four by infidels. The second was Dilshād
Khātūn, governess of Baghdad (after Abū Sa‘īd Khan’s death, who was a

40
Bāyazīd, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire (r. 1389–1403), was in fact the great-grandson of Osman
Gazi.
41
Sanjar (d. 1157) was the ruler of the Saljuqs.
42
Earlier in the introduction we learned that Iskandar was also of Yāfith’s descendants.
43
This appellation is unclear to me at present.
44
I.e., Europe.
45
The prophecy seems to have multiple sources. Earlier, the narrator had stated that Yazdī’s tome was
the prophecy’s origin, but apparently this foresight ventured back to the days of Alexander the Great
and Aristotle (Aristū). The Greek philosopher survived throughout the Muslim world as a compel-
ling symbol of wisdom.
46
A reference to the Ottoman sultans, sitting on the throne of Rum, the remains of the Byzantine
Empire. The speaker is, of course, Bāyazīd.
47
For the Islamic revision of the Greek (and other) division of the world into seven climes, in addition
to the countries of the far south and the far north, see A. Miquel, “Iklīm,” EI² III, 1076.
66 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

descendant of Hülegü Khan, no descendant of Hülegü was left who would

become king. Dilshād Khātūn was sitting on the throne).48 The third was Shāh
Shujā‘ in Khorasan, who saw one night in his dream how a ray of sunshine
from Heaven was illuminating Mawarannahr. He asked his wise men about
it and one of them said:€ “Sāhib-qirān was born in Mawarannahr. He will
soon make his presence known.” Immediately, Shāh Shujā‘ sent this man to
Bukhara as his ambassador.
The fourth was the ruler of India, Malik Ra’no Ballu Khan, who was sultan
over all of India. He heard of the birth of Sāhib-qirān from one of his wise
men and sent him as ambassador in order to destroy the newborn child. An
ambassador also arrived from the fifth ruler, the king of Farangistan, one from
the sixth€– the King of China€– and from the seventh, the king of Russia.49
Bayān-Qulī Khan heard that the seven ambassadors were making their way
to see him. He ordered the city of Bukhara to be decorated, and to offer the
best hospitality to the ambassadors.
“With your permission,” said the messengers. “We have no time to dally.”
Bayān-Qulī Khan set a date for the meeting. He seated the three Muslim
ambassadors to his right and the four infidels to his left. (Maulānā Burhān
al-Dīn, author of the Hidāyat said:€“The ambassador from Rum sat first, then
the ambassador from Iraq, then the one from Khorasan.”)50 The ambassador
from Rum was the first to convey his letter. The letter’s contents were as
follows:
Praises and salutations to Tengri.51 We send our blessings to the Sultan of Mawarannahr.
In your country a child came to the world this year. Our wise men call him The Second
Iskandar. He will seize the day and capture the earth and make its sultans his prisoners.
Naturally, you have to try and destroy this child.

All seven ambassadors carried letters with similar contents. Bayān-Qulī Khan
called the author of the Hidāyat, who said:€“You must not interfere with God’s
plans.” At that time the vizier of the khan was Sirāj Qamari.
Bayān-Qulī Khan asked the ambassadors:€“How do you know of the birth
of such a child?”

48
Dilshād Khātūn was the wife of Abu Sa‘īd (d. 1335), the last khan of consequence of the Mongol
Ilkhanid dynasty in Iran.
49
Central Asia is curiously absent from the list of climes (those included are Turkey, Iraq, Khorasan,
India, Europe, China, and Russia). It is reasonable to assume, however, that the author€– and the
audience€– considered Central Asia to form the central clime in this scheme, namely the clime with
the most balanced climate and sensible population.
50
This is a reference to the notable Hanafi jurist Burhān al-Dīn al-Marghīnānī (d. 1197). What seems
to be important here is not that he had lived almost two hundred years before this event allegedly
took place, but rather that the author decided to allude to one of the most renowned legal authori-
ties, in addition to his professed dependence on the historical canon, to reinforce the claim for the
narrative’s truthfulness.
51
“God” or “heaven” in Turkic, often synonymous with Allah.
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 67

“O khan,” replied the ambassadors. “We have become aware of his birth
this very year and need to find him as soon as possible.”
The khan ordered his wise men to assemble in the Friday mosque and at
the same time sent a messenger to his own yurt52 to find out whether, in fact,
a child had been born that year and who his parents were, and to tempt them
to come and present themselves for such and such amount of gold. He also
instructed his men to search every house with toddlers. The couriers did as
they were commanded but there was no newborn child in the city of Bukhara.
Sirāj Qamari was appointed to accompany the messengers and help them look.
They went to Miyankal, Samarqand, Khojand, Hisar, and Shahr-i Sabz. In
Shahr-i Sabz Taraghāi Bahādur extended his hospitality towards them. Then
they continued to Qarshi and to Zanjir Sara Barlas, where they were the guests
of Amir Chāku. Amir Chāku presented his children the next day. Meanwhile,
he told his wife of these events. Having overheard his words, Tegina Begïm
understood and became very anxious. “In my child the marks are clear,” she
said to herself.
In the middle of the night she had a dream. In her dream she saw His
Holiness, Shaykh al-‘Ālam. The shaykh said:€“Go to Bukhara, and stay for
a while in my shrine. And bow before God. This child was appointed a great
fate.”
Tegina Begïm stayed up for the rest of the night, hugging her child, and
decided to head towards Bukhara.
[The miracle of Shaykh al-‘Ālam]
Before dawn she reached Bukhara and entered the shrine. She hid her son
in a box and covered it. The next day, when Amir Chāku was asked by the
ambassadors for her whereabouts, he answered:€“This woman was my guest
for a few days. I don’t know where she took her son.”
The ambassadors hurried back to Bukhara and petitioned the khan to see
him. Bayān-Qulī Khan sent a message to his yurt that whoever finds a boy of
such and such qualities should keep him in his house. Then he proceeded to
the shrine of Shaykh al-‘Ālam and there he found the child.
Tegina Begïm, who feared his intentions, was hugging this child. “My
child, my child,” she cried. “O God, save this sinless child of mine.” Begïm
pleaded much before the khan but he did not seem to do anything.
The first to enter the shrine was the ambassador from Khorasan. Tegina
Begïm prayed to God and said:€“O Lord Creator, hear the cry of the oppressed,
accept my prayers.” As she was praying the ambassador approached the box.
Suddenly, out of the blessed grave a hand appeared and struck the man’s neck,
and his head€– much like an apple that had fallen from the tree€– fell rolling
on the ground across five steps. (This was the reason why Khorasan was the
first to be conquered.)

52
Generally a term for a territory, a house, or a camp.
68 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

The second ambassador from Iraq entered. Out of the grave the weapon-
like hand appeared. He too was destroyed. (Then Iraq was conquered.) The
third ambassador from the Russians came; he also died. The fourth ambassa-
dor of the Franks, his head too was cut off and he died. The same fate awaited
the fifth ambassador from India. The sixth ambassador, from Rum, set his
foot in the shrine with much zeal, and the weapon-like hand of the unseen
immediately killed him. They say that each ambassador who came in and
was destroyed symbolized the conquest of his respective country. The sev-
enth ambassador, from China, said to himself:€“Clearly, if I enter the grave
I too will be destroyed. O Muslims, although I am an infidel I know that the
friend of Allah in this grave is an angel. This weapon-like hand must be his
hand. Perhaps if I enter the grave with a dog, the angel will flee.” They sent
for dogs to be brought and then he entered the grave with the dogs. Near the
noble grave he could see Tegina Begïm with her son, but the day was already
becoming night.
“Now I shall kill the boy,” said the Chinese ambassador.
But the khan said:€“Be patient until dawn breaks. Then we will be able to
see everything.”
That night Bayān-Qulī Khan spent the night at Shaykh al-‘Ālam’s shrine
and saw the shaykh in a dream. The shaykh commanded:€“We have entrusted
the boy to you. Send him to Amir Chāku.” The khan immediately stood up,
and, taking Tegina Begïm and her son, he dressed her in royal clothes, and
sent them to Zanjir Sara. The ambassador was unable to complete his inten-
tion and was also destroyed. (These deeds demonstrate Amir Tīmūr’s good
fortune.)
And so Amir Tīmūr was twelve years old. He was spending his time at
Amir Chāku’s house. When people wondered who was this new addition to
the household, Amir Chāku explained that this was a child of one of his female
slaves, yet he treated him as one of his own children. (The storyteller says
that Amir Chāku was about to be appointed governor of Qarshi, but Bayān-
Qulī Khan canceled his appointment and made Amir Mūsā Jalayir governor
in his stead.) Tegina Begïm, meanwhile, became a devoted servant of God.
She would pray a lot, the sick and the needy would come to her and she would
pray to God for their recovery, and they recovered. Amir Chāku was espe-
cially devoted to her and gave her a separate space in his house, where she
was engaged in worship.
Amir Chāku was the richest of the Barlas. He had many possessions,
and even forty slaves. Amir Chāku still did not know that Amir Tīmūr was
Taraghāi Bahādur’s son. Tegina Begïm never told him anything, and Taraghāi
was Chāku’s kinsman.
One day, as the forty slaves were engaged in drawing water out of the well,
Mīrzā Sayf al-Dīn jokingly said:€“Could one man draw water out of this well
all on his own?”
“Of course!” said Sāhib-qirān.
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 69

Sayf al-Dīn laughed.

In the middle of the night, Sāhib-qirān came to the well, started pull-
ing the chain, drew the water out, gave some to the people and watered the
livestock.
“O relative of mine,” said Mīrzā Sayf al-Dīn. “If it were up to me, I would
make you my vizier.”
“I am no king,” said the amir. “But I would make you the vizier.”
“I thought before,” said the Mīrzā, “that if my relative were able to draw the
water, he would become king. My thought was well fulfilled.”
Amir took an oath saying:€“If I become king I will make you the vizier.”
That evening all the livestock were fed, and the entire tribe of Amir Chāku
heard of this deed.
Taraghāi, who went to Kashghar,53 returned to Bukhara for a council
announced by Bayān-Qulī Khan. Yoqun Khātūn was by now already mad and
blind. Bahādur tried to get word of his son but to no avail, and it grieved him
greatly. One night Shaykh al-‘Ālam appeared before him in a dream.
“O Taraghāi Bahādur,” he said. “You have had no news and your son is
already twelve years old. What are you still doing here in this land?”
Bahādur immediately stood up but could not leave Yoqun Khānïm. Bahādur
was beginning to hear of what was going on in the Barlas tribe. He decided to
take Yoqun Khānïm, and with many presents and gifts headed towards Zanjir
Sara. They traveled for a few days until they reached a group of wells in the
vicinity of Zanjir Sara. The weather was very hot. At that place Amir Tīmūr
was drawing water from the well, but he grew tired and decided to lie down.
In this state Taraghāi found him. Suddenly, Taraghāi saw a snake making its
way towards Tīmūr’s chest in order to strike him. The old father’s compassion
arose but there was nothing he could do. Amir Tīmūr opened his eyes and saw
the snake on his chest. He quickly broke the snake’s fangs and threw it away.
Taraghāi Bahādur was amazed at this behavior. “Son, who is your father?”
he asked.
“I am Amir Chāku’s son,” he replied.
“Direct me to your father’s house,” said Bahādur.
Amir Tīmūr brought Taraghāi Bahādur to Amir Chāku’s house and
announced:€“A guest is arriving.” When Chāku saw Bahādur the two embraced
and greeted each other. After the greeting, Bahādur said:€“I was very much
amazed by a thing that this slave-boy did this morning.”
“This boy is no slave,” said Amir Chāku. “His mother is like a daughter to
me and she is very devoted to God.”
“I saw something in my dream,” said Bahādur. “Maybe I could ask that
woman to solve this mystery.”
“So be it,” said Amir Chāku, and sent to fetch Tegina Begïm.

53
Taraghāi had been away fighting the Moghul army.
70 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

As soon as she saw her husband (she was standing behind a curtain), she
realized that her secret was kept.
Amir Taraghāi asked her about the events that he had seen in his dream.
“God most high gave you a son who is going to be Sultan over the whole
world,” she said.
“I never had a son,” said Taraghāi. “Yoqun Khātūn became mad and blind
a few years ago, after my own wife had disappeared.”
“You do have a son and he is in good health,” said Tegina Begïm. “I shall
pray that Yoqun Khātūn will also recover.”
They brought Yoqun Khātūn.
“O Yoqun Khānïm,” said Tegina Begïm. “May God most high give you
cure. Now tell your doings truthfully.”
Yoqun Khānïm began to tell her deeds unwillingly:€“It so happened that I
had sent the slave Qaidun in order to kill Tegina Begïm.”
Saying that, Taraghāi Bahādur, holding a sword in his hand, struck her
down to the ground.
“Extend your hand! I am Tegina Begïm and the boy standing there is your
son.”
Taraghāi hugged the child and wept. Then Tegina Begïm prayed and Yoqun
Khānïm was cured. They stayed at Amir Chāku’s house for a few days. Then
they set out towards the city of Shahr-i Sabz.

Commentary
Tīmūr’s birth in his legendary biographies was not a wondrous event, as it had
been presented, for example, by his near-contemporaries.54 In fact, neither the
hero’s actual birth nor its immediate aftermath were granted much attention,
and the stories of the prophecies and the circumstances that led to Tīmūr’s
birth seem to have been of much greater consequence. The same selection in
storytelling applied also to other events in or surrounding young Tīmūr’s life.
The wedding between his parents, Taraghāi and Tegina, was left untouched
as well. The events leading to Tīmūr’s own marriage, to be explained in the

54
Cf. with the following account by Ibn ‘Arabshāh:€“They say that on the night of his birth something
like a helmet appeared, seemed to flutter in the air, then fell into the middle of the plain and finally
scattered over the ground; thence also live coals flew about like glowing ashes and collected so
that they filled the plain and the city:€they also say that when that evil man saw the light, his palms
were full of freshly shed blood. They consulted the augurs and diviners about these portents and
referred to seers and soothsayers about their meaning, of whom some replied that he would be a
guardsman; others that he would grow up a brigand, while others said a blood-thirsty butcher, oth-
ers finally that he would be an executioner, these opinions contending with each other, until events
decided the issue.” Ahmad ibn Muhammad Ibn ‘Arabshah, Tamerlane:€or, Tīmūr the Great Amir,
tr. J. H. Sanders (London:€Luzac & Co., 1936), 1. See also D. Aigle, “Les transformations d’un
mythe d’origine:€l’exemple de Gengis Khan et de Tamerlan,” Revue des Mondes Musulmans et de
la Méditerranée 89–90 (2000), 151–68.
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 71

next chapter, would be described in much detail, but nothing would be related
about the actual ceremony. Tīmūr’s birth was foretold by Alexander the Great
in the prophetic message encrypted in the cave of his birth and found by the
Ottoman Sultan Yïldïrïm Bāyazīd. A series of revelations to clever worldly
advisors drew the great leaders’ attention, and the world shared in the knowl-
edge of the providential infant’s advent. At the same time, Sufi masters such
as Shaykh Sayf al-Dīn Bākharzī, who had predicted Tīmūr’s birth and was
instrumental in making it happen, or Shaykh Najm al-Dīn Kubrā, who would
foresee Tīmūr’s accession to the throne two hundred years before the actual
enthronement,55 continued to shape the story at least as much as their political
counterparts. Although the two groups had different purposes€– the shaykhs
were committed to Tīmūr and to his fate, the world leaders were anxious to
kill the child€– both elements would carry on, competing and complementing
each other all through the narrative.
Many of these prophecies and revelations occurred in dreams, and both
prophecies and dreams are woven together to move the storyline forward
(this, in addition to mere chronology) and to spawn new developments. The
dreams’ source is usually identified with the unseen world. A dream inspired
Bayan-Qulī Khan first to release himself from Arlat captivity and later to pro-
tect Tīmūr. Interestingly, Bayān-Qulī Khan listened and followed instructions
although or perhaps because they had been instigated by Sayf al-Dīn Bākharzī
(by then, already dead).56 It seems that certain people were more receptable
to dreams and intercessions, and others (Baraq Khan, for example) were not.
Other dreams induced the shepherd to inform Taraghāi that he should leave
for Bukhara and discover his future; Yuqun Khātun’s dream set off her plot to
murder Tīmūr’s mother, and dreams generated the assassination attempts on
Tīmūr’s life. A dream would compel Tīmūr’s father to seek out his son and
reunite the family. In later stages in the manuscript, a dream (and a prophecy)
would make Tīmūr realize that his rule was not eternal, and that he and his
sons would be replaced by the Uzbeks. Even the Prophet would appear before
Tīmūr in a dream and command him to take the throne. In another dream,
Tīmūr saw a dervish who offered him a loaf of bread, but then broke the loaf
and kept half of it for himself. When Tīmūr asked for the dream’s meaning,
he was answered that half of the loaf would be the portion of the Sufis in his
world conquest.
Dreams often required interpretation, following a long tradition in the Muslim
world.57 Dream interpreters in the legendary biographies are almost always

55
See Chapter 4. About Kubrā’s prophetic reputation, for instance in foretelling Ghazan Khan’s con-
version to Islam (in the work Rawżat al-jinān), see DeWeese, Islamization, 357, n. 85.
56
The relationship between the two was an important component in Bukharan traditions, and the two
men were ultimately buried next to each other, their mausolea standing side by side in Bukhara.
57
See John C. Lamoreaux, The Early Muslim Tradition of Dream Interpretation (Albany:€ State
University of New York Press, 2002).
72 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

very old men living away from society in seclusion, typically in a �natural set-
ting and in very modest conditions. Stories and tales have been circulated about
them, and many in the community were seeking their advice. Other persons
who are capable of dream interpretation are the very pious who are attributed
hidden knowledge, such as Taraghāi’s notion that his wife (unbeknownst to
him at the time) might solve his mysterious dream about his missing son.
The text further introduces many of the main representatives of the Sufi
community. The biographies feature alliances between the amirs and the
‘ulamā’ under the mediation or sponsorship of the shaykh, whereas the
descendants of Chinggis Khan are by and large missing from these asso-
ciations or constitute their target. Qazān Khan’s amirs undertake to prevent
him from killing the Sufi shaykh. They later succeed in foiling Bayān-Qulī
Khan’s execution. The Sufi shaykhs are also depicted as the king makers.
Shaykh Sayf al-Dīn Bākharzī, for example, was the one who had introduced
Taraghāi Bahādur to the fate of his future son, and only through his inter-
vention did Taraghāi survive an encounter with Satan,58 met his future wife,
Tīmūr’s mother, and married her.59 The shaykh, already dead, saved Tīmūr
from the attempts on his life by the seven ambassadors, and Tīmūr was
reunited with his family only after the (dead) shaykh’s intervention. Tīmūr
wed only after the shaykh instructed Bayan-Qulī Khan to give his daugh-
ter’s hand in marriage. Following each khan’s death, the amirs, as well as
many in the population, viewed the shaykh as the ultimate authority who
also was holding the prerogative to determine the next ruler’s identity, pre-
sumably because he was aware of God’s will. Although the history of Islam
in Central Asia in the period under discussion has yet to be fully explored, it
is safe to suggest that from the end of the seventeenth century to the middle
of the eighteenth century the era was marked by the growing power of Sufi
shaykhs. Initially, Sufis seem to have wielded considerable influence over
the Janid (Ashtarkhanid) khans, but as the seventeenth century came to a
close, most of the Sufi shaykhs transferred their support to the amirs, to the
tribal leaders and military commanders. The Sufis were involved in decisions
about the identity of khans and had a role to play as mediators in conflicts
between Bukhara and Khiva, for example.
Our author gives no consideration to whether the Sufi shaykhs in the nar-
rative belonged to a particular order, and he certainly did not identify them as
such or give any details about their origins or lineages (ancestral or spiritual).

58
The trial was designed supposedly to test Taraghāi’s loyalty, purity, and conviction. On the one
hand, the test was futile for the shaykh already knew that fate had decreed that Taraghāi would
become Tīmūr’s father. Nevertheless, even if the divine fate had made its decree, the devil could
still try to orchestrate a plot to counter it. The Sufi was therefore left as the only obstacle between
the devil’s scheme and the righteous path.
59
Interestingly, although the shaykh is supposedly beyond reproach, he is still seen as human by
the community (the “people suspected that he probably wanted to keep her [Tegina Begïm] for
himself.”)
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 73

In fact, the text hardly offers any details about the holy figures.60 The names
invoked in this story and later in the narrative€– Bahā’ al-Dīn Naqshband, Mīr
Baraka, Shams al-Dīn Kulal, Sayyid Ata, Ahmad Yasavi, Muhammad Pārsā,
Sayf al-Dīn Bākharzī, Hasan Bulghārī, and others€ – were probably well-
known to most audiences. They all served more or less the same functions in
the story, and they were all very different from the ‘ulamā’. Tīmūr needed the
guidance and active support of the Sufi shaykhs, although there was no ques-
tion that they were not in the position of rulership. There was a clear separa-
tion between those who had the right to govern and those who assisted them
and counseled them. One could not exist without the other, a theme that would
continue to develop throughout the narrative.
The Sufis were probably also connected in the audience’s imagination with
conversion narratives.61 Motifs of Islamization and conversion, defense of
the faith, and association with figures who had been known for their conver-
sion activities€– Sayyid Ata is the obvious example, but Shaykh al-‘Ālam or
Shaykh Sayf al-Dīn Bākharzī was also well-known for his conversion activ-
ities62€– are scattered all through the text. Such associations may have “lent
prestige and authority, at court and among the people, to familial and spiritual
lineages linked to those bearers of Islam.”63 The story of the conversion to
Islam of Özbek Khan of the Golden Horde at the hand of Sayyid Ata, drawn
from earlier sources and repeated with only a few additions and modifications,
is probably the most famous example for a conversion narrative in T↜īmūr’s
biographies. Because it has become relatively well-known (again, following
DeWeese’s publication), we need not repeat it here, save for the mention that
Zangī Ata, Sayyid Ata’s teacher, also predicts the rise of Tīmūr and his world
conquest as he interprets one of his disciple’s dreams.
Many shaykhs are active in helping Tīmūr attain his destiny in later parts
of the biographies as well. When the Qïpchaqs arrived in Qasr-i Arifīn to kill
Tīmūr, they found Bahā’ al-Dīn Naqshband sitting calmly in his garden. When
they demanded that he would hand over Tīmūr, Naqshband responded that
Tīmūr was his disciple and he could not release him; Naqshband also helped
Tīmūr in his fight against the Hindus and saved his life in a battle against
the Ottomans; Shaykh Kulal taught Tīmūr to read from the Qur’ān, and also
escorted him to undertake a “test” from the men of the unseen world. Sayyid
Ata led the Bukharans in their fight against Qazaghan; Shaykh Bākharzī him-
self treated Tīmūr’s wounds. The Sufis and the rest of the community coop-
erate in order to realize their goals, and the work advocates a prescription, it

60
Another major difference between this work and a hagiography.
61
One need not dwell too long on the significance of conversion narratives in the history of Central
Asia in light of Devin DeWeese’s Islamization and Native Religion (esp. chapters 3 and 4).
62
In fact, Bākharzī was accredited in many sources (Ibn-Khaldūn, al-‘Aynī, al-Qalqashandī) with the
conversion to Islam of Berke Khan of the Golden Horde.
63
DeWeese, Islamization, 138.
74 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

seems, for a certain type of individual and communal behavior.64 There are no
differences in social roles or classes; everyone is equally (or almost equally)
responsible for the ultimate conclusion. They all have a role to play in the suc-
cessful completion of the ascent of the hero to his delegated place, and they do
so while remaining in their respective places. Without communal responsibil-
ity, Tīmūr is unable to accomplish anything. Such communal, helpful agents
include women, beggars, children, men of all professions, and even animals
(corroborating prophecies, for example). Many of these “simple” figures had
some previous encounter with the divine that guided them into helping the
hero. These figures were somehow informed of events to come, and they
intervene at critical moments. They come from all walks of life:€a shepherd, a
dervish, or an Ottoman Sultān. In the story that opens the narrative, the shep-
herd knows neither the Sufi master nor the great legal scholar in Bukhara.
He is an observer, and worldly intrigues do not concern him. Yet (or perhaps
because of this) he is the one who receives the revelation in the dream to set
Tīmūr’s father on the right path so that he would meet his destiny to become
the father of the conqueror of the world. The conqueror, our hero, learns that
salvation can be found in the most unlikely places,65 and the audience learns
exactly the same thing, as they form their own perceptions about their place in
the social fabric of the community.
In that regard, the role that women play in the narrative greatly exceeds
their role in the official chronicles. Several women are at least as heroic as
our central character, especially Tīmūr’s mother66€– and, as we shall see in the
next chapter, Tīmūr’s future wife€– although there are many others, less heroic
perhaps, but still crucial to the development of the story and, consequently, for
Tīmūr’s progress. Women are generally portrayed as attractive,67 persuasive,
usually (morally) good, and as keepers of some form of knowledge that is
hidden from the men. First and foremost is, of course, Tīmūr’s mother, Tegina
Begïm, who bravely faces all difficulties and eventually becomes a devoted
servant of God with healing powers. In the same manner, Tīmūr’s wife, Sarāy
Mulk, carries much of the weight in the early stages of the narrative. Both are
the heroic models for women in the Islamic community of Central Asia:€God-
fearing, with special access to the divine, ready to sacrifice themselves for a
cause, strong, chaste, and ferociously defending their sons and husbands. The
audience can identify with the heroes and heroines, with the courageous men
and women, as they observe them in their exploration of the limits of their
abilities as well as the possible achievements of the community.

64
See also Denis Gril’s observations in his “Du sultanat au califat universel:€le rôle des saints dans le
Roman de Baybars,” in Lectures du Roman de Baybars,” 173.
65
Ibid., 182.
66
After all, “heroes require heroic mothers.” (See M. C. Lyons, The Arabian Epic:€Heroic and Oral
Story-Telling, Cambridge:€Cambridge University Press, 1995, vol. I, 42.)
67
Save for one woman whom we will meet in Chapter 4.
 Tīmūr’s Birth and Childhood 75

Prophecies, dream sequences, divinations, the hunt, captivity, and escape

are only some of the prominent motifs that come into play in this long work.68
However, the play between the external and the internal, the seen and the
unseen, occupies the key position in the narrative. This is not only expressed
by events that are explained straightforwardly, such as the mystical dimen-
sions of Shaykh Bākharzī or Tīmūr’s later encounters with the men of the
unseen, but is also seen in various literary motifs. Problems emerge from or
find their solutions in places of concealment:€caves, coffers, wells, tombs, and
holes in the ground. Many things are not what they appear to be. The theme
of disguise is significant; for instance, for the first twelve years of his life,
Tīmūr’s true identity is kept secret. Others, like Tegina Begïm and Bayan-
Qulī Khan do the same at particular junctures. The same is true for countless
other characters in the narrative that first appear in disguise, usually as slaves
or dervishes, as simple people, only to reveal their true identity later.
In the sīra of Sultan Baybars, the emphasis lies on the slave soldier who was
born a non-Muslim and then became ruler over the lands of Islam. Not only
that, he also was€– like many other mamlūks€– removed from his family at a
very young age and therefore would be ridiculed in a society that supposedly
accords the family institution a place of honor.69 In the sīra, Baybars’ problem
is solved as he is adopted by a prestigious Muslim family in Damascus€– the
lady of the family actually names him Baybars. Although the legendary biog-
raphies never question Tīmūr’s Islam, a question that plagued much of the
scholarship about him, the boy undergoes a somewhat similar process:€ He
is detached from his family at a very young age, only to be reunited with his
father twelve years later, during which he pretends to be a maid’s son. The
narrative goes beyond questions of legitimation through bloodline and descent
and places much emphasis on certain key foundations in Muslim �society, like
family and social organizations.

68
Although we may try to divide these motifs into larger categorizations (such as town-country,
center-periphery, and nomads-city dwellers), these may turn out to be too artificially imposed.
The focus of the narrative changes often, towns and countryside seem to serve similar purposes,
and nomads and city dwellers are not necessarily treated as such in the narrative. Eventually, the
story seems to maneuver the continuum of large-scale groups (Uzbeks, Hindus, Turks, Qalmuqs,
Chinese, Russians, and various tribes) and their individual representatives.
69
Amina A. Elbendary, “The Sultan, the Tyrant, and the Hero:€Changing Medieval Perceptions of
al-Zāhir Baybars,” Mamlūk Studies Review 5 (2001), 152.
C ha p te r 3

Youth

The beginning of the story is in the city of Shahr-i Sabz, where Taraghāi
Bahādur brought his son as he was entering his thirteenth year in “the Year of
the Mouse,” presumably to receive guidance and instruction from a Sufi mas-
ter, Shaykh Shams Kulal. The precise reasons for the move are left out of the
story. This is Tīmūr’s first direct encounter with Sufis, and as we have seen
previously, such encounters also tended to be accompanied by trials and tests.
Evidently, Tīmūr is able to pass his first test, and the evaluation by the Sufis
enables him to continue on his path to becoming the ruler of the world. The
text makes it abundantly clear that Tīmūr is not tested with the aim of becom-
ing a Sufi, but rather to see whether he could perform as a just and able king.
Following his mentor’s death, and at his advice, Tīmūr€– alone, poor, and
hungry€ – travels to Bukhara. A series of encounters with different people in
Bukhara who represent almost every stratum of society, from ordinary folk to
the khan’s son and heir, reveal to Tīmūr that the city is in disorder, that fear and
corruption rule the day, and that governmental, judicial, and bureaucratic mech-
anisms have become useless and unreliable. Hope lives only outside the official
channels, with several unexpected individuals whom the youth befriends.
The plot then moves to describe the intricate love connection that develops
between Tīmūr, who behaves in complete agreement with his very young age,
and the khan’s daughter, Sarāy Mulk, a much stronger and more mature per-
son than our great hero. Like most other stories in the biographies, this love
story too is not a straightforward storyline but is packed with many subplots
and ordeals.

Account of Tīmūr’s Encounter with the Men of the Unseen World

At that time Shaykh Hasan Kulal was alive.1 He was preaching to his stu-
dents from the mosque’s pulpit and announced that on the morrow a man who

1
The manuscript confuses Shaykh Hasan Kulal and Shaykh Shams al-Dīn Kulal. Historically, the
latter is reputed to have been a friend, or spiritual advisor, of Tīmūr’s father, Taraghāi, as well as one
of Tīmūr’s first teachers.

76
 Youth 77

would become a great king would appear in town. The next day, the students
assembled and saw that a boy was approaching with the sign of God on his
forehead.2 Apart from him there was no one about. They gathered around him.
Tīmūr knew that these were the students of the man who was preaching from
the pulpit. Tīmūr approached the pulpit.
“Today our conversation will revolve around the things of this world and
the next, and what God has given,” said the shaykh.
“I am going to be like this man,” thought Tīmūr. “I am alone in this world
to experience grief and sadness.”
The shaykh became aware of his inner thoughts and recounted what was
told of His Holiness Ādam:€“Ādam was arrogant enough to think that every-
thing came from him, but became silent when he saw woman.”
Now Tīmūr extended his hand to the shaykh and became his disciple. The
shaykh taught him to read from the Qur’ān. At the same time he offered the
hand of friendship and kindness to the other followers.3
There was a dome there that no one had ever seen from the inside. The
shaykh invited Tīmūr to enter. Suddenly a man appeared. He was a Sufi; he
too entered the dome. Then another man came in, with a boy at his side as
his companion. He too entered the dome and disappeared. Both men were
wearing strange clothes and were speaking languages that Tīmūr could not
understand. All of a sudden the door of the dome opened and out came a Sufi,
wearing green clothes. Slowly their languages became easier to understand.
“I am the son of the bek of the Maghrib,” said one of them. “We were out
hunting when a bird flew away and we could not catch it, and it brought us
here. My name is Sultān Muhammad.”
“I am the son of the bek of Yemen,” said the other. “I was on my way to the
hajj and I was also brought here by a bird. My name is Sultān Zunnun.”
“What is the meaning of this?” they asked the Sufi.
“This is the land of the men of the unseen world,” said the man. “They
know the source of strength of the world. If they wish it, they can make you
kings; if they wish it, they can make you beggars. This is especially important
now as we are approaching a period of choosing a king.4 Whoever they choose
amongst you will receive their instruction. The birds that led you here were
sent from the men of the unseen. It is their wish now to speak to you and to
ask you questions, even test you. Whoever succeeds shall be garbed with the
robe of kingship.”
“Kingship is mine,” said the prince from Yemen. “For I have been trained
in all kinds of science.”
2
The “sign of God” on Tīmūr’s forehead was apparent to everyone but Tīmūr.
3
The story of the shaykh fulfills several purposes. It is a tribute to the shaykh’s greatness, but also an
instrument to continue and confirm Tīmūr’s fate for the audience. Notably, the Sufi shaykh teaches
Tīmūr to read the Qur’ān but does not instruct him on the mystical, spiritual path. The life of a Sufi
is not apportioned to Tīmūr€– his is the overt course.
4
The doubt over the ruler’s identity is yet again at the center of the story.
78 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

“Kingship should fall into my hands,” said the son of the bek of the Maghrib,
“for I have studied much wisdom.”
Tīmūr remained silent.
“Turk boy,” said the Sufi. “You’re not saying anything?”
“Anyone who takes a look at me, O my Sufi, sees that I have no such capa-
bilities. But I am willing to serve the men of the unseen.”
In short, the three princes were invited inside.
“I should sit in the senior position,” said the prince from Yemen.
“I should be sitting in the higher position,” said Sultān Muhammad.
Amir Tīmūr said nothing.
Finally, a servant came in and directed one to the left side, the other to the
right. The Sufis were sitting according to protocol like amirs.5 Only Amir
Tīmūr was left standing, his hand on his heart in greeting. The servant told
him to sit down, but he refused, saying:€“This place is too important for me to
sit down, I will remain standing.”
Then Shaykh Shams Kulal appeared. He was Tīmūr’s teacher. He said:€“Son,
your behavior is worthy of kingship.”6
A man recited a poem and Tīmūr asked the servant for the man’s identity.
“This is the Shaykh of the South, Sultān Muhammad’s master,” answered the
servant.
Everyone kept silent. Finally, the qutb7 said:€“This is the place of testing.
They all need to pass a test.”
As soon as he finished his words, a man was brought into the room. He was
drunk and rude and was holding a bottle of wine in one hand, a weapon in the
other. He was wearing black.
“This is my son,” said the qutb. “As much as I tried, he would not accept
my ways. He offered his regret three times, but every time he broke his word.
You three have to advise us how to deal with him.”
The prince from Yemen, who was very knowledgeable, said:€“You have to
pray for him yourself.”
“Allow him to repent once more,” said the prince from the Maghrib.
Then they asked Sāhib-qirān what he thought. Sāhib-qirān jumped at the
man and struck him so hard that he died.
Both others exclaimed at Sāhib-qirān:€ “This is the qutb’s son, why have
you wrongfully killed him? You don’t kill people for wine drinking.”

5
The Sufi gathering, self-appointed to determine the next king, is taking over the task of the amirs not
only in action but also in form. On the ceremonial sitting arrangements of the amirs and the religious
dignitaries see V. V. Bartol’d, “Tseremonial pri dvore uzbetskikh khanov v XVII veke,” Sochineniia,
II /2 (1964), 388–99. See also Robert McChesney’s valuable expansion of Bartol’d’s article in R.
D. McChesney, “The Amirs of Muslim Central Asia in the XVIIth Century,” JESHO 26 (1983),
33–70.
6
Tīmūr respects protocol and religious authorities and customs and shows proper reverence for
Islamic institutions.
7
The axis of the age, leader of the Sufi assembly.
 Youth 79

“You both told us your skills,” said Sāhib-qirān, “but I had to show you mine.
I am a Turk and this is my skill. A drunk should not enter such a place.”
[Tīmūr’s Marriage]8
Tīmūr went to visit Shams Kulal, but he died that night (the year was 755).
Tīmūr went to sleep by his grave9 and one evening he had a dream in which
the shaykh told him:€“My son, go to Bukhara and observe the wisdom of the
Lord most High.”
After that Tīmūr headed for Bukhara. He walked much of the way and
became tired. He entered through one of the gates of Bukhara and came into
one of the buildings, found a room and settled there. By chance, someone had
left a bag in that room that contained one ruby from Badakhshan.10 There was
nothing else there. He decided to take the ruby and try to sell it in the bazaar.
Suddenly, a few men emerged from behind a wooden beam. They were run-
ning away, and Tīmūr tried to ask them but they would not answer and dis-
persed in every direction. A young, drunk bully emerged, carrying a dagger.
“Hey, Turk-boy,” shouted someone. “Run away!”
Tīmūr stayed put.11 After all, he was tall and strong. That youth struck Tīmūr
with his dagger. Tīmūr evaded the blow, but then the ruby fell to the ground.
The thug picked up the ruby and started to run away. Tīmūr gave chase.
“Turk-boy,” shouted at him one man. “Stop chasing this tyrant! He will kill
you! He is Baraq Khan’s lover.” (Baraq Khan was Bayān-Qulī Khan’s son. He
set fire to the houses of many Muslims for his own enjoyment, but out of fear
no one ever complained about him to his father. At that time Bayān-Qulī Khan
was becoming old and had no other son. If Baraq Khan were to be disposed
with, no other person would be able to inherit Chaghatay’s throne!)12
Although the ‘ulamā’ managed to endure this hardship, order was needed.
Sāhib-qirān was very young when he stepped into the caravansarāy; he
had nothing and was hungry and thirsty. He thought that he would peti-
tion the dādkh‘āh.13 At that time the dādkh‘āh was Amir Yādgarshāh

8
My translation of a part of this segment, with no scholarly apparatus, was recently published in Scott
C. Levi and Ron Sela, Islamic Central Asia:€An Anthology of Historical Sources (Bloomington,
Indianapolis:€Indiana University Press, 2009), 248–54.
9
Shams al-Dīn Kulal is buried near the great mosque in Shahr-i Sabz.
10
The rubies of Badakhshan were famous throughout the Muslim world both as very precious gem-
stones and also as metaphors in poetry for all things beautiful and red (wine and lips, for example).
11
True to his calling, Tīmūr fights for justice yet again and takes chances while doing so.
12
Baraq Khan had no heir, and the line of the Chaghatayids seemed to be over. For more on the prin-
ciple of succession in Central Asia see Chapter 6.
13
The different administrative positions mentioned in this part of the narrative are, like most of the
“facts” in the biographies, scattered and only partly accurate. The dādkh‘āh, for example, was in
charge of receiving official petitions at the khan’s court. For a study of some of these positions and
administrative duties in eighteenth-century Bukhara see, among other publications, Mīrzā Badī‘-
dīvān, Madzhma‘ al-arkām (“Predpisaniia fiska”) (Priemy dokumentatsii v Bukhare XVIII v.), fak-
simile rukopisi, vvedenie, perevod, primechaniia i prilozheniia A. B. Vil’danovoĭ (Moscow:€Nauka,
1981); A. A. Semenov, “Bukharskiĭ traktat o chinakh i zvaniiakh i ob obiazannostiakh nositeleĭ
80 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

Arlat.14 Tīmūr explained the circumstances to him, but he said:€“Go to the

tumanbāshi, he will take care of you.” Tīmūr went to him but he said:€“Go
to Amir Jalayir the mingbāshi.”15 Amir Jalayir sent him to Amir Bayān
Sulduz,16 who was of the Noyāns, but among the Chaghatays there was no
man of strength or courage.17 He said to Tīmūr:€“This is a matter for the
sharī‘a, go see a qazi.”
The qazi was Imām Sa‘d who said:€“I have no respect for the khan. I am a
man of the sharī‘a first.18 Go bring a witness who would testify for you.”
Tīmūr went to the jewelers market to look for a witness, but all the people
said:€“We are simple men. We cannot be your witnesses. We want to live.”
The amir went into a mosque and collapsed out of hunger.19
In the middle of the night a dervish came in, carrying a torch. He saw
Tīmūr and asked him how he was doing. Tīmūr explained the events that hap-
pened. “Yes,” said the dervish. “It is unfortunate that we have such tyranny in
Bukhara.” Then he said:€“Tomorrow, after the morning-prayer, go to the min-
aret. You will find a man by the name Malham Pāradoz sitting there. Explain
your situation to him, maybe he could help. Do whatever he tells you.”
The next morning Tīmūr went to the minaret. There was a small shop in
which an old man was sitting, sewing some old clothes. Tīmūr became upset,
“How could this old man help with my misfortune?” He stepped forward any-
way and greeted the man. The old man returned his greetings, but remained
busy with what he was doing. He did not say a word.
After a while Tīmūr decided to explain his situation to him. He listened to
Tīmūr’s words and asked:€“Didn’t you speak to the ‘ulamā’ about it?”
“I did,” said Tīmūr. “But they sent me to Yādgarshāh.”
Tīmūr thought that nothing could come out of this, but then suddenly Amir
Yādgarshāh himself appeared and greeted the old man with much respect.

ikh v srednevekovoĭ Bukhare,” Sovetskoe vostokovedenie 5 (1948), 137–53; Yuri Bregel, The
Administration of Bukhara under the Manghïts and Some Tashkent Manuscripts (Bloomington,
2000, PIA no. 34).
14
Although according to Ibn ‘Arabshāh the Arlat were one of the four main tribes of the Chaghatay
ulus, they seem to feature more prominently only in the succession struggles following Tīmūr’s
death. See Beatrice Forbes Manz, Rise and Rule of Tamerlane (Cambridge:€Cambridge University
Press, 1989), 155–56.
15
The Jalayir were among the most important tribes of the ulus.
16
Much like the Jalayir, the Sulduz or Suldus were also one of the leading tribes of the polity. Bayan
(or Buyan) of the Suldus was ruler of the ulus between 1358 and 1360.
17
Some of these terms and administrative hierarchies are clearly confused, such as the lack of distinc-
tion between the military, courtly, and administrative positions held by the tribal leaders and army
commanders and the posts that concerned legal authorities in Bukhara. We will see this even more
pronounced in Chapter 5.
18
The sharī‘a is presented as external to both the government and the military. The only one who
would be able, ultimately, to overcome the dissonance is Tīmūr.
19
In the atmosphere of crisis that engulfed Bukhara, even the institutions of charity that were caring
for the hungry and poor were in trouble.
 Youth 81

The old man seemed not to notice him and continued his sewing. After a while
he said:€“You impious tyrant, why didn’t you help this poor young man?”
“I sent him to Amir Mu’ayyad,” said Yādgarshāh, “so that he would help
him. He is my superior.”
The old man sent an apprentice to bring Amir Mu’ayyad. Mu’ayyad
explained that it was on account of his superior, Bāyazīd.20 Then Bāyazīd
was summoned, and he blamed Bayān Sulduz, who arrived with his reti-
nue, all wearing their fine brocade robes with their royal emblems. The old
man paid no attention to them and they just stood there in sheer reverence.
Tīmūr was shocked. He felt like he were drowning and put his finger in his
mouth.21
After a while, the old man said:€“Hey, Bayān Sulduz, if you are of Qarāchār
Noyān, how come you never heard the request of this visitor?”
“I did,” he said. “I directed him to the qazi of our noble sharī‘a.”
So they brought Qazi Sa‘d. Amir Tīmūr was astonished to see the respect
that the qazi showed the old man. The latter, still sitting in his place, said to the
qazi:€“Why did you not implement the judgment of the sharī‘a?”
“I was looking for a witness,” said the qazi. “This young man just left and
never returned.”
“I went to the jewelers market,” said the amir. “But they just said that they
were simple people and did not want to be witnesses. I asked them about the
ruby, but they said that they would not want to deal with the qazi. They said
that Baraq Khan is a tyrant and that they are afraid of him.”
Upon hearing these words the old man became bitter and enraged. He com-
manded that they bring Baraq Khan. Tīmūr could not keep silent any more.
“Baba,” he said. “Why do all these people show you such respect?”
“Sit quietly and I will tell you,” said the old man. But he was still busy
doing his work, sewing. Everyone kept silent and uttered no word waiting for
the old man to speak.
Suddenly the sound of carriages was heard. Baraq Khan was entering with
much pomp and splendor. All the amirs and townsfolk were standing in their
places, everyone assembled to see the glory of His Majesty. The old man
remained seated in silence. Baraq Khan and his entourage approached the old
man. Then he said:€“O Tyrant, for a while I was guilty of praising you, but
now I will tell your father to destroy you.”
“Baba,” said Baraq Khan. “What wrong have I done?”
Then he explained to him what had happened.
“I had no news of that,” said Baraq Khan. He sent for his close servant. As
it so happened, his lover was there.
“I don’t know how the ruby got here,” he said. “I must have been drunk.”

20
The author probably conjures up the image of another powerful historical tribal chieftain, Amir
Bāyazīd Jalayir (d. 1361).
21
A sign of bewilderment, often replicated in miniature paintings as well.
82 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

Baraq Khan placed his hand on his heart and with much reverence
said:€“Baba, with your permission, let this young man come to me tomorrow,
and I will give him the price of two rubies.”
“The price is one thousand gold,” said a jeweler.
“I will give him two thousand gold,” said the khan.
“Young man,” said the old man to Tīmūr. “Stand up! You will take your
money from Baraq Khan.”
“My claim is settled,” said Tīmūr. “Now explain what has just happened.”
“First go and recover your money,” said the man. “Then return here and I
will explain.”
Tīmūr went to Baraq Khan’s headquarters and saw him there, sitting on a
sofa, entertained by dancers. He averted his eyes. Rising from his seat, Baraq
Khan saw Tīmūr and sent his servants to bring two thousand gold coins. Then
he came to Tīmūr and began to apologize profusely. He also asked him to
convey his apologies to the old man. Tīmūr gathered the gold and went back
to the old man.
“Did you take it?” asked the old man.
“Yes,” said Tīmūr. “I did.” Then he placed the gold before them, divided
the pile in half and gave one part to the old man. The man became irritated
and said:€“Hey, stupid kid. I have no need for anything in this world. Use it
yourself for your own expenses.”
“Baba,” said Sāhib-qirān. “Tell me your secret. Make my poor soul
happy.”
“Ah, charming young man,” said the old man. “Listen to my words. For
the last forty years I have been making clothes. I never coveted anything from
anyone. I have been calling the morning prayer from this minaret. Ten years
ago during the time of the evening prayer, rain began to fall. That time a
woman was passing. A man, a drunk of the Chaghatay, was following her
and caught her by the hand, and forced her into a house. The woman wailed
and cried:€ ‘My hand, my hand, stop it! O good Muslims, I am pure. My
Â�husband€said that if I’m not home tonight he will divorce me, take pity on me.’
So I went to that Turk’s house to help her, but his servants were there. They
beat me up and I fled. I thought to myself, ‘How could the woman stay with
her husband?’22 And then I had an idea. I went up to the minaret and sounded
the call for prayer, but not in its usual form. It seems that Bayān-Qulī Khan
was in the citadel, reciting a prayer from the Qur’ān.23 His retainers alerted
him, and he asked who was calling for prayer at this time. ‘It must be a mad-
man or a fool,’ they told him. The khan sent someone to check, and he came

22
The old prayer caller’s priorities are clear:€first, the concern for the integrity of the husband’s house-
hold and to the institution of marriage, then the concern for the woman’s well-being. After all, as
mentioned later, this was the woman’s sin to begin with.
23
Bayān-Qulī Khan is portrayed as the last of a dying breed of Chinggisid khans€– respectful, just, and
observant of Islam. Yet, he is old and about to pass away, only to leave a dreadful vacuum.
 Youth 83

and brought me before the khan. ‘Are you crazy or are you sane?’ asked the
khan. ‘I am sane,’ I said. And I proceeded to explain to him what had hap-
pened. The khan sent for the Turk and the poor woman, and they were brought
before him. He then searched for the woman’s husband and brought him too.
He tied a rope around the Turk’s neck and strangled him to death. Nothing
was revealed to the husband of the woman’s sin. Then he called me Ata. He
said:€‘Ata, help me and let me know of whatever happens in the city.’ Thanks
to God Almighty I pledged to make another late call to prayer if this serves
justice. And I have kept my word for the last ten years. And this is why the
amirs fear me.” (Today they call him Bābā Paradoz, and his grave is on the
south side of Bukhara near the South Gate.)
One night Bayān-Qulī Khan saw Shaykh al-‘Ālam in a dream. “Do not
behave contrary to the sharī‘a,” said the shaykh. “Rise and give your daugh-
ters in marriage!”
Bayān-Qulī Khan had nine daughters.24 He rose from his sleep, assembled
his daughters and told them:€“My daughters, it is time for you to choose a man
to marry.” They all agreed.
The youngest daughter was Sarāy Mulk. She said to her father:€“Father, I do
not wish to depart from your fortunate shadow and I am not going to marry.”
Then Bayān-Qulī Khan gave one daughter to Amir Chāku, one to Amir
Jahānshāh and one to Amir Öljei.25 He married off all his daughters€– except
for Sarāy Mulk€– with much celebration and merriment.
One day Shaykh al-‘Ālam appeared before him again in a dream and
said:€“Marry your daughter!”
When he woke up he called his youngest daughter and said:€“You have to
get married.”
“I am not going to choose a husband,” she said.
Again Shaykh al-‘Ālam appeared before him in a dream and in a cautionary
voice said:€“Marry off your daughter!”
Again he summoned his daughter and told her:€“O my daughter, heed to my
wishes and choose a husband.”
She said:€“Do you care about my wishes? If so, give me Taraghāi Bahādur’s
son.”26 Since the khan was upset with Taraghāi Bahādur, he did not consent.
Again his daughter said:€“My wish is that whoever beats me in chess, I will
accept him, even if he is a shepherd.”
The khan was dismayed and said:€“How can I deal with your disrespect?”
“I will marry even your slave-boy,” she said, “if he is of worthy quality.
Whoever wins in chess, I will become his wife.”

24
Baraq Khan was his only son.
25
Intermarriages between the Chinggisid khans and the daughters of the military (and other) elites
were common tools to strengthen alliances and bases of power. Historically, Jahānshāh was Chāku’s
son, whereas Amir Öljei was one of the powerful amirs of the Suldus.
26
The author does not explain how Sarāy Mulk even came to know of Tīmūr.
84 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

The khan agreed.27

The next morning the rumor spread and many chess players gathered at
the palace. The princess beat them all. At the same time, Shaykh al-‘Ālam
appeared again in his dream and told him to give his daughter to whomever
she wishes.
“My beloved father,” she told him. “Tell your messengers to tell every
chess player, wherever he is found, to come.”
The messengers spread throughout the markets, announcing and summon-
ing all the chess players in the realm. Amir Tīmūr heard the call, stepped out-
side, and the messenger explained to him what it was all about. Since Tīmūr
had no equal in chess, he decided to go.28
The khan saw a Turk-boy, wearing a robe, on his head a fur hat. “What does
this kid want?” said the khan.
“As much as I tried to discourage him, he insisted on coming along,” said
the messenger.
Amir Sāhib-qirān said nothing.
The khan commanded that they bring a slave boy to him (this was Sarāy
Mulk in disguise). They brought her. Tīmūr knew that although the clothes
were those of a slave boy, the person before him was a girl. As soon as they
saw each other, they fell in love. They set the chess board between them.
“I am going to play on one condition,” said Sāhib-qirān.
“The condition is that if you win, this slave-boy is yours,” said the khan.
“And what happens if I lose?”
“Nothing is required of you if you lose,” said the khan.
“If I lose, I will become the slave of this slave boy.”
They played three times. Each game lasted one night and one day. Tīmūr
emerged as the winner. Finally, the princess loosened her robe, and rising,
went into the house. The khan became upset. Tīmūr did not reveal his true ori-
gin. (The reason was that the khan was upset with his father. Therefore, Tīmūr
was afraid to reveal his true identity.)
“Leave now,” said the khan. “Come back tomorrow. The slave-boy is yours.”
Tīmūr returned to the caravansarāy. The khan came back to the house and
summoned his daughter.
“Stay loyal to your oath,” she said. “Give me to him, even if he is a slave.”
The khan was distressed. He placed a guard at the door, so that when the Turk
boy comes he would not be allowed to enter.

27
This brings to mind Marco Polo’s account of the daughter of Qaidu, the Ögedeid ruler of the late
thirteenth century, who had declared that she would not marry until she had found a man who could
beat her in a feat of physical strength (wrestling). The proclamation was announced everywhere
and many suitors came to seek her hand€– both in combat and in marriage, apparently€– only to be
defeated. See Marco Polo, The Travels, tr. Ronald Latham (London:€Penguin, 1992), 317–19.
28
Tīmūr’s expertise in chess and his fondness for the game had been distinguished by many of his
contemporaries and also later in his “autobiography.” (See for example, Ibn ‘Arabshāh, Tamerlane:€or,
Tīmūr the Great Amir, translated by J. H. Sanders, London:€Luzac & Co., 1936, 298.)
 Youth 85

The next morning when Sāhib-qirān came to the palace, the guards at the
gate would not let him pass. He returned to his room at the caravansarāy.
The following day a maid came to Sāhib-qirān from the palace, carrying a
letter:
Praise be to God. Know that the slave-boy who played chess with you is actually me, Sarāy
Mulk, daughter of the khan. If the anxiety of love has kindled your heart, please petition the
khan on our behalf. My father is a just man and will surely give me to you. If he gives you
another slave, do not accept him.

Tīmūr honored the maid and sent her back. The next morning the khan went
hunting. As he was riding Tīmūr appeared before him on the road and said:€“O,
just king. Please keep your promise.”
The khan became upset that he could not go on the hunt on time and
returned. The next day he sent to Tīmūr a number of slaves, but Tīmūr would
not accept them, saying:€“These are not the slaves I played chess with.”
The khan became agitated and appointed Sirāj Qamari, his vizier, to talk to
Tīmūr. The vizier came to him and said:€“Young man, that is the khan’s own
daughter. Go, accept something else instead.” He was holding a box in his
hands that contained much gold.
“Go ahead, take it,” said the vizier. But Tīmūr refused, and for the next
three days he was weeping for his love.
Then he decided to visit the shrine of His Holiness Shaykh al-‘Ālam. He
covered his head and began to wail:€“O Lord Creator, do not put my heart in
such a state of love, and sustain me through this separation.” Tīmūr cried him-
self to sleep. Shaykh al-‘Ālam appeared before him in a dream and said:€“O
Amir Tīmūr, rise! God most High will show you the way.” Tīmūr immediately
woke up and headed back to the city.
He soon saw something on the road that turned out to be a box. He came
close and saw that it was the same box that the vizier had offered him earlier.
He picked up the box and returned to town. He saw that many people gath-
ered and were speaking anxiously amongst themselves. Tīmūr asked one of
them what had happened, but no one would answer. Suddenly the vizier Sirāj
Qamari came rushing. Tīmūr greeted the vizier. The vizier spotted the box
under Tīmūr’s arm, and commanded:€“Arrest the thief!” They put shackles on
his legs, chains on his hands. (That night a thief entered the khan’s quarters,
and managed to injure the khan, steal the box and escape.)
“What wrong have I done?” asked Tīmūr. But people simply cursed at him.
The vizier brought Tīmūr before the khan. The khan was sitting on his throne
as the amirs and begs were sitting on his left and right flanks. Baraq Khan,
the khan’s son, was also sitting at his side. The vizier entered saying:€“I found
the thief.”
“Was it you who came in search of my daughter?” asked the khan.
“Yes,” said Amir Tīmūr.
“And you injured me?” said the khan.
86 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

Then Sāhib-qirān explained everything that had happened, but the khan
showed no interest in his words. They took Tīmūr and put him in prison. The
khan’s condition had worsened and soon his soul returned to his creator in the
month of Ramadān. His son, Baraq Khan, took his place. The khan was buried
next to Shaykh al-‘Ālam.
So Baraq Khan was installed upon the seat of kingship and was carefully
watching Sirāj Qamari. He soon executed Qamari, but after the latter’s death
the yurt fell into chaos and Baraq Khan began to lose his mind. He was humil-
iating all the begs to the point that Amir Chāku, Amir Bayān Sulduz and Amir
Yādgārshāh, as well as others, dropped out of his government and distanced
themselves from him. Amir Tīmūr was still in prison, as Baraq Khan seemed
to have lost his memory and completely forgot about him.
The weather was very hot. It was the time of summer. Seeing no solution,
Tīmūr was sitting in his cell, weeping. In the middle of the night someone
came and called to Amir Tīmūr:€ “Young man, stand up! I will help you.”
Amir asked him for his name, but he said, “It’s no concern of yours.” And he
smuggled Tīmūr out of prison. The jailor awoke from his sleep, and immedi-
ately raised the alarm. The people of Bukhara began to chase Tīmūr. Tīmūr
ran into the Friday Mosque (the mosque had six gates). They all gathered at
the gates, but no one dared to go inside. Tīmūr climbed to the top of the min-
aret and waited there. He struck with a stick those who tried to climb after
him. Outside, a hundred men gathered. Day passed and night descended. A
little after midnight, the black-dressed man who had saved him from prison
climbed up. The amir tried to hit him, but he said:€“I am your friend.”
They descended the minaret when everyone around them had already fallen
asleep. Two other men dressed in black joined them from the shadows. They
led Tīmūr directly to the citadel. The gate was opened before them and they
stepped into the citadel.
“Where are you leading me?” asked Tīmūr. “I am going to face too many
hardships this way.”
They laughed.
He was led into an interior hall decorated with carpets and gold, and one of
them said:€“Let us play chess together. I am Sarāy Mulk.”
“My queen,” said Tīmūr. “I have suffered a lot because of my love for you.
Praise the Lord that we finally succeeded in meeting.”
Tīmūr told her about his true origins, and the princess realized that he was
Taraghāi Bahādur’s son. The two spent the next few days together in utter delight.
One night Baraq Khan was walking on the roof, when he saw a light
coming out of his young sister’s room. This surprised him so he went over
to check. He glanced through the crack in the door and saw the two lovers
engaged in prayer. He immediately summoned ten of his strongest slaves.
The princess heard their footsteps, looked outside and saw that the men
had gathered outside her door. She immediately cried to Tīmūr to stop his
 Youth 87

prayer. Tīmūr tried to get up from his place but he was injured and col-
lapsed. They entered, made him stand, beat him and carried him to the field
outside of Shaykh Hasan Bākharzī,29 where they threw him to the ground
and left him to die. Then Baraq Khan sent for one of his slaves to take the
princess out of town and kill her secretly without anyone knowing about it,
for “she shamed me.”
The slave put the princess on a horse and rode out of town to the steppe.
The princess realized that, for sure, she was about to die. She slowly took out
a dagger from the side-saddle and struck the man’s neck with such force that
his head rolled, like an apple, to the ground.30 She then jumped off the horse.
She took the slave’s clothes and put them on, climbed back on the saddle and
headed to the town of Qarshi. In two days she reached Qarshi and from there
went to Shahr-i Sabz. Her horse grew tired and she was forced to walk until
she reached a place called Yighachlïq.
She saw a yellow-skinned man waiting for the shepherds and watching
many sheep. That man was Taraghāi Bahādur. As she approached him she fell,
and her hat rolled off her head, uncovering her hair.
“Who are you?” asked Taraghāi Bahādur. “Where are you from?”
“I am Taraghāi Bahādur’s daughter-in-law,” she answered.
Bahādur became upset. She explained to him all that had happened. Then
Taraghāi Bahādur wept:€ “O my dear child, Amir Tīmūr is my son, but I
haven’t been able to find him for the last two years.” Then he showed his
new daughter-in-law every kind of reverence and respect and assigned to
her a few maids. Next, he wrote a letter to Baraq Khan detailing how Tīmūr
went to Bukhara, played chess with the khan’s daughter, and how devoted
the two were to each other. He included Sarāy Mulk’s regards to her father
and concluded the letter with an implied threat. The letter reached Baraq
Khan. As soon as he became aware of the letter’s contents he became
confused.
“I did not know that Tīmūr was Taraghāi Bahādur’s son,” he said. “Does
anyone know whether Tīmūr is dead or alive?”
That very night, as the disciples of Shaykh Hasan Bākharzī were visiting
the shrine, they saw something lying in the field outside the shrine. They came
near and saw a young man moving very slowly, several of his limbs broken.
Two of them carried him into the shrine to treat his wounds. He spent forty
days in the shrine before he was entrusted into the care of Shaykh Hasan
Bākharzī himself.31

29
The author probably means the empty field behind Shaykh Bākharzī’s shrine.
30
The motif of the hired slave sent to kill the girl outside town is repeating itself, but in this case Sarāy
Mulk does not need a divine miracle to save her. She is perfectly capable of saving herself.
31
Eventually Baraq Khan and Taraghāi Bahādur reached an agreement, and Tīmūr and Sarāy Mulk
had a large and joyful wedding ceremony.
88 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

Commentary
Tīmūr’s first direct and successful encounter with Sufis enabled him to con-
tinue on his path to becoming the ruler of the world. Once again, it was made
evident that Sufis could not serve in the capacity of kings. The qualities of
a leader for the Muslim community at a time of uncertainty€– the thread of
the search for such a leader runs through many of the stories€– became more
and more professed with each anecdote that was conducting Tīmūr closer to
his destiny. Although Tīmūr had some unorthodox ways of demonstrating his
commitment to the Sufis and to the community, it seems that his ways were
exactly what the Sufi masters, portrayed as the true representatives of the will
of the community, desired:€ Tīmūr was strong and confident, honest, pious
enough to understand the significance of sacredness, and unquestionably ded-
icated to seeking advice from the Sufis and to accomplishing their goals. He
was also the decision maker, harsh, strong-minded, and someone who could
“get things done.” His conviction allowed him to deal swiftly with situations
as they arose, often with brute force, but as far as the Sufis were concerned,
also with a clear understanding of justice.
Before the test, Tīmūr observed the shaykh and perceived him to be detached
from the world, in the spiritual sense but also alone in the physical sense.
Perhaps this was a moment of clarity for the youth, as he recognized not only
the master’s greatness but also the leader’s solitude. Most likely, this was not
a conscious peek into Tīmūr’s own destiny. He was still a child, afraid and in
mourning. Nevertheless, he ultimately chose the master as an object for iden-
tification, demonstrating an intuitive understanding that the shaykh was there
to assist him. The master’s reference to Ādam’s loneliness and acceptance of
Eve may have been a valuable lesson in patience and selflessness.
As his father Taraghāi before him passed tests, so did Tīmūr have to pass
them, and the similarities abound. Tests needed to be taken even if the divine
decree was already known. The tests, administered by the Sufis, would serve
as an attestation to Tīmūr’s skills. Guided by conviction and faith in the path,
Tīmūr was willing to take chances, and his understanding of the meaning of
justice was unhindered by intellectual obstructions. He was also ready and
able to carry out justice on his own. By doing so, Tīmūr was bypassing the
entire Islamic legal and institutional system, but in the virtually lawless sul-
tanate of Bukhara, the audience understood that Tīmūr’s behavior was not
only suitable but even also called for. He was the future, not only for the
realm, but also for its corrupt judicial system.
One of the most compelling assertions in the story concerns Tīmūr’s
“Turkicness.” Tīmūr identified himself as a Turk and was also identified by
others in the same manner, although his self-identification came from within
while others based their judgments on his external appearance. His self-iden-
tification as a Turk, uttered in a forthright but also challenging manner (“I am
a Turk and this is my skill”), was said in response to the educated foreigners
 Youth 89

from other parts of the Muslim world, from Morocco and Yemen, and was
intended to put them in their place. On the one hand, this utterance continued
a long tradition in Islam that perceived the Turks as excellent soldiers, but also
brutish and unrefined, eager to kill anyone who stands in their way.32 Here,
however, there seemed to be a spiritual dimension as well. Tīmūr was not a
simple thug who would be willing to hit anyone in his path. He was thoughtful
and portrayed himself€– with the encouragement and acceptance of the Sufi
master, who did not condemn his deed at all€– as the defender of Islam and
the executor of justice (“a drunk should not enter such a place”). One wonders
about the reception of such a story by the audience. Central Asian Turks, to
use as broad a generalization as possible, would probably have considered this
a worthy accomplishment by a popular figure. Tīmūr emerged from this story
a confident and able character who has exhibited proper behavior, flawless
manners, and did not seek to impress the judges and spectators with conceited
etiquette and the presumption of superior knowledge. He, a boy, was also the
winner of the competition, the clear candidate for kingship and the beneficiary
of a precious endorsement by the Sufi masters.
The portrayal of Tīmūr’s “Turkicness” also continued the thread, intro-
duced earlier in the biographies, of his command over the entire Turkic world
and his seniority over the Ottomans, as seen in the narrator’s introduction to
the shared lineage of the kings of Turan and the sultans of the Saljuqs and the
Ottomans. We have also seen, in the introduction to Tīmūr’s legacy in Central
Asia, that in some cases Tīmūr was referred to€– along with Chinggis Khan€–
as the sultan of the Turks. For the Turkic peoples of Bukhara€– the “Turks”
held the throne, had been generally in command of the military and in charge
of many of the highest administrative and religious positions, and also prob-
ably constituted the majority of the population€– Tīmūr’s representation as a
Turk continued the long process of the region’s Turkification, a process that
had begun already before Islam’s appearance in Central Asia and continued
with the first Turkic-Muslim dynasties (Qarakhanids, Saljuqs, and others),
with the Mongol invasions, and with the migration of the Uzbeks in the early
sixteenth century.
For the Iranian audiences in Bukhara€– Bukhara was, and still is, after all,
home to a significant population of Persian speakers, many of whom had deep
roots in the region€– Tīmūr’s “admission” may have resonated with the old
dichotomy between Turks and Tajiks, between the soldier and scholar, the
strength of the arm and sword and the power of the mind.33 At the same time,

32
This tradition began already with the first encounters of the Arabs and the Turks, and persisted
through both the more scholarly evaluations of the early Arabs (such as the writings of the famous
Arab prose writer, al-Jāhiz) and later with the deliberate recruitment of Turks into the armies of the
caliphate.
33
See, for example, Jean Aubin, Emirs mongols et vizirs persans dans les remous de l’acculturation
(Paris, 1995). (Studia Iranica. Cahier 15.)
90 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

because Tīmūr was a child, because he had acted in the service of perceived
justice, because the authorities, regardless of their “ethnic” affiliation, had
failed, and because Tīmūr will have vanquished also other “Turkic” oppo-
nents (such as the Ottoman sultan), Bukhara’s Iranian audiences may have
been more forgiving. His opponents were not Tajik:€They were either foreign-
ers or locals of diverse backgrounds. Tīmūr’s identity as a Turk was not lim-
ited only to his understanding of himself, his skills, and his heritage. All the
people that he encountered, whether in the marketplace or at the royal palace,
immediately recognized him as a Türk-bacha, a Turk-boy, presumably for his
attire and perhaps for his looks. Possibly, he represented to them an arche-
typal nomad. Whatever the reason, they still found it the most convenient and
intuitive manner to address him, not knowing his name. In his designation,
his dress, his appearance, and the company that he kept, Tīmūr was distinct
from those in power. In fact, he was so often mistaken for a commoner that
such a mistake was bound to arouse in the audience a sense of empathy and
compassion.
Similar to Sīrat Baybars, Tīmūr’s biographies humanized their protago-
nist. Tīmūr displayed his emotions (love, hate, fear, confusion); he was at
times very naïve. Although he was predestined to rule, although he valiantly
defended the sharī‘a, and although he vanquished formidable enemies, was
exceptionally strong, and enjoyed dealings with extraordinary beings (the
unseen world, for example), Tīmūr was not a holy man.34 He did not per-
form any miracles; he did not change his form or live an exceptionally long
life. This is not the story of a saint. Tīmūr and Baybars found themselves in
an ambiguous state:€On the one hand, they received many signs about their
destiny€– prophecies, guidance from Sufi shaykhs, conspicuous dreams, and
superior abilities€– and their confidence and understanding of their allotted
destiny was rising throughout the narrative. On the other hand, they were not
really privy to God’s design and could only see the external side of things, not
the internal and, supposedly, the more meaningful.35 Externally, Tīmūr pos-
sessed all the necessary attributes to allow him to rule, with the exception, of
course, of the Chinggisid ideal. Internally, Tīmūr had no real access to the hid-
den or unseen world. Even when he was associating with the unseen and with
its representatives, as in the story of the test, he remained the odd man out. He
did not attain true knowledge or the kind of wisdom that had been apportioned
to the men of the unseen world. He was only able to gain their approval.36 We
should not really wonder about his lack of access to the Sufi truth. After all, it
was not Tīmūr’s place.

34
Neither was Baybars.
35
Gril’s comments about Baybars are especially instructive. See Denis Gril, “Du sultanat au califat
universel:€le rôle des saints dans le Roman de Baybars,” in Lectures du Roman de Baybars,” 178.
36
Ibid., 183.
 Youth 91

This is another reason why we should not treat this work as a hagiography,
or as “epico-religious” literature, to use Jean Calmard’s (and others) Â�definition.
Tīmūr’s biographies have a strong religious dimension because they had been
written in a religious setting. This is not, however, religious literature per se:€It
is not a hagiography, even if it displays hagiographical motifs; it is neither
a doctrinal work nor a devotional work, even if Tīmūr’s biographies were
clearly inspired by religious literature.
One of the most enduring features in the narrative is the plight of the
Muslim community, which is expressed in a variety of internal threats (hea-
then rulers, corruption, anti-Muslim oppression, anti-sharī‘a activities, and
false prophets) and external dangers (invasions and battles). The examples
are numerous and range from Tīmūr’s first experiences in the city of Bukhara
that involve fights, drunkenness, encounters with ineffective and crooked
city officials, and a cruel tyrant who “set fire to houses of many Muslims
for his own enjoyment,” to events following Bayan-Qulī Khan’s death that
include the execution of the head minister and the growing rift between the
khan and the amirs. The rise of another tyrant in the figure of Amir Qazaghan,
who had slaughtered four thousand mullahs in forty days, destroyed madra-
sas and burned down mosques, and even forbade the Muslims to fast during
Ramadan,37 further emphasized the predicament of the Muslim community
and Tīmūr’s duty to help them. Tīmūr’s rise to power and eventual success
would serve, as Gril had demonstrated in his study of Sīrat Baybars, as a
sign of the Muslims’ eventual victory, a show of confidence that the Muslim
community would ultimately prevail. However, the apocalyptic dimension in
Tīmūr’s heroic apocrypha is much more pronounced than in Sīrat Baybars, as
will become evident in Chapter 5.

37
To the point that our storyteller would evoke the time of Noah and the Flood.
C hapt e r 4

Inauguration and Kingship

Tīmūr’s ascent to the throne of his Central Asian realm followed a sequence
of events whose aim was not only to establish the hero’s merit and worthi-
ness of the esteemed position, but also to show how reluctant he had been
to part with the old tradition that prescribed that only Chinggis Khan’s male
descendants had the legitimacy to claim the seat of majesty. By the time the
last Chaghatayid khan had died, Tīmūr had already secured the support of the
military commanders and the Sufis. They all agreed that he should become
king, but he still hesitated. A seemingly chance meeting with a 200-year-old
deformed woman affected him greatly. After all, she had in her possession€–
courtesy of an early thirteenth-century Sufi shaykh€– the original agreement
between Tīmūr’s ancestor, Qachulai, and the latter’s brother, Qabūl (Chinggis
Khan’s great-grandfather), that she had been instructed to deliver to him. After
further deliberation, Tīmūr was still not persuaded. He believed that he had
located the real heir to the throne, a Chinggisid youth residing in a village to
the east. Messengers were dispatched to fetch the boy, but despite all efforts
the boy found his premature demise. On his death bed the boy implored Tīmūr
to take upon himself the task of ruling the land. Tīmūr seemed moved but still
not fully convinced. That night, the Prophet himself was revealed to our hero
in a dream and commanded him to accept leadership. Tīmūr, in a very unusual
exchange with Muhammad, reminded the Prophet the covenant of his Â�ancestors.
Oddly enough, Muhammad agreed that the covenant took precedence over his
own command. Tīmūr then set out to find another Chinggisid and ultimately
enthroned himself and the Chinggisid in a curiously similar ceremony.

Account of the Installation on the Imperial Throne and the

Enthronement of Sāhib-qirān in the Year 771 A.H.1
When Baraq Khan’s fortune had reached its demise, a group of amirs gathered
in the city of Balkh to decide upon the fate of the country by determining the

1
Kunūz, 285–93. This story does not appear in the recent Uzbek version of the work. See also TN
Kullīyāt, 136–39.

92
 Inauguration and Kingship 93

identity of its next ruler.2 The gathering was in unanimous agreement that His
Highness Sāhib-qirān was worthy and deserving of the crown, even though
up until that time the affair of the khanship was part and parcel of the lineage
of Chinggis Khan. Having this consideration in mind, the amirs set out for the
hunt.
It so happened that Tīmūr was hunting when his favorite falcon, indeed his
falcon of good omen, picked up the trail of a gazelle.3 They kept following the
gazelle through every step and in every direction and in their zealous pursuit
separated from the rest of the group. Thus they carried on until midnight, when
they reached an old village in ruins where Tīmūr decided to camp for the night.
When daylight broke, Tīmūr heard a whistling sound and when he turned
around he saw a woman approaching the campsite. The skin was flayed from
her face from her forehead to her chin, so that the bones of her face shone
in their whiteness. At first Tīmūr was startled, but then he took courage and
approached. The woman exhibited much honor, but Tīmūr grew suspicious
and drew his sword in order to strike.
“I am not an enemy,” swore the woman.
When Tīmūr asked her to explain her condition, the woman said, “My story
is long and difficult, and my circumstances are heartbreaking, for I have lived
two hundred years and at the time Chinggis Khan invaded these lands I was
but twenty years old.4 Ah, my lot is a bad one. The Mongols had murdered
my husband, and I decided to kill Chinggis Khan in revenge. As the Mongol
convoy was returning to Khorezm, I was cooking some food along the side of
the road, and poured some poison into the pot. I approached Chinggis Khan
and said, ‘O Khan, I implore His Majesty to taste my cooking.’ But just then
Qarāchār Noyān, his vizier, prevented me from coming any closer. After many
trials, they finally decided to put my food to the test. They brought a thief
from a local prison and commanded him to eat the food. The thief ate and died
on the spot. They realized that the food contained poison and they handed me
over to Qarāchār, who had me locked up in his house as a prisoner.5 At that
time, the Mongol army arrested the great Shaykh Najm al-Dīn Kubrā,6 and

2
This time the amirs, not the Sufis, seem to be in the decision-making position, even if their decision
would not be final. It is clear that their disillusionment with the Chinggisids already was reaching a
critical stage.
3
Hunting with gyrfalcons was standard practice for those of position and means. See Thomas
T.€Allsen, The Royal Hunt in Eurasian History (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), 244–51.
4
Men and women of impressive longevity typically represented knowledge and wisdom acquired
over the years but also served as witnesses to past events that might have direct bearing on the
present.
5
Qarāchār, Tīmūr’s ancestor, is credited with saving Chinggis Khan’s life.
6
Najm al-Dīn Kubrā, the eponymous ancestor of the Kubravi Sufi order, was killed during the Mongol
assault on Khorezm in 1220. For more on the shaykh and the Kubravi order, see Devin DeWeese,
“The Eclipse of the Kubravīyah in Central Asia,” Iranian Studies 21/1–2 (1988), 45–83. Several
connections between Kubrā and Tīmūr survived in popular tradition. For example, in his travels in
the region in the nineteenth century, Henry Lansdell heard rumors that Kubrā’s mausoleum had been
94 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

they chained us together€– one of my legs and one of Shaykh Najm al-Dīn’s
legs were shackled in one chain.
Qarāchār came in and said:€‘O Shaykh, I ask for your forgiveness. You are
free to go, but the woman will have to be killed.’
I was determined to try and escape, but just then His Holiness the shaykh
said:€ ‘O Qarāchār, know that this woman’s life will be long. One of your
own descendants will become king. Give to this woman this letter written by
Qachulai and Qabūl Khan and Tumanai, so that she will deliver it to your chil-
dren. Do not kill her, for the decree of the Divine is upon this woman!’
‘It is the khan’s command that we flay the skin off this woman’s face,’ said
Qarāchār.
‘Flay her, then,’ said the shaykh.
After that they flayed the skin off my face, but they gave me that letter.
And€– I am in my origin a daughter of Khorezm€– the shaykh told me:€‘Go to
Balkh and remain there.’ And since that time until today I have been in this
place. Now that I look at you I see all the signs that the distinguished one had
told me about.”
“I am of Qarāchār’s lineage,” said Tīmūr, “but God forbid should I be the
man you are looking for.”
“O woman,” Tīmūr said further. “This child has no mark that you might
recognize.”
“When I take a closer look at you I will know if you are the destined son,”
said the woman. “Show me your shoulder!”
Tīmūr showed her his shoulder. The woman saw the mark on his shoulder
and observed that he was lame and that he looked like an Arab.7
“Now explain your lineage,” said the woman.
Amir Tīmūr rehearsed his lineage down to Qarāchār Noyān. That woman
knelt in recognition before him and afterwards said:€“I bring you greetings on
behalf of Shaykh Najm al-Dīn Kubrā.”
Then she produced the letter of the three ancient kings, Qachulai Khan and
Tumanai Khan and Qabūl Khan. Tīmūr observed that the seals of the three
were affixed to the letter. However, the contents were written in a Turkic lan-
guage unfamiliar to Tīmūr, and he could not read it. Tīmūr took the woman
and the letter and returned to Balkh. He announced the matter to the council of
amirs, but among them there was no one who could read the letter (the letter
was identified as written in the Uyghur tongue) except for Mīrzā Sayf al-Dīn,
who had translated its contents to the assembly.
It was, they realized, a prophecy, predicting that the fortunate turn of events
would bring about the establishment of the auspicious and imperial sultanate

rebuilt by Tīmūr himself. (Henry Lansdell, Russian Central Asia, including Kuldja, Bokhara, Khiva
and Merv, Boston:€Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1885, 347.)
7
Tīmūr the Lame (hence the English Tamerlane) was wounded in his right leg and his right hand
(or arm).
 Inauguration and Kingship 95

upon a distinguished descendant whose name begins at four hundred, and

comes to a close at two hundred.8 The assembly was excited. The prophecy
continued:
The khanship passes along the lineage of Qabūl Khan, and Qachulai’s descendants should
not take upon themselves the custom of the khan. In this manner, the seal of Chinggis Khan
is of the lineage of Qabūl Khan. Qachulai should choose the vizierate.

The letter ended in the following words:€“Let us hope that his distinguished
descendants will not break the pact.”
“I am also committed to this agreement,” remarked Tīmūr. “However, I
will not become king.” The amir said further:€ “It is conveyed through the
line of Qabūl Khan that one of his descendants will be king.” As much as Mīr
Baraka9 tried to convince Amir Tīmūr, the amir would not accept. Finally,
after making another effort, the amirs became convinced that they should find
someone of Qabūl Khan’s lineage.10
At that time a wandering dervish appeared at the court. He greeted Tīmūr
and said:€“I come from the direction of Sali Saray, which is in the vicinity of
Kulab-i Hisar, where the Dughlat tribe is resident. One day I saw a youth,
about fourteen years of age who was playing in the company of other children.
He made himself to be king. When he ceased playing, he would play chess,
and would beat anyone he played with. I suspected he must be a true prince.
His name is Amir Husayn. The people claim that he is a grandson of Amir
Qazaghan, who had been missing for a while.”11
8
A reference to the name “Tīmūr” in accordance with the system of abjad, the Muslim practice of
isopsephy, adding the numerical values of letters. Tīmūr’s t had a numerical value of four hundred,
and his r matched two hundred.
9
Mir Sayyid Baraka was considered Tīmūr’s spiritual advisor, and the two were also buried in the
same mausoleum.
10
The story of the pact between the ancestors of Chinggis Khan and Tīmūr was promoted in Timurid
sources and served as one of the foundations for Tīmūr’s legitimation. According to the story,
Qachulai, Chinggis Khan’s grandfather’s brother, dreamt that four stars were emanating from his
brother Qabūl’s chest, the last of the stars filling the world with its brilliance. Then he dreamt of
seven stars emanating from his own chest, followed by an eighth star that spread its radiance in the
world. When he woke up, he asked their father, Tumanai, about the dream. His father explained
that the fourth star rising from Qabūl’s chest was to be Chinggis Khan, and the eighth star emanat-
ing from Qachulai was to be Tīmūr. Tumanai then wrote, in Uyghur, that from then on the takht-i
khānī (the throne) would belong to Qabūl’s descendants, and to Qachulai’s descendants the shamshīr
va hukmranī (the military and the administration). Then the two sons swore before Tumanai that
they would keep the pact. Then they sealed the pact with the royal seal and kept it in the trea-
sury. The story appears in Timurid sources, including Yazdī’s Zafarnāma, ed. Muhammad ‘Abbāsī
(Tehran:€Amir Kabir, 1957), vol. I, 24–25; and The Shajrat ul Atrak, or Genealogical Tree of the
Turks and Tatars, tr. Col. Miles (London, 1838), 55–57. It seems that custody of the covenant was
entrusted to Chaghatay (much like the yasa), and that the covenant was physically destroyed in a raid
on the treasury in the year 1340, by a descendant of Ögedei (‘Alī Sultān). See also Woods, “Tīmūr’s
Genealogy,” in Intellectual Studies on Islam:€Essays Written in Honor of Martin B. Dickson, eds.
Michel M. Mazzaoui and Vera B. Moreen (Salt Lake City:€University of Utah Press, 1990), 93.
11
Amir Husayn was indeed Amir Qazaghan’s grandson.
96 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

“How can you be sure he is a real prince?” asked Tīmūr. “What are his
identifying marks?”
“He is black-eyed, pearly-toothed, wide-mouthed and big-eared,” exclaimed
the dervish. “Naturally, Chinggis Khan’s lineage is defined by these celebrated
qualities.”
The assembly hurried to concede that indeed these were the signs of a true
prince.
Tīmūr sent his son, Mīrzā ‘Umar Shaykh, to bring the boy to him. Mīrzā
‘Umar Shaykh took the letter from the gathering of the amirs, and set off
together with five hundred men. They came to a mountain slope. That very
night there was a flood, which carried off the five hundred men. It was spring-
time. The Mīrzā escaped a thousand disasters and calamities.12
The Mīrzā reached a place where the paraphernalia of an apothecary had
been scattered all over, which made the place look like a disaster had occurred.
An old man appeared and said:€“O young man, come quick, a tiger has come
to destroy you.” That old man was eating the leaves of a tree out of a stone
bowl. The prince saw that there were many roots there, he took hold of them,
turned them into a paste and anointed the trunk of the tree with them. When
the tiger approached, the Mīrzā withdrew to the side, the tiger rubbed himself
against the tree, and his hairs became glued to the tree. Then Mīrzā struck
it with a cudgel and took off its skin. The old man descended from the tree.
Mīrzā asked him of the whereabouts of the prince. The old man, who was an
apothecary, said:€“That young man is in our tribe. His name is Amir Husayn
ibn Amir ‘Abdallāh. He is of the lineage of Chinggis Khan.”
The Mīrzā was thrilled to learn of this and the old man guided him. When
they came into the village Amir Husayn was playing with other children. The
Mīrzā bowed before him and placed the tiger skin in front of him as a gift. He
also gave him Tīmūr’s letter of invitation. Amir Husayn studied the letter and
brought the Mīrzā into his house, where he set the chess board and beat the
Mīrzā three times. In chess-playing the Mīrzā used to always beat Tīmūr (and
Tīmūr used to say that on account of chess he would conquer the face of the
earth). In short, the men of the tribe heard about the Mīrzā’s arrival and came
to see him. The Mīrzā took the prince and set out on the road. They reached
the city of Balkh and descended from their horses. Most of the time, when the
Mīrzā came to deliver news, they would joyfully sound the drum to announce
his arrival. When Mir Baraka heard of the arrival of the young prince, he
said:€“The turn of kingship is Sāhib-qirān’s, all this is idle.” Tīmūr came forth
to greet the important guest. But fate has its own rules.
Amir Husayn rode off to the hunt. As the company of hunters were in pur-
suit of a gazelle, Amir Husayn outpaced the others. He descended from his
horse and wanted to cut off the gazelle’s head. However, a man by the name of

12
My translation here skips most of the “calamities,” including a fierce battle with a pack of vicious
wolves.
 Inauguration and Kingship 97

Möngke the Drunk appeared. A year earlier Amir Husayn had struck his father
with an arrow and killed him. He always contemplated taking vengeance for
his father’s blood and now he could seize the opportunity. Möngke arrived,
and with one strike of his sword he cut off one of Amir Husayn’s arms at the
shoulder. Having destroyed his world, Möngke began to flee.
Tīmūr arrived at the scene with an army. He had already heard in Balkh
that Amir Husayn had gone hunting and wanted to convene an assembly right
there, but other events were taking their toll. Tīmūr hugged the head of the
young man. Mīrzā ‘Umar Shaykh seized Möngke and brought him.
“I implore you,” said Husayn. “Do not kill my murderer.”
Since Amir Husayn was an intelligent young man, he said,
O Sāhib-qirān.
Precarious Heaven has overturned my hope,
and has made the fruit of my youth one with the dark dust.
It has cut the warp and woof of my hope into shreds.
The flower from the garden of my desire has not yet blossomed,
and the autumn of death came rushing in.
Death disheveled my musky locks under the tomb.
O Beloved, do not attach your heart to this world.
Another day has passed, I wandered and saw no rose petals,
nor have I heard the call of the nightingale.

After that, Amir Husayn said further:€“O Tīmūr, you are worthy of the sulÂ�
tanate. It is clear that you should become king. Abide by the command of the
Prophet, praises and blessings of God be upon him!”
Amir Husayn passed away, and they brought his body to Shahr-i Sabz and
enshrined it in the mausoleum of Shaykh Shams Kulal. A multitude of men
now gathered, calling to Tīmūr:€“Fortune is now with you, the riches of king-
ship are yours. God has granted rulership to you as a present.”
That very night Tīmūr saw His Holiness the Prophet, praises and blessings
of God upon him, in a dream.
“O Amir Tīmūr,” He commanded. “We have made you king on this earth.13
It is necessary that you immediately renounce your doubts, and conquer the
face of the earth.”
“What am I to do with the letter of the ancestors?” asked Tīmūr.
“The letter of your forefathers is better than Our command,” said His
Holiness the Messenger, praises and blessings of God upon him. “Now
rise, king, and claim the throne. Then find a man of the lineage of Chinggis
Khan. He should have the title of khan, and you should have the affairs of the
sultanate.”
When Sāhib-qirān woke up, he took counsel with the amirs. They were
all of the opinion that he was deserving of the sultanate. And it so happened

13
A Persian paraphrase on the recurrent Qur’anic dictum (for example, Qur’ān 38:26).
98 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

that on the twenty-seventh of the blessed Ramadan, on Wednesday, in the

Year of the Dog, in the year 771 A.H., they girded the city with festiv-
ity. In accordance with Chinggis Khan’s custom they made an enthrone-
ment, and raised Tīmūr on the white felt€– four commanders of the amirs
enthroned him upon the throne which they called the throne of Jamshīd.14
And the amirs, in accordance with Chinggis Khan’s custom, knelt down
and saluted.15
“I have brought Soyurghatmïsh Oghlan,” commanded the amir. He gave
him the khanship, and he sat in council higher than the others, and on all the
decrees they wrote his name before the name of Sāhib-qirān.16

Commentary:€Tīmūr and the Ark of the Covenant

Clearly, one of the most prominent dilemmas in Tīmūr’s legendary biog-
raphies has been the question of sovereignty. Although we have dealt with
the question, to a certain extent, earlier (and will return to it in our conclu-
sions), the following story about Tīmūr and the Ark of the Covenant serves
as an excellent example for the perception of the duality of power and to the
sources of inspiration that the biographies had relied on.17 According to the
story,18 Sultān Bāyazīd Yïldïrïm sent his son, Sultān Shiblī,19 as an envoy to
Tīmūr, who at that time was encamped in Egypt. After a reception, where the
various dignitaries assembled and sat in their arranged places according to
their ranks, Shiblī introduced the purpose of his visit. Among the many pres-
ents that he had brought with him from his father was a large box (sunduq)
shaped like a long chest or a coffer (tābut). A letter from Bāyazīd explained
the nature of the strange box:
“That box that I have sent to you is called the Ark of the Covenant (tābut sakina). It was
bequeathed to His Highness Iskandar from the time of Ādam. It was opened once during
Iskandar’s reign, and once again during the time of the Caliphate of the Commander of

14
The “throne of Jamshīd” was an epithet for Persepolis, Iran’s ancient capital, after Jamshīd had
moved his seat of government from Balkh to Persepolis.
15
In the days of the Mongol Empire, the amirs would usually kneel three times to the sun or to the
newly elected khan. For inauguration rituals in the Mongol Empire, see my Ritual and Authority in
Central Asia:€The Khan’s Inauguration Ceremony (Bloomington, IN:€Research Institute for Inner
Asian Studies, 2003) [PIA 37], 25–32.
16
According to the advice of his forefathers and the Prophet, Tīmūr decided to place Soyurghatmïsh
Oghlan, a descendant of Ögedei, on the throne. He even made sure that the new khan’s name would
appear first on official decrees, but not on the coinage or in the Friday sermon.
17
The story is brought here in the context of ideas of sovereignty in the Tīmūr-nāma, although it could
easily fit also the genre of ‘ajā’ib (marvels of creation), often viewed as a testimony to God’s end-
less power. Such stories abound in the biographies.
18
See TN Kullīyāt, 369–74. The Berlin copy of the Kunūz al-a‘zam is incomplete (page 572 is its last
written page€– only about four-fifths of the TN Kullīyāt) and does not include the story of the Ark.
19
This may be an anachronistic reference to one of the sons of Shāh Shujā‘.
 Inauguration and Kingship 99

the Faithful (amīr al-mu’minīn) ‘Umar, at the court of Hirqal, who was at that time the
emperor of Rum.20 Now, for nearly eight hundred years it has been impossible to open it.
The harder we hit it, it showed no signs of breaking. I have sent it so that you will open it
and see what is inside.”

Tīmūr ordered to open the chest but they could not find an opening. Eventually,
Maulānā Sharaf Yazdī21 saw that on one of the walls of the chest a picture
of the sun was drawn, and opposite it a picture of a new moon and a star. He
ordered that a piece of loadstone be brought. He held it facing the �picture of
the star. The loadstone raised those pictures. Slowly a knob emerged. A kind
of a small door (daricha) opened. An apparition of a slave-child appeared,
holding something written in his hand. The people asked Maulānā Sharaf
how he had found the way to open it. He answered that �something was writ-
ten on the wall of the chest that revealed the secret of the opening, but no one
was able to read it. When the slave boy brought forth what appeared to be a
sheet of paper, made from the skin of a gazelle, Maulānā Sharaf took it from
his hand and handed it to the Sāhib-qirān. No one was able to read it. They
all surrendered the reading to the Maulānā. He studied the writing and read
its contents:
“From me, Iskandar Dhū’l-Qarnayn, it reaches to you, Iskandar the Second. My wise men
have informed me that after one thousand and six hundred years you, a man descended
from Yāfith ibn Nūh (peace be upon him), will emerge. We placed in the coffer the cloak of
His Holiness Ādam, the staff of His Holiness Mūsā, the goblet of His Holiness Yūsuf, the
shirt of His Holiness Ibrāhīm, the sash of His Holiness Seth, the sandals of His Holiness
Idrīs and the hatchet of His Holiness Nūh (blessings of Allah upon them).22 We have left
a sign of each of the Prophets. Know that the Prophets also exercised sovereignty. As the
saying goes,

According to wisdom, kingship is prophethood

For these two are the bezels of one ring.
Do you say that it is they who tormented each other?
For both come out of the same origin.

The portraits of all the sultans and kings and khaqans of ‘Ajam23 until our own time, and
after [our own time] the pictures of those to come, based on what they have learned from
20
That is, the Byzantine emperor Heraclius (r. 610–641).
21
Presumably referring to the celebrated author of the Zafar-nāma (completed in 1425). See also the
recent excellent study on Yazdī’s career, intellectual, and spiritual environment by Evrim Binbaş,
Sharaf al-Dīn ‘Ali Yazdī (ca. 770s-858/ca. 1370s-1454):€Prophecy, politics, and historiography in
late medieval Islamic history, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, The University of Chicago, 2009.
22
The Muslim tradition (following earlier Jewish and Christian traditions) about the relics of the
prophets left for posterity inside the Ark began in the Qur’an. “Their prophet said to them:€The sign
of his kingship is that the Ark shall come to you, carried by the angels, having therein tranquillity
from your Lord, and the remains of what the House of Musa and the House of Harun (Aaron) had
left. Surely, in it there is a sign for you, if you are believers.” (Qur’an 2:248)
23
That is, the non-Arabs.
100 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

celestial positions were drawn. Even your own picture has also been drawn. Behold what
has happened and give praise to the passed generations for having such knowledge. If you
wish, you can take the pictures out of the interior of the coffer. Turn that knob to the right
and the slave boy will descend and bring the picture. When you turn the knob to the left,
(the boy) will leave the picture inside. Turn the knob again to the right and that boy will
bring forth another picture. And that is the logic.”

So they turned the knob to the right and the boy went inside and brought
forth a piece of green silk, and when they unfolded the silk they saw that
a picture of a man was painted on it. The man was of tall stature, his face
white, of open countenance and sparse moustache and a mole on the side of
his eyebrow. On that piece of silk was written that this was Jamshīd Shāh of
high aspiration, who was of the nation of His Holiness Sālih.24 A few lines
concerning Jamshīd’s saga and the transient nature of the world were written
on that silk.25
The rest of the story describes how the slave boy went inside twelve times
and each time brought forth a piece of silk with a portrait of a man engraved
on it. All had been ancient kings celebrated in the great Persian epic, the Shāh-
nāma. Each portrait also included a short description of its subject’s physical
appearance, qualities, and the circumstances that led to his death. The twelve
men were the previously mentioned Jamshīd; Zahhāk (“a man wearing red, of
dark complexion, Arab looking, two serpents tangled around his shoulders”),
Farīdūn the Fortunate (“a white man, Kurdish face, average height … who
drank milk from the cow of splendor”), Kay-Qubād (“a tall man, white mous-
tache, robust, long nose … of the family of Ibrāhīm”), Kay-Ka’ūs (“thick
beard, open countenance … one year a vulture swooped upon him from the
sky and tossed him underneath the earth”), Kay-Khusraw (“who always pros-
trated in supplication upon the carpet of worship, [but] his head turned away
from the contract of servitude, and his rule turned from him and he was shown
the carpet of resignation”), Zal (“who, in wise ways robbed his enemies of
their souls”), Rustam, Afrāsiyāb, Isfandiyār, and Bahman. The final picture
was awe inspiring:€“They saw a man of average height, dark eyes, high eye-
brows, pearly teeth, thin lips, in his skull were two horns of melted gold.” This
was, of course, Iskandar (Alexander).
One of the most peculiar features of this story is the fact that the portraits
drawn had been of mighty kings. Stories about a box containing portraits of

24
Sālih was a Qur’anic nonbiblical prophet, sent to the people of Thamud in Arabia.
25
“I am Jamshīd who clothed the bride of this world in a beautiful robe; I taught the beautiful young
person of this world how to deck itself out with grace. I have brought forth 3,600 compositions from
the wine cellar of brilliance.… The carpenter of destiny set the saw of annihilation upon my head,
and I no longer grew lush from the fields of hope.
How well spoke Jamshīd of noble constitution;
By a spring, on a marble stone he wrote.
At this spring people would speak without rhyme or reason (like the water of the spring).
They passed on until they shut their eyes.”
 Inauguration and Kingship 101

the Prophets circulated in the Muslim world from as early as the late ninth
century.26 In most of the stories we find Muslim emissaries in the court
of the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius in Constantinople, where they were
shown a gilded object shaped like a cube that had many small compart-
ments. From each of the compartments Heraclius drew out a piece of silk
with a portrait painted on it. These portraits included Adam, Noah, Abraham,
Moses, Aaron, Lot, Isaac, Jacob, Ismā‘īl, Joseph, David, Solomon, Jesus,
and Muhammad. According to Heraclius (as narrated in these stories), the
portraits were made by the Lord’s decree for Adam, who had asked to see
the prophets who would succeed him. God transmitted these pictures to him,
and they were kept in Adam’s treasury in an unspecified location (“some-
where in the West”). Alexander the Great took them from there and handed
them over to the prophet Daniel.
These stories apparently never identified the “box” where the portraits had
been stored as the Ark of the Covenant. Mīrkhwānd, the Timurid historian,
may have been the first to ascertain that the box was indeed the Ark of the
Covenant (tābut sakina), reporting, yet again, that it contained the pictures of
the prophets, pictures that previously had been in the possession of Heraclius.27
Mīrkhwānd’s account was later picked up by the sixteenth-century historian
of painting and calligraphy, Dūst Muhammad, although he did not describe
the box as the Ark of the Covenant, but rather as a “chest of witnessing”
(sunduq-i shahāda), which he mentioned in order to describe the development
of the idea of portraiture and its alleged development by Daniel.28
I was unable thus far to trace any reference to the story of the Ark of
the Covenant with portraits of kings rather than prophets. The story does
demonstrate that the sources that the author used were much more diverse
than he had registered in the introduction and also lent further support to the
notion of “heroic apocrypha.” For example, although the Shāh-nāma was not
acknowledged as one of the sources of reference or inspiration for Tīmūr’s
biographies, the Persian epic is used throughout the manuscripts. Storytellers
of the Shāh-nāma (Shāh-nāma khvānān) had very powerful presence in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in Iran29 and apparently also in Central
Asia.30 The author’s acquaintance with sources about the story of the portraits
26
Such stories appeared in the works of al-Bayhaqī and Abū Nu’aym al-Isfahānī, and also repeated in
different versions by al-Kisā’ī, Ibn al-Faqīh, al-Dīnawarī, al-Mas‘ūdī, and al-Tha’alabī. See Oleg
Grabar and Mika Natif, “The Story of the Portraits of the Prophet Muhammad,” Studia Islamica 96
(2003), 19–38.
27
Mīrkhwānd, Tarīkh Rawżat al-safā’ (Tehran:€Markazi-i Khayyam Piruz, 1959–60), vol. II, 58.
28
This account is noted by David Roxburgh, Prefacing the Image:€ the Writing of Art History in
Sixteenth-Century Iran (Leiden, Boston:€Brill, 2001), 170–74.
29
Calmard, “Popular Literature under the Safavids,” in Society and Culture in the Modern Middle
East:€Studies on Iran in the Safavid Period, ed. Andrew J. Newman (Leiden, Boston:€Brill, 2003),
332–33.
30
Troitskaia, “Iz proshlogo kalandarov i maddakhov v Uzbekistane,” in Domusul’manskie verovaniia
i obriady v Sredneĭ Azii (Moscow:€Nauka, 1975), 207.
102 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

in the Ark of the Covenant also highlights his familiarity with Mīrkhwānd’s
Rawżat al-safā.31
Why did the author choose to portray a story about the portraits of ancient
Iranian kings and not about the Qur’anic prophets, as it had been usually pre-
sented? In fact, the story is in agreement with the rest of the Tīmūr-nāma with
regard to the concept of authority. It cautions the king not to be too proud and
reminds him of his mortality. It also lets the people understand the mortality of
the ruler. The basic concept of authority is introduced by Alexander the Great
“himself” in the old verse:
According to wisdom, kingship is prophethood
For these two are the bezels of one ring.
Do you say that it is they who tormented each other?
For both come out of the same origin.

On the one hand, kingship and prophethood were supposedly of the same
nature and used to be held, according to the verse, in one grip of authority.
Nevertheless, throughout the centuries, a separation between the two emerged,
due in part to their shared claim of ultimate authority. Because their source is
the same€– God€– but their actual expression in this world is in the hands of
men, the two also find themselves in constant competition. Tīmūr continued a
long tradition of kings, not of prophets. The kings in the portraits could give
him the model that he needed:€teachings on how to act and, more importantly,
how not to act. We should also note the audience may not have known that
the story had originated with portraits of prophets, not kings, and thus did not
necessarily make the association.
One of the royal attributes one should consider when choosing a new leader
concerned the person’s physical appearance. The fascination with the external
markers that is revealed in the biographies, perhaps serving also as �indicators
for identification of candidates for the kingly seat, was not limited to the depic-
tions of the epic Shāh-nāma figures. The narrator described an Arab-looking
Amir Chāku, a yellow-skinned Taraghāi (who was also missing one eye), and
an old woman bearing the letter of prophecy whose facial bones shone in their
whiteness, perhaps implying a ghostly look. Amir Husayn even bore the iden-
tifying marks of a Chinggisid (“black-eyed, pearly-toothed, wide-mouthed and
big-eared”). Tīmūr himself was described as Arab-looking at times and more
often as a Turk. He was scarred with all sorts of marks (lame, bad shoulder)
and was even proud of his marks.32 His marks not only made him identifiable

31
The Rawżat al-ṣafā’ is listed, of course, as one of the sources for the biographies.
32
Cf. with his descriptions by Ibn ‘Arabshāh (Ibn ‘Arabshāh, Tamerlane:€or, Tīmūr the Great Amir,
Translated by J. H. Sanders [London:€Luzac & Co., 1936], 295) and Christopher Marlowe, where
he was portrayed as “broad shouldered, stout limbered, large browed, a pale complexion.” See
Howard Miller, “Tamburlaine:€ the Migrational Translation of Marlowe’s Arabic Sources,” in
Travel and Translation in the Early Modern Period, ed. Carmine G. Di Biase (Amsterdam, New
York, 2006), 259.
 Inauguration and Kingship 103

but also emphasized both his extraordinary abilities and God’s omnipotence in
enabling a lame and scarred person to conquer the world. In fact, when Tīmūr
was visiting the al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem in one of the later stories in the
manuscript, a healer offered to make him perfectly healthy. Tīmūr refused,
saying that he was a testimony to God’s power, and that he would never have
accomplished what he had if he had been completely healthy. Conspicuous in
their absence are descriptions of the physical appearances of Sufis. External
markers, assumptions of beauty and ugliness, or indications of ethnicity had
little to do with the qualities that the Sufis represented. They also consciously
did not contend for the ruling position€– they had other tasks to fulfill.
C ha p t e r 5

Premonitions

In the chapter that concludes our literary portrait, Tīmūr has been firmly
on the throne for several years engaging in campaigns of conquest against
formidable enemies. At the height of his power, Tīmūr began to experience
menacing dreams and visions about the troubling future of his posterity and,
by implication, the ultimate threat to mankind on the Day of Judgment. In
his search for a correct interpretation of his dreams, Tīmūr eventually found
a dream interpreter who held the key to uncovering hidden knowledge of
events past, present, and future. It became clear that the threat to Tīmūr’s
realm might take many forms, but the premonitions of doom and destruction
ultimately centered on the Uzbeks, destined to invade Mawarannahr and ter-
minate Tīmūr’s dynasty. More related stories focused on mythical creatures
associated with apocalyptic consequences, such as Gog and Magog, who
were aware of the ultimate emergence of the Uzbeks and are portrayed, to an
extent, as their collaborators.
As usual in the biographies, the story of the impending apocalypse was not
a straightforward story of doom, but rather a warning and a prophecy about
the future of the region, full of hints and multiple dimensions. Having come to
the realization that the Uzbeks should be considered his ultimate foe, Tīmūr
commanded one of his sons, Mīrzā Mīrānshāh, to assemble his army and
set forth into the steppes in order to annihilate the entire Uzbek people, thus
preventing them from fulfilling the prophecy. Mīrānshāh’s intention to carry
out his father’s command stumbled on several difficulties as he fell in love
with the daughter of Toqtamïsh Khan (Toqtamïsh is presented in this tale as
the khan of the Uzbeks). After many twists and plots, Tīmūr concluded that
he would have to do the job (of destroying the Uzbeks) himself. He gathered
his troops for an assault on the steppe region. Having heard of his advance,
the Uzbeks dispersed in all directions in fear of the wrathful Tīmūr, leaving
only one old man, Daulatshaykh Oghlan, to defend their domains. Tīmūr’s
conversation with the old man managed to avert the dreaded military con-
frontation and settled peacefully several potentially deadly confrontations,
at least for a while.

104
 Premonitions 105

Account of the Dream of the Sāhib-qirān in which

the Uzbeks Finally Seize the Kingdom1
The storyteller related that one night Sāhib-qirān dreamed that from the
north came a big elephant, who wandered throughout Mawarannahr. It came
towards the amir’s throne and ascended the throne. After that, twenty-one
lion cubs came and ascended the throne. A group of thirsty people were flee-
ing from water, a group of blind people were engaged in buying and selling,
a group of sick and ailing persons were visiting the healthy, a flock of sheep
were eating grass but were not dropping manure, an ox was grazing in the
meadow but when it left it was in worse shape than before. He saw a bazaar
where there was meat of pig and bear, and the people of that place were not
buying permissible (halāl) meat.
In short, when he awoke from his dream he asked the knowledgeable
dream interpreters for an explanation, but no explanation satisfied him.
They said that in Qarshi there was a man whose name was Hakīm Sābi
Bakhshī,2 who was living in the cloisters and who used to be a student of
‘Umar Nisfarat.3 If the Sāhib-qirān desired a satisfactory interpretation for
his dream he should consult this man. He sent Mīrzā Mīrānshāh to bring
him.
“If this is so important to him,” said Hakīm, “he should come to see me
himself.”4
Mīrānshāh returned to Tīmūr and told him what had happened. Sāhib-qirān
set out in the direction of Qarshi. He paid homage to Hakīm and told him of
the events. Hakīm said:€“My master has a book. He placed it in an iron box,
and instructed me that whoever opens the box will conquer the face of the
earth.”
Sāhib-qirān commanded that they bring the box, but no one was able to
open it. However much they tried it would not budge, so Sāhib-qirān himself
opened the lock,5 and took hold of the Book of the Ages.6

1
Kunūz, 301–12; TN Kullīyāt, 141–48. See also Temurnoma:€Amir Temur Kuragon zhangnomasi
(ed. Ravshanov, Tashkent:€Chulpon, 1990), 164–69.
2
The term “Bakhshi” had multiple meanings, from Buddhist priests to Muslim physicians, from
scribes to reciters of poetry. The word invoked the sense of someone who possessed some form of
skilled knowledge that ordinary folk usually did not have.
3
The identity of this individual is unknown to me at present.
4
As usual in this text, if Tīmūr desired mystical knowledge he had to satisfy his desire by compro-
mise, journeying to the source of that knowledge.
5
Tīmūr was, in fact, the only one who could open the box, but its contents escaped him. He needed
the mystic to interpret knowledge for him, just as the mystic could not open the box himself and had
no access to the concealed knowledge and to the power that the knowledge would bring. The rela-
tionship continued to be reciprocal.
6
Kitab-i Tārīkh-i Ayyām.
106 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

“Understanding this book is very difficult,” said Hakīm Sabi, “for it was
written in the manner of ‘ilm-i jafr. If one is versed in ‘ilm-i jafr all events that
are to be recorded until the Day of Judgment will become plain.”7
After this, he turned to explain the dream to the Sāhib-qirān:€“That elephant
is the Uzbek who will rule over your kingdom and will take your kingdom
from your descendants. Those lion cubs are his children and twenty-one of his
relatives will become kings. The thirsty ones who were fleeing from the water
are the people of that time who will flee.8 The blind ones are the people of that
time who will not distinguish friend from foe. The sick who were visiting the
healthy are the hypocrite ascetics9 who will curry favor with the wealthy. The
animals who were eating but not depositing manure are the kings of that time
who will take from the poor and give nothing in return. The ox who was graz-
ing in the meadow and was not getting any fatter is the amirs of that time who,
no matter how much property they take from the poor, are never satisfied. The
men who were not eating sheep in the place that was selling pork and bear
meat are the people of that time who will be eating harām instead of halāl.”
When Sāhib-qirān heard this matter he swore to massacre all the Uzbeks.10
He came from Qarshi to Samarqand and commanded Mīrzā Mīrānshāh to go
to Turkistan and together with Aqbugha Nayman to fall upon the Uzbeks and
massacre all of them.11 The prince set out with ten thousand young men. When
he reached Turkistan he came before Aqbugha Nayman, who threw a feast for
the Mīrzā, with three thousand strong.
At that time, a man came to the Mīrzā and told him that Aqbugha had mar-
ried two sisters. Mīrzā summoned Aqbugha and asked him about it. He said
it was true.
“This is not according to the sharī‘a,” said Mīrzā. “Divorce one of
them!”12
“My heart is taken with both,” he said.
Mīrzā ordered that he be stripped of his clothes and beaten.13
7
According to one tradition, when the Prophet was on his death bed he summoned ‘Alī b. Abī Tālib
and said:€“O ‘Alī, when I am dead, wash me, embalm me, clothe me and sit me up; then I shall
tell thee what shall happen until the day of resurrection.” The extensive literature that developed
around this tradition was mostly of an apocalyptic nature. One of its characteristics was the occult
properties of the value of the letters of the alphabet (‘Ilm al-hurūf╛╛). Apparently, this knowledge
was transmitted from Ja‘far al-Sādiq (d. 765), the last imām recognized by the Twelver and Ismā‘īlī
Shī‘īs, and therefore much of the wisdom concerning the occult was named after him or attributed
to him (‘ilm-i jafr). See T. Fahd, “Djafr,” EI² II, 375–77.
8
This may be a reference to the many refugees who had dotted the Central Asian landscape in the
early eighteenth century.
9
Zāhidān.
10
Thus preventing the Uzbeks’ ascent to power. However, just as no one could thwart Tīmūr’s rise to
power, none would be able to prevent the Uzbeks from conquering the land. Both were testimonies
to God’s power.
11
Aqbugha Nayman was one of the leaders of the Nayman tribe and one of Tīmūr’s followers.
12
Marrying two sisters at the same time is prohibited in Islam (Qur’ān, 4:23).
13
For some reason, Mīrzā Mīrānshāh decided to oversee and enforce Islamic law.
 Premonitions 107

That very night, Aqbugha with his tribe killed part of the prince’s men, and
the others fled. He bound the Mīrzā and went to Mangïshlaq,14 to Toqtamïsh
Khan, saying, “What does the sharī‘a have to do with a military man?”15
After ten days they reached the place. Aqbugha paid homage to Toqtamïsh
Khan.16 The khan asked the Mīrzā the reason for the quarrel and the Mīrzā
explained.
“It is Amir Tīmūr who commanded to kill all the Uzbeks,” said Aqbugha.
The khan realized that the words of the Mīrzā were reasonable. Moreover,
Sāhib-qirān had done the khan some favors in the past. He took the Mīrzā and
killed Aqbugha. He gave the Mīrzā a robe of honor and made him sit beside
him. He said:€“If it is God’s decree that the Uzbeks take the kingdom, all these
other circumstances do not matter.” But whenever the Mīrzā came to his audi-
ence, Toqtamïsh invited him to sit on the throne. Whenever the Mīrzā asked
the khan for permission to leave and go back to his country the khan said:€“Be
patient.”
One day, when the prince returned to the tribe from the hunt he saw a woman
of extraordinary beauty standing by a well. He asked her for water, and she
filled a cup and gave it to the Mīrzā. Three times he spilled the water unto the
ground for it was too hot. After he drank, he explained to her his situation but
that woman said nothing. He asked her for her name, and she said:€“My name
is Suyung Khān-zāda.”
“Who is your husband?” he asked, but she left, keeping silent.
The love for this princess rendered him powerless, and he fell on the bed,
sick. Mīrzā was embarrassed, he told no one about it. The khan came and saw
that the Mīrzā was stricken. In that place was an old, very experienced Uzbek;
everything he said came true. The Turks called him Juyina Tengri.17 The khan
summoned him, but that man was wandering about in caves, wearing animal
pelts. He was two hundred years old. The khan explained to him the circum-
stances and charged him to find the cause for the Mīrzā’s illness. The old man
took the Mīrzā’s pulse and understood that he was in love.
“If a woman is involved,” said the khan, “I can make it possible.”
The old man ordered him to say out loud the names of all Uzbek women.
As the khan recited their names he took the Mīrzā’s pulse but found noth-
ing unusual. He then ordered the khan to recite the names of the women of
his own harem. When he reached the name Suyung Khān-zāda the Mīrzā’s
pulse beat rapidly. He realized that he was in love with the khan’s wife. He
left the Mīrzā’s bed, went to the khan and said:€“This boy is in love with
your wife.”

14
The Mangïshlaq peninsula on the northeast banks of the Caspian Sea.
15
The perceived dissonance between the sharī‘a and the tribal, nomadic military ranks, as well as the
consequences for this divergence, recur frequently in the biographies.
16
The biographies treat Toqtamïsh Khan as an Uzbek, not as a Mongol.
17
Literally, “the seeker of God.”
108 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

The khan told no one, and divorced the princess. The princess was confused:€“I
committed no sin. Why does he divorce me?” And she sat with her servants at
the border of the tribe. The khan came and told the Mīrzā:€“I found the woman
that you fell in love with. Her husband just divorced her. Be patient! When the
time of probation18 has passed you will be able to marry the princess.”
Amir Tīmūr’s son thought that he would have her agreement as well. The
Mīrzā went to see his beloved and sat at her bed, but she did not extend her
hand to him.
“Who are you?” he asked her. And she explained all that had happened.
“I am the khan’s wife,” she said. “Today my hand was not extended towards
you. The khan did this in the name of friendship, we divorced over consider-
ations of the khan’s well-being.”
Upon hearing this, the Mīrzā left without the khan’s permission and returned
to his country until he reached Samarqand.
Sāhib-qirān approved both of the khan’s behavior and the Mīrzā’s as well.
The next day the khan heard the news of the Mīrzā’s leaving and said:€“I have
acted in accordance with the noble sharī‘a.” He sent the princess and all her
possessions to Samarqand with a letter from Toqtamïsh Khan, “I have sent
the princess.” Sāhib-qirān assigned a good place for the princess, but Mīrzā
Mīrānshāh was not allowed to visit her.19
Daulatshaykh Oghlan20 heard that Toqtamïsh Khan divorced his daughter
and sent her to Samarqand. He became enraged. The burden weighed heavly
on him. He mounted his horse and during the night charged the khan’s tribe.
The khan escaped, alone, and went on foot to Turkistan. After a while he
reached the gates of Samarqand and entered the city. At that time Sāhib-qirān
was busy building the Aq Sarāy palace,21 and so the khan went to Shahr-i
Sabz. For a few days he was without food and realized that he would have to
work to be able to eat. He went to the place of the hired laborers, and after a
while was recruited to work in the Aq Sarāy. He was able to carry such heavy
stones for the building that everyone was astonished. His aim was to regain
his crown.
One day, Sāhib-qirān came to see the Aq Sarāy and saw the example of
the khan’s strength. Sāhib-qirān looked at him in wonder, thinking he must
be the son of kings, but he did not recognize him as Toqtamïsh Khan.22 With
18
‘Idda signified the time of probation for divorced and widowed women to engage in sexual Â�relations
(see also Qur’ān 2:228 and 2:234).
19
This segment reinforces the didactic mission of the text, as it demonstrates Muslim regulations
and proper behavior. Perhaps the need to address such matters also demonstrates that they were in
�existence and therefore required forewarning and admonition.
20
The historical Daulatshaykh Oghlan was the father of Abu’l-Khayr Khan, grandfather of Muhammad
Shïbānī Khan. Although himself one of Chinggis Khan’s descendants, Oghlan appears in this story,
much like Toqtamïsh Khan before him, as a representative of the Uzbeks.
21
Aq Sarāy was Tīmūr’s palace in Shahr-i Sabz.
22
Another reference to the tension between external and internal markers that accompanies the
biographies.
 Premonitions 109

every stone that he carried, Sāhib-qirān’s wonder grew. When he had seen
Toqtamïsh Khan before he was beardless; now this man had a beard. He asked
the foreman what kind of man is he? But he did not know. Sāhib-qirān sum-
moned Toqtamïsh and saw that he was good looking. He thought he recog-
nized him as Toqtamïsh Khan but was not sure. As much as he asked him for
his origin, he could not establish his identity.
“If Mīrānshāh had been here he would have recognized him,” said Sāhib-
qirān to himself.
One evening Suyung Khān-zāda came to see the construction of Aq Sarāy.
The khan saw her and saw that she was seized with pain. The people around
him gossiped that Toqtamïsh Khan had given this girl to Sāhib-qirān’s son.
The Amir observed him behind his back but did not allow him to approach
her. Finally, the khan mustered his courage and approached her. She was
astonished to see him and even cried. She said:€“My love, where have you
been?”
Word reached Sāhib-qirān that the young man was indeed Toqtamïsh Khan.
Sāhib-qirān honored him, dressed him in a robe of kings and seated him at his
side. Sāhib-qirān asked him what had happened, and he told him of his trials.
Sāhib-qirān showed him much affection and gave him much gold, but the
khan did not wish to accept his gifts.
When Tīmūr asked why, the khan said:€“I did not come here for riches, but
for my honor, for my kingdom has fallen.”
“I have seen a dream in which I was entrusted with the killing of the
Uzbeks,” said Sāhib-qirān. “Will you agree to this?”23
Since the khan was a practical man he gave his consent.
Sāhib-qirān assembled the army (at that time two years and a half passed
since Sāhib-qirān attained the throne), and set out with three-hundred thou-
sand troops. He left the khan with Mīrzā Mīrānshāh in Samarqand, and gave
the princess back to the khan.
News reached the Uzbeks that Sāhib-qirān was on his way to annihilate
them. They all came to Daulatshaykh Oghlan. He was an old man.
“Let us fight,” they said.
“This man Tīmūr is the chosen favorite of God,” said Daulatshaykh Oghlan.
“Abandon your desire to fight him. Leave me here, and scatter in all direc-
tions. I think that no person of this nation will remain.”
They said:€“You are an old man. What will happen to you?”
He said:€“What’s it to you?” And they left.
When Sāhib-qirān came to Dasht-i Qïpchaq, he found no one. They all dis-
persed. Daulatshaykh Oghlan was brought before him.
Tīmūr asked him:€“Who are you?”

23
Tīmūr’s dream had forecasted the future and naturally did not offer any possible way to avoid fate.
But in his decision to annihilate the Uzbeks, Tīmūr has committed to act on his own against the
divine decree, yet another confirmation that he did not really understand God’s plans.
110 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

At first he did not answer, but simply recited verses from the Qur’ān about
how God most High (exalted be his power) rebuked Nūh (peace be upon
him).24 Sāhib-qirān was amazed at his eloquence.
He said:€“I am Daulatshaykh Oghlan. O son, if that is God’s decree that
the Uzbeks shall conquer Central Asia, then this attempt of yours is futile.
Even the Simurgh cannot alter God’s decree.” Then he recited the story of the
Simurgh in such a way that everybody wept.25 “All this blood is in vain;” he
said, “and fear of the Day of Judgment is well-advised.”26
Sāhib-qirān swore not to kill them on condition that Daulatshaykh Oghlan
would write a letter of testimony that would be kept in the Sāhib-qirān’s
treasury, declaring that Sāhib-qirān had compassion for the Uzbeks. Thus,
whoever emerges from among the Uzbeks to seize the kingdom will also
show compassion for the people of the descendants of Lord Chaghatay. He
wrote the letter of testimony and entrusted it in Sāhib-qirān’s treasury. When
Shïbānī became ruler during the time of plunder, he found the letter in that
treasury.

Commentary:€Tīmūr and the Day of Judgment

Dreams foretold Tīmūr’s rise to power, and dreams predicted the demise of his
house and the rise of a rival dynasty. These dreams were mixed:€The first were
dreams that his rivals had about him, and the second were his own dreams and
they always kept him in doubt.27 Such dreams and apocalyptic predictions
emphasized the strife of the Muslims and their need of a hero to save them
from potential doom. Indeed, many parts of the narrative carry eschatologi-
cal qualities, some relatively straightforward, such as dreams and prophecies
about the end of the world or about various stages in the world’s gradual dis-
integration until the Day of Judgment. By and large, such narratives tended to
circulate when approaching the end of a century, and we may hypothesize that

24
According to the Qur’ān (in the Sūra of Hood), when Noah pleaded with God to be merciful because
his son was one of the disbelievers, God rebuked him saying:€“Noah, he is not of thy family; it is
a deed not righteous. Do not ask of Me that whereof thou hast no knowledge. I admonish thee, lest
thou shouldst be among the ignorant.”
25
In the Shāh-nāma, the mythical bird Simurgh, out of ultimate compassion, rescued an abandoned
infant (who turned out later to be Zāl) and adopted him as her own child. Then God put it into the
heart of the Simurgh to change her mind and return the child to humanity. She did so, heartbroken,
and they departed with many tears and much sorrow, and Zal returned to his father, the great hero
Sām.
26
The Qur’ān and the Shāh-nāma become, in this episode, equal sources of authority. In both, the
story focuses on parents and children, or fathers and sons, and the lessons of compassion entailed
in them.
27
See also G. E. von Grunebaum’s introduction to the typology of dreams in the Muslim world in his
“The Cultural Function of the Dream as Illustrated by Classical Islam,” in G. E. von Grunebaum
and Roger Caillois, eds., The Dream and Human Societies (Berkeley and Los Angeles:€University
of California Press, 1966), 3–21.
 Premonitions 111

the end of the eleventh Islamic century, approximately in the year 1688–1689,
probably lent some intensity to eschatological narratives. We have already
encountered several manifestations of this inclination in Tīmūr’s heroic apoc-
rypha, and many more associations with apocalyptic visions were to follow.
In particular, stories of Gog and Magog (Yājūj and Mājūj) who had held a
�special place in Islamic eschatology as the destroyers of the world before the
Day of Judgment, the many references to al-Dajjāl, “the deceiver,” and the
role of Jesus in the biographies require some consideration.28
One of the most fascinating accounts in our texts narrates the story of Mīrzā
Sultān Muhammad, Tīmūr’s favorite grandson, who had traveled the world
in search of the wall that Alexander the Great had built to enclose the nations
of Gog and Magog and protect humanity from their wrath.29 The search for
Alexander’s wall was frequently associated in the Muslim tradition with
apocalyptic qualities and dates back over a millennium. Ibn Khurradādhbih,
a ninth-century geographer and provincial director of posts and intelligence,
communicated the story of the journey, undertaken some time in the 840s, of
Sallām al-Tarjumān (Sallām the Interpreter, reputed to have spoken thirty lan-
guages), to find the barrier. This journey followed the dream of the ‘Abbasid
caliph, al-Wāthiq (r. 842–847) in which he saw a breach in Alexander’s wall
and feared its ominous outcome.30
Centuries later, Tīmūr’s favorite grandson reached a place far beyond the
borders of China and met an old man (one hundred and twenty years old) who
immediately identified Muhammad as Tīmūr’s grandson. He explained that
the people of Gog and Magog had destroyed many cities in that region �during
the age of Alexander the Great, but the latter had managed to repel them,
and built a wall to keep them at bay. The place was apparently still inhabited
by the descendants of Alexander’s army commanders who were left there to
secure the wall. After finding a way to scale the exceptionally high and very
smooth barrier, Mīrzā Muhammad climbed up and saw before him a stretch of
land surrounded by water. He distinguished three groups of creatures:€Some
were felt-wearing giants, others were very tall and resembled men, whereas
the third group included creatures with very long ears and beards. After about
an hour of watching, several of the creatures began howling, approached the
wall and tried to scale it. The commanders stopped them, but Muhammad
was still able to talk to them. They told him that they were descended from

28
To this we should add other attributes of eschatological dimension such as the ‘Ilm-i jafr mentioned
previously (that also appears in the Sīrat Baybars. See Gril, “Du sultanat au califat universel:€le rôle
des saints dans le Roman de Baybars,” in Lectures du Roman de Baybars,” 181 and 193).
29
The story about Alexander’s wall (or barrier, as it is sometimes referred to) has attracted consid-
erable attention. See the recent study by Kevin van Bladel, “The Alexander Legend in the Qur’ān
18:83–102,” in The Qur’ān in Its Historical Context, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds (London, New
York:€Routledge, 2009), 175–203.
30
Andrew Runni Anderson, Alexander’s Gate, Gog and Magog, and the Inclosed Nations (Cambridge,
Mass.:€The Medieval Academy of America, 1932), 93–100.
112 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

‘Ūj son of ‘Anaq.31 They had lived long, even back to the time of the prophet
Moses. Eight hundred years after Moses, Alexander the Great appeared, and
eight hundred years after him, the prophet Muhammad. “We were told,” they
said, “that three men would come to look at us, and after that we will make
our appearance in the world. You are the second.” Muhammad asked them
when they were going to appear, and they simply said:€“We will come after
al-Dajjāl.”32
On the way back home, Muhammad heard a voice calling him from a
cave:€ “O Tīmūr’s grandson, so you have returned from Gog and Magog?”
He entered the cave and saw a man standing there. He asked him how he had
recognized him, and the man answered:€ “I know God, so I know all about
you as well.” He tested Muhammad to see whether he knew all the prayers
and then commanded him to bow before him. The prince refused, expressing
a few doubts, and suddenly found himself alone outside the cave. He realized
that the man inside the cave was al-Dajjāl. Muhammad called to him:€“When
will you come out of the cave?” Al-Dajjāl answered:€“The Uzbeks will come
and cross the Amu Darya and take over Mawarannahr and Khorasan. Then
others will emerge. After that all will become unclear and then I shall make
my appearance.” Muhammad returned home to Tīmūr and explained all that
had happened.

‘Īsā (Jesus) and al-Dajjāl

‘Īsā appears several times in the narrative, particularly as Tīmūr faces the
Russians and undergoes many adventures before and after the conquest
of Moscow. He even debates with Russian clerics about the nature of ‘Īsā
(son of God or slave of God).33 One of the fascinating stories relates how
Tīmūr had found a spear stuck in a stone inside a cave not far from Moscow.
He tried to pull the spear out of the stone, but it would not budge. Tīmūr
went outside and saw an old man who advised him to pray before pulling
the spear. Tīmūr prayed and was indeed able to take out the spear. The old
man �cautioned him against taking the spear away with him. He said that he
had lived there since Muhammad’s time and was going to stay there until

31
‘Ūj is identified with the biblical giant Og.
32
Al-Dajjāl, “the deceiver,” was a person of great magical abilities who would appear (for forty days
or forty years, depending on the tradition) before the end of time, and would allow tyranny and
impurity to rule the world. In fact, his arrival was considered to be one of the proofs for the end of
time. Only Jesus (as is also told in the Tīmūr-nāma) could kill him. See also, Abel, “al-Dadjdjāl,”
EI² III, 76–77.
33
Vámbéry edited and translated, with very little commentary, a short part of Tīmūr’s adventures in
Russia. He suggested that the context for understanding the story lies either in studying the con-
nections between Christian communities in Central Asia and Russia or in the greater context of
Russian-Central Asian relations. (Vambéry, “Eine legendäre Geschichte Tīmūrs,” ZDMG (1897),
224, n. 1; 231–32.) I think that this is not the case, as the story before you demonstrates.
 Premonitions 113

‘Īsā would come to collect the spear before departing to kill al-Dajjāl at the
end of time. Tīmūr asked the man to tell him about the end of the world,
and the old man explained that before ‘Īsā’s arrival several cities will be
destroyed, including Bukhara. The people of Bukhara will find refuge in the
Maghrib, but Samraqand will be flooded, Badakhshan will be destroyed by
an earthquake, a strong wind will raze Balkh to the ground, snakes will infest
Isfahan, tigers will overrun India, lightning will reduce the mountains, frost
will destroy Russia, Ethiopians will conquer Mecca, and the Arabs will flee
to Turkey. At that time the Ka‘ba will also be destroyed. Scholars will stop
their learning, children will disrespect their parents, mosques and madrasas
will be Â�administered by bullies, and people will drink wine and eat harām.
After all these signs the mahdī will appear in Mecca, but al-Dajjāl will also
become visible. Then, on a Friday, ‘Īsā will come and together with the mahdī
will trap al-Dajjāl, and ‘Īsā will kill him with this spear. Only then will the
sharī‘a rule and the Muslims finally live well.
The multitude of apocalyptic visions generated an increase in false
�prophethood, a phenomenon also closely linked to the sense of crisis in the
Islamic community. Interestingly, there are several narratives in the work
about false prophets and, for reasons that are unclear to me at the moment,
they all put forward the Ismā‘īlīs as the symbols of false prophethood.
Tīmūr’s biographies explain that when Tīmūr was still very young (fourteen
years old, in fact), a false prophet had emerged near the city of Shahr-i Sabz.
His name was Nāsir-i Khusraw,34 but he was also known as Muqanna‘.35 He
claimed to have invented a new school of law (madhhab), to be able to restore
sight to the blind, and to enjoy the benefaction of the angel Gabriel. He com-
manded his followers to proclaim that he was the true messenger (rasūl), and
indeed people began to believe in him. After the ‘ulamā’ declared him to be
an infidel,36 he began an organized slaughter of those Muslims who rejected
his doctrine. In 1348 in the cities of Bukhara, Samarqand, and Balkh, as
many as four thousand Muslim mullahs were slain. Young Tīmūr insisted
on participating in a war that was declared against Nāsir and in a couple of
battles even showed remarkable skill. Still, many Muslims were converting
to the new religion. Tīmūr went to Shaykh Burhān al-Dīn for help,37 but even
he feared Nāsir. One night the Prophet appeared before the shaykh in a dream
and told him to face Nāsir with Tīmūr at his side, which would be the only

34
Nāsir-i Khusraw, the eleventh-century writer, poet, traveler, and philosopher who was also a noted
preacher of the Ismā‘īlī doctrine.
35
Referring to al-Muqanna‘, leader of the rebellions in Mawarannahr during the caliphate of al-Mahdī
(r. 775–785). His followers were known as the “wearers of white” (safīd jāmagān), who are also
mentioned in the narrative.
36
We are told that the ‘ulamā’ began to refer to his doctrine as the fidā’ī Nāsir. Among the Nizārī
Ismā‘īlīs, this term was used for those who had risked their lives to assassinate the enemies of the
sect.
37
Possibly a reference to the aforementioned Burhān al-Dīn al-Marghīnānī.
114 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

way to victory. Tīmūr rode forth together with the shaykh to meet Nāsir. He
succeeded in injuring Nāsir’s military commander, and when Nāsir’s troops
realized that the angel Gabriel was not coming to their aid as their leader had
promised, they dispersed. Nāsir himself managed to escape.
The next encounter of the people of Central Asia with a false prophet was
with Nāsir-i Khuraw’s son. The son, Shāh Mansūr, fled to India where he
was trained in magic by “Brahmins of Kashmir.” He began preaching to his
followers, claiming that he was the mahdī. The ‘ulamā’ who rejected him
sooner or later found their demise. Shāh Mansūr challenged Tīmūr in a letter
from Kashghar. Tīmūr decided to assign twenty thousand troops to this mat-
ter, under the command of his son Jahāngīr, and to send him to face Mansūr.
The latter challenged him to a contest, telling him that he could not be killed.
They chained Mansūr, dug a grave, buried him alive, and lit a fire on top. For
three days the fire burned until they decided to dig him out. Mansūr emerged
completely unharmed. When Jahāngīr commanded to untie him, the chains
disintegrated on his body, showing everyone that he could have easily got-
ten away had he wished so. This, of course, greatly increased his following.
Mansūr demanded that Jahāngīr and his troops believe in him and gave them
a seven-day ultimatum. For a week Jahāngīr was baffled, thinking that, “If
Mansūr were not a prophet, how was he able to perform such miracles?”
When the two armies finally collided, a strange disease afflicted all the
horses in Jahāngīr’s army. The battle seemed lost when a dervish suddenly
appeared before Jahāngīr and introduced himself as Maulānā Sa‘d al-Dīn
from Kashghar.38 He told the story of his own past conflict with Mansūr and
explained that Khiżr had told him that a man of the Chaghatay would come to
his aid. “With Khiżr’s help, I am now able to dispel Mansūr’s magic,” he said.
And so it happened that the next day Jahāngīr was about to kill Mansūr in the
battlefield when the latter all of a sudden evoked the name of his daughter,
Qoyliq. (Jahāngīr was in love with her, but was unaware that Mansūr was her
father). Once Jahāngīr finished destroying the rest of Mansūr’s army, he took
him to a mountain and hurled him from the summit. To everyone’s surprise,
Mansūr did not die. They tried to kill him again and again, but nothing hap-
pened. Finally, Sa‘d al-Dīn suggested that the answer may lie with the daugh-
ter. The daughter agreed to disclose the secret on condition that Jahāngīr would
marry her, and when Jahāngīr consented she revealed that Mansūr could only
be killed by a blade coated with a young girl’s menstruation blood. And so it
was. Jahāngīr and his new wife returned to Bukhara, and Sa‘d al-Dīn became
Bahā’ al-Dīn Naqshabnd’s disciple.
A third story of a false prophet describes Hākīm Nizārī, a descendant of one
of Nāsir-i Khusraw’s disciples who had quarreled with Nāsir and established

38
Sa‘d al-Dīn Kāshgharī (d. 1456) was a prominent Naqshbandi Sufi who had spent several years in
training in Bukhara and eventually settled in Herat. The famous Persian poet ‘Abd al-Rahmān Jāmī
(d. 1492) is said to have been Kāshgharī’s disciple.
 Premonitions 115

his own sect. Nizārī declared that he was reincarnated seventy-two times,
�during which he once appeared as a merchant, once as a butcher, and even
as a wolf during the time of the biblical Jacob. Now he finally came to save
the world, declaring that his religion preceeded all others. Everyone began
to believe in him and accept his message, but several men came to Tīmūr to
complain. Tīmūr decided to investigate. He came to Kuhistan and besieged
the city where Nizārī was residing. Tīmūr sent his ambassador into the city
with a letter commanding Nizārī to renounce his false teachings and practice
the sharī‘a. The letter cautioned Nizārī:€“Behold the fate of Nāsir-i Khusraw
and his son Mansūr.” Nizārī dismissed the ambassador and challenged Tīmūr
to a battle.
More or less at the same time Tīmūr was informed about a holy man named
Hamza,39 who had just returned from the hajj and was living in a cave nearby.
Tīmūr was told that Hamza was the only one who could successfully debate
with Nizārī. Tīmūr convinced Hamza to face Nizārī, and when the two began
to debate Nizārī suddenly offered a contest. “We will both enter into the fire,”
he said, “and see who can come out alive and unharmed.” Hamza immediately
agreed, but Tīmūr grew worried.
All of a sudden two men appeared, carrying a large chest. Inside there was
a slave-girl. She said that Nizārī put her there as punishment for having sex-
ual relations with another slave. It occurred to Tīmūr that the girl might know
how Nizārī was able to withstand fire, and she said that her master had a vial
of salamander fat that he used as ointment, but she did not know where he had
kept it. (The salamander, explains the narrator, is a creature who lives in fire,
and fire cannot harm it). Tīmūr commanded to postpone the contest for three
days, as his men were frantically looking for the vial of salamander fat. In the
meantime, the inaq’s40 son managed to sneak into Nizārī’s quarters and found
the vial. He replaced it with a vial of lamp oil (that looked exactly like the
fat), and brought the salamander fat to Hamza. However, he refused to use it,
saying that he only trusted God. The day came and the shaykh, wearing white,
stood facing Nizārī, who was dressed in black (and was completely drunk).
Nizārī’s body was dabbed in the lamp oil, which he thought was the salaman-
der fat. Everyone started to recite the dhikr as both men stood before the fire.
Holding hands, they took seven steps forward. Nizārī was instantly burned,
but Hamza came out after one hour, unharmed.41

39
Probably a reference to Hamza, the Prophet’s uncle and protector and the subject for different leg-
endary narratives and romances, particularly in the Persianate world.
40
Inaq was a title and a position of particular importance in Khorezm, where it was even bestowed on
the rulers of the khanate of Khiva.
41
This narrative bears a striking resemblance to the story of Özbek Khan’s conversion to Islam at the
hands of Baba Tükles (with the exception of the salamander fat). (See Devin DeWeese, Islamization
and Native Religion in the Golden Horde:€Baba Tükles and Conversion to Islam in Historical and
Epic Tradition, University Park:€Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994.)
116 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

The host of apocalyptic visions and prophecies, combined with the

�
numerous portrayals of real and imagined predicament in Central Asia that
had been featured in earlier chapters, lead us to examine the biographies in
the context of the crisis that prevailed in the region in the first half of the
eighteenth century. After all, the biographies conveyed a sense of impending
doom, an emergency that only a chosen ruler, with the help of everyone in
the community and the representatives of the divine (the Sufis), could mend.
Even after Tīmūr’s ascent to the throne, his task was just beginning, and the
process of restoring Central Asia to the right path was ensuing. Naturally,
this restoration was required because the foundations of the region’s Muslim
�community had been cracked.
C hapter 6

Central Asia in Turmoil, 1700–1750

In reflecting upon the poverty of Tūrān1 and Arabia, I was at first at a loss to assign a
�reason, why those countries had never been able to retain wealth, whilst, on the contrary,
it is daily increasing in Hindustan. Tīmūr carried into Tūrān the riches of Turkey, Persia,
and Hindustan, but they are all dissipated.… It is evident that this dissipation of the riches
of a state must have happened either from some extraordinary drains, or from some defect
in the government. Hindustan has been frequently plundered by foreign invaders, and not
one of its Kings ever gained for it any acquisition of wealth; neither has the country many
mines of gold and silver, and yet Hindustan abounds in money, and every other kind of
wealth. The abundance of species is undoubtedly owing to the large importation of gold
and silver in the ships of Europe, and other nations, many of whom bring ready money
in exchange for the manufactures and natural productions of the country. If this is not the
cause of the prosperous state of Hindustan, it must be owing to the peculiar blessingof
God. [‘Abd al-Karīm Kashmīrī, 1740]2

The study of Central Asia’s history in the first half of the eighteenth century,
scanty as it has been, has been dominated by the paradigm of a region in
decline:€a political and economic crisis that afflicted the land as the different
Central Asian polities struggled and could not measure up to former, more
glorious days in the region’s history. For the most part, the decline paradigm
was not contested in Western scholarship, although it had been the subject for
debates and discussions within the Soviet academic community.3 Recently,
however, a reaction against the notion of decline has become fashionable, par-
ticularly among American and European scholars. Unfortunately, Kashmīrī’s
aforementioned comments€– as well as similar observations made by many

1
Tūrān originally signified the Turkic, nomadic world of Central Asia as opposed to the sedentary
world of Iran, as mentioned also in Firdawsī’s Shāh-nāma (Book of Kings). Since the eleventh
century the term has been associated with the central lands of Central Asia, and specifically with
Mawarannahr (or Transoxiana).
2
The Memoirs of Khojeh Abdulkurreem … who accompanied Nadir Shah, on his Return from
Hindostan to Persia, tr. F. Gladwin (Calcutta:€ W. Mackay, 1788), 42. Cf. with the more recent
translation of a portion of this passage in Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Indo-Persian
Travels in the Age of Discoveries, 1400–1800 (Cambridge University Press, 2007), 272.
3
We will revisit the debates within Soviet academia hereinafter.

117
118 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

of his contemporaries€– have been absent from both lines of argumentation

(supporting or dismissing the “decline”), a lacuna that probably indicates that
a more thorough study of the era may benefit from consulting the eighteenth-
century sources.4
‘Abd al-Karīm Kashmīrī accompanied Nādir Shāh (1688–1747), the
Turkmen ruler of Iran, on his foray into Central Asia in 1739–1740, proba-
bly serving as one his fiscal officers. His candid and interesting reflections
on the Turkmen leader and on the circumstances in the region have been
overlooked until recently.5 Nādir Shāh swept rapidly through Central Asia,
encountering little to no resistance, as one polity after another succumbed
before his forces.6 The inability or reluctance of the Central Asian pow-
ers to put up any meaningful challenge to the Turkmen emperor also has
been invoked as evidence for the crisis in the region:€Decentralized, disor-
ganized, and impoverished, the Central Asian polities were unable to afford
the maintenance and upkeep of any significant military presence. Nādir
Shāh’s expedition was to have extensive ramifications for the ascendance of
the Manghïts in Bukhara and for Central Asia’s transformation in the second
half of the century.7
Reading Kashmīrī’s eyewitness account, it seems hasty to write off Central
Asia’s severe economic depression and the profound political corruption
and ineffectiveness that characterized the region during the first half of the

4
What I aim to chart in the following pages is not a schema of Central Asia’s decline in the Â�eighteenth
century that is artificially organized by topic. Because the political, religious, and socio-economic
conditions were so intertwined and multifaceted, we shall move back and forth between these dif-
ferent dimensions and considerations as there appears to be no one particular factor that caused or
dominated the crisis. Although, for the most part, we do not have concrete numbers and figures to
support some of our conclusions – as many of the participants in the Â�discussion about the so-called
global crisis of the seventeenth century have demonstrated (see also Geoffrey Parker and Lesley
M. Smith, The General Crisis of the Seventeenth Century, second edition, London:€Routledge,
1997) – the sense of a severe crisis in Central Asia emerges unequivocally from the sources of the
period.
5
On Kashmīrī and his text, see Alam and Subrahmanyam, Indo-Persian Travels, 248–95. The authors
refer to the traveler as “Khwaja ‘Abdul Karīm Shahristani.”
6
The only attempt at resistance was in Khiva, but that effort was squashed rather quickly. On Nādir
Shāh’s career, see L. Lockhart, Nadir Shah:€A Critical Study Based Mainly upon Contemporary
Sources (London:€Luzac & Co., 1938); Michael. Axworthy, The Sword of Persia:€Nader Shah, from
Tribal Warrior to Conquering Tyrant (London, New York:€I.B. Tauris, 2006).
7
Nādir Shāh drafted many locals in Bukhara and Khiva to serve in his own army. The training and
the troops that he supplied to Muhammad Rahīm Khan, future founder of the Manghït dynasty in
Bukhara, was invaluable (See ‘Abd al-Karīm Bukhārī, Histoire de l’Asie centrale par Mir Abdoul
Kerim Boukhary, ed. and tr. Charles Schefer, Paris, 1876, Persian text, 46; French tr., 101). His con-
quest also impacted the economy. In addition to other effects, described anon, he also ordered to free
all the slaves in the khanate of Khiva, mostly from Iran, whose number reached, according to some
estimates, thirty thousand men and women. Lastly, Nādir Shāh also helped Abu’l-Fayż Khan, the
weak Bukharan ruler, repulse a rebellion by Ibadullah, leader of the Khitai tribe in 1746. With the
aid of an artillery unit, the troops chased the rebels all the way to Ferghana. See also P. P. Ivanov,
Ocherki po istorii Sredneĭ Azii (XVI€– seredina XIX v.) (Moscow, 1958), 98–99.
 Central Asia in Turmoil 119

eighteenth century. Indeed, Kashmīrī seems to portray a three-fold state of

affairs:€First, evidenced by the “dissipation of riches,” Central Asia was on a
declining curve from the olden imperial days modeled after Tīmūr; Â�second,
the region’s geographical position, isolated and closed in, tucked away from
Asia’s ports, kept it from sharing in the wealth of the maritime trade brought
about by Europe; and a third, somewhat ambiguous added dimension€– perhaps
a “defect in the government,” perhaps the “will of Allah”€– that was somehow
affecting Tūrān’s ill-fated circumstances. Unfortunately, few scholars have
read and used his work in the context of Central Asia’s eighteenth-century
history, and many of the recent studies that mention or examine the crisis
(whether they confirm or reject its existence) have relied on no eighteenth-
century sources to support their claims. The story of the decline, which began
in the Central Asian sources themselves, continued, with some adjustments, in
the initial Russian and later Soviet studies and has made its way into general
scholarship on the region and the era.
As mentioned, eighteenth-century Central Asia has enjoyed, at least until
recently, a very dubious repute:€one of stagnation and isolation, even decline.
So dreadful has been its reputation that the era has become probably the
most disregarded and least-studied period in Central Asian history. After
all, the study of great empires is much more inviting. The reasons cited for
the decline ranged from the decentralization of the state to the court’s loss
of revenues, from the deterioration in city life and in artistic production to
the establishment of nomadic principles of governance and land distribu-
tion mechanisms that failed to adapt well to the administration of the sed-
entary regions. Central Asia’s powerlessness in facing foreign invasions and
its inability to settle Â�internal disputes peacefully marked the region’s down-
fall. In an era when competition in an increasingly “global” market meant a
shift toward maritime trade, landlocked Central Asia could not adjust to the
new scheme. Encroached on its boundaries (boundaries that were becom-
ing more and more discernible) by new and old acquaintances€ – Russians
from the north, Manchus from the east, Shi’ite Persians from the southwest,
and nomadic Qazaqs and Qalmuqs from the northeast to the northwest€– the
Central Asian sedentary core was Â�becoming less and less pertinent to “inter-
national” affairs. Even the growth and influence of “backward” Sufi brother-
hoods was invoked by some to �sustain the argument for a general decline in
the region.
This broad scheme has been more or less accepted€– with some contesta-
tion€– in the Soviet and the “post-Soviet” world, where official publications
in and about Central Asia continue to treat the history of the region in the
eighteenth century in keeping within these previously mentioned parameters.
The general agreement has been that the crisis was beginning to diminish
in the second half of the eighteenth century, with the rise of the so-called
tribal dynasties and the different political and economic measures that they
had begun to implement (including centralization efforts, recovery of and
120 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

assistance to agricultural and irrigational projects, renovation of ruined urban

centers, new trade opportunities, better standing armies, and so forth).8
Indeed, most (but not all) of the claims that support the understanding
of the first half of the eighteenth century as an era of crisis appear to be
very Â�convincing. They even led scholars to argue that the “extreme politi-
cal �disintegration and a sharp decline in the quality of social life in Central
Asia, [was] comparable only to conditions prevailing in the aftermath of the
Mongol invasion.”9 Nevertheless, the absence of any comprehensive attempt,
free from ideological constraints, to thoroughly document such claims has
�rendered them all the more susceptible to criticism.10
In recent years, many scholars have opted to reverse the picture. In what
appears to be a quest to redeem the reputation of€– what they may view as€–
the disadvantaged Central Asians, scholars have replaced “decline” with
“dynamism” and “stagnation” with “vitality.” This relatively recent approach
appears to embrace the au courant kneejerk assumption that presupposes that
the malicious intent of European Orientalists is to be blamed for conjuring up
a fabricated “decline” for a society that was actually “vibrant.”11 This reaction

8
O. D. Chekhovich, “K istorii Uzbekistana v XVIII veke,” Trudy Inst. Vostokovedeniya Ak. Nauk
UzSSR 3 (1954), 43–82; “O nekotorykh voprosakh istorii Sredneĭ Azii XVIII-XIX vekov,” VI
3 (1956), 84–95; and Yu. Bregel, “Central Asia vii. In the 12th-13th/18th-19th Centuries,” EIr
V, 193–205. In Khorezm, the crisis prolonged some more. Series of assassinations of khans and
other notables, rebellions, and the violent transitions of power between Chinggisids, Qazaqs, and
Turkmens contributed to a general sense of anxiety. Segments of the population were abandoning
the region, leaving cities and villages deserted. Following hunger and epidemics, only forty, and
some say fifteen, families remained in the capital, Khiva. Ivanov, Ocherki, 100–01.
9
T. K. Beisembiev, “Farghana’s Contacts with India in the 18th and 19th Centuries (According to the
Khokand Chronicles),” JAH 23 (1994):€124.
10
On the decline, see Yuri Bregel, “The Role of Central Asia in the History of the Muslim East” (New
York:€Afghanistan Council Occasional Paper # 20, February 1980); V. V. Barthold, Four Studies on
the History of Central Asia. Vol. I:€A Short History of Turkestan, Tr. V. and T. Minorsky (Leiden:€E.J.
Brill, 1956), 66; B. Spuler, “Central Asia from the Sixteenth Century to the Russian Conquests,” in The
Cambridge History of Islam. Vol. 1:€The Central Islamic Lands, eds. P. M. Holt, Ann K. S. Lambton,
and Bernard Lewis (Cambridge:€Cambridge University Press, 1970), 470. Probably the most vocal
critic of the decline paradigm in the last decade has been Scott Levi. See for example, his The Indian
Diaspora in Central Asia and its trade, 1550–1900 (Leiden, Boston:€Brill, 2002). Some of the argu-
ments for decline (with additional bibliography) are briefly (and conveniently) summarized in Levi,
Indian Diaspora, 21–23. In the first part of his book, Levi offers several fundamental counter-arguments
to the idea of “decline,” arguments that in my opinion are not convincing for the eighteenth century but
for a century later, although by then the claim for decline is not really made in most scholarship.
11
Based on C. A. Bayly’s reevaluation of European perceptions of decline in Northern India (for
example, in his Rulers, Townsmen and Bazaars:€ North Indian Society in the Age of British
Expansion, Cambridge University Press, 1983), Alexander Morrison mentions in his recent study
that the “decline” ascribed by “disgruntled European observers” to the post-Mughal successor states
was, in fact, evidence of the states’ “considerable economic and political dynamism.” Accordingly,
Morrison calls to modify the view of Central Asia’s decline paradigm. See A. S. Morrison, Russian
Rule in Samarkand, 1868–1910 (Oxford University Press, 2008), 12. The underlying postulation
has been that the Europeans cooked up the post-Mughal decline and probably did the same for
Central Asia.
 Central Asia in Turmoil 121

against the notion of decline is perhaps understandable, not only because

the academic climate has been very receptive€– and encouraging€– for such
views, but also because the decline premise seems to have discouraged schol-
ars from studying the region in that era.12 Then again, recent scholarship has
been fashioning its new, decline-free narrative without examining the sources
from the period. It should be obvious, one hopes, that a mere assessment of
Central Asia according to factors set elsewhere does not suffice to free the
region from an undesirable reputation.13 Evidence that clearly portrays the
crisis in Central Asia€– certainly in the first half of the eighteenth century€– is
so extensive that, unless we acknowledge the crisis and explore its causes and
consequences, we will not be able to understand the transformation that was
set into motion in the region in the second half of the eighteenth century; we
will be unable to interpret the rise of the so-called tribal dynasties in Bukhara
and Khiva, we will be incapable of assessing correctly the emergence of the
khanate of Qoqand, and we will be unable to understand the shifts in the reli-
gious landscape in Central Asia. The tens of thousands of refugees fleeing
from Mawarannahr in the 1710s and 1720s did not take flight because they
were “dynamic” or “vibrant” or because they were neutrally or calculatingly
“undergoing a process of economic re-alignment.”14 They were running for
their lives under brutal and dreadful circumstances.
Unfortunately, several recent contributions to the history of Central Asia
in the era under discussion have been more an attempt to refute the premise
of decline by calling on an assortment of general theoretical evaluations of
economic development and diversity or by choosing to look at sources before
or after the eighteenth century, rather than consulting the unique textual and
material evidence that the period has to offer. Such contributions, welcome
to Western academia primarily because “decline” has been ostracized in light
of post-colonial theory and a variety of anti-Orientalist (interpreted as anti-
colonial) Saidian ricochets, not only failed to reveal any new data concern-
ing the historical developments in Central Asia in the eighteenth century, but

12
This lack of enthusiasm for the study of the period is nothing new. The great Russian Orientalist
V. V. Bartol’d complained about the dearth in scholarship on Central Asia in the eighteenth and
Â�nineteenth centuries already a hundred years ago, a dearth that he attributed to the “indifference of
researchers.” See his “Tseremonial pri dvore uzbetskikh khanov v XVII veke,” Sochineniia II/2 (1964),
400 (and quoted by Yuri Bregel, “Barthold, Vasiliĭ Vladimirovich,” EIr III, 830–32). Nevertheless,
one has to acknowledge the positive outcome of the recent Western contributions:€They have been
able to draw attention to Central Asia’s history and to increase its appeal among students.
13
The sociologist Andre Gunder Frank wrote, for example, that “both the early and late seventeenth
centuries were periods of marked economic expansion in both China and India. That renders the
thesis of such ‘decline’ doubtful also in Central Asia.” See Frank’s ReORIENT:€Global Economy
in the Asian Age (University of California Press, 1998), 120. Frank expressed similar ideas in “The
continuing place of Central Asia in the world economy to 1800,” in K. A. Ertürk, ed., Rethinking
Central Asia:€Non-Eurocentric Studies in History, Social Structure and Identity (Reading:€Ithaca
Press, 1999), 11–38.
14
Levi, Indian Diaspora, 23.
122 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

also completely ignored the primary sources of the period.15 Furthermore,

although the question of the Central Asian decline became a contested issue in
the Soviet Union already in the 1940s, particularly for political and “national”
concerns, other scholars normally did not pay much attention to the Soviet
internal debates.16 The conclusions of recent scholarship suggest that Central
Asian trade€– which, for some reason, seems to be the primary and sometimes
the only issue that concerns the “decline” critics, even if trade was just one
in a host of concerns€– continued in full force or even “escalated” despite the
ascendance of maritime commerce. By implication, Central Asia’s economies
were actually thriving in the eighteenth century. Unfortunately, such reasoning
would be analogous to visiting the lively bazaars of present-day Tashkent and
assuming, by the great quantity of fruit and colorful spices, that Uzbekistan’s
economy is to be envied for its prosperity and booming success. To be sure,
the eighteenth-century Indo-Persian traveler whose words launched this chap-
ter would not be as careless. “The inhabitants of Turan,” Kashmīrī remarked
back in 1740, “when compared with those of Turkey, Persia, and Hindustan,17
may be said to be poor in point of money and the luxuries of life; but in lieu
thereof, the Almighty has given them abundance of most exquisite fruits.”18 It
appears that Kashmīrī was able to enjoy Central Asian produce with a sense of
perspective. He could take pleasure in the sights, tastes, and scents of Central
Asia’s scrumptious melons, a famous regional delicacy for two millennia,19
while still lamenting the otherwise poor state of affairs in the region.
Kashmīrī traveled in a land that, in many ways, he admired and even longed
for. He seems to have had high expectations before visiting the fabled cities of
Central Asia. Balkh, Herat, Khiva, Bukhara, and Samarqand evoked in him a
sense of nostalgia, perhaps partly due to his devotion to the Mughals’ vision of
these locations as their birthplace and original native soil, or perhaps because

15
Levi’s book, for the most part an excellent portrayal of the commercial activities of Indian
(“Multani”) communities in nineteenth-century Central Asia, generated much praise for its attempt,
deemed successful by many readers, to discredit the decline idea. Reviewers were quick to extol
the author, who finally “put to rest the hoary old idea,” “overturned the paradigm,” and “disproved
the old argument” of Central Asia’s decline. (See for example, David Christian’s review in JWH
14/4, Dec. 2003, 566–68; Adeeb Khalid in IJMES 35/4, Nov. 2003, 647–48; S. A. M. Adshead in
The International History Review XXVI/1, March 2004, 104–06. For a more balanced evaluation,
see Daniel C. Waugh in Slavic Review 63/1, 2004, 180.) Levi presented similar views also in his
earlier and later publications (see his “India, Russia and the Eighteenth-Century Transformation of
the Central Asian Caravan Trade” JESHO 42/4, 1999, 519–48; his introduction to the edited vol-
ume India and Central Asia:€Commerce and Culture, 1500–1800, and “The Ferghana Valley at the
Crossroads of World History:€The Rise of Khoqand, 1709–1822,” Journal of Global History 2/2,
July 2007, 213–32). Suffice it to note, for now, that Levi cites no eighteenth-century sources in any
of his publications to support his claims, a fact that, at least in my view, detracts from his sweeping
generalizations.
16
With the exception of Weinermans’ study, discussed hereinafter.
17
Kashmīrī was always comparing the region to other, predominantly Muslim-governed areas.
18
Kashmīrī, The Memoirs, 41.
19
Praised, among others, by al-Muqaddasī, Bābur, and almost every other traveler to the region.
 Central Asia in Turmoil 123

of his desire for pilgrimage to different holy sites.20 However, on his arrival,
Kashmīrī was sad to observe the grand cities of old in ruin and the seats of
powerful monarchs in shambles, the glory of bygone days still evident in the
overall decay. The sight of the great city of Balkh (known as Umm al-bilād,
or the “Mother of Cities”) evoked the following remark:€ “Balkh must have
been a fine city before the rapacity of its governors had reduced the inhabit-
ants to their present state of indigence. The city is gone to decay; but there are
some beautiful seats in the neighborhood.”21 Similar comments were the por-
tion of Merv and Herat, “Merv appears from its ruins to have been a fine city;
but is at present in the same state of Herat.” Herat, correspondingly, suffered
from the “oppression of accursed officials who had brought it to ruin, to the
point that the people were obliged to grow crops in their own courtyards.”22 In
Samarqand, the city that probably suffered the most in the first half of the eigh-
teenth century, Kashmīrī visited Tīmūr’s tomb and, noticeably disillusioned,
offered the following verse:
The eye which seeketh for instruction, why
looketh it not into the palaces of kings,
To behold what they have suffered from the
ravages of time?
The Spider is become the chamberlain at
The door of Khusro;
The Owl keepeth watch in the tower of Afrasiab.23

Kashmīrī subsequently reported that while at the tomb, Nādir Shāh, the
leader of the incursion who was also known for his admiration and emu-
lation of Tīmūr, decided to remove the enormous piece of jade that served
as the cenotaph for Tīmūr’s grave and to carry it back with him to Iran.
Perhaps �symbolically, on the way back from Central Asia, the stone broke
into four pieces and Nādir Shāh decided to return the shattered monument to
Samarqand.24 The failed trial with the famous stone marked also other features
of the expedition:€The sum of plunder from the Central Asian campaign was
the diadem of the ruler of Bukhara, Abu’l-Fayż Khan, which Nādir Shāh sent
back with pity, three hundred camels, two hundred horses, and twenty Persian
manuscripts “most beautifully written.”25 Truly, one could not blame the
20
Indeed, it was his desire for pilgrimage that compelled him to join Nādir Shāh in the first place.
21
Kashmīrī, The Memoirs, 33. The ruins that Kashmīrī had witnessed in Balkh were caused not only
by the “rapacity of its governors” and other assorted conflicts but also, it seems, from an earthquake
that had hit the region in 1702.
22
Alam and Subrahmanyam, Indo-Persian Travels, 264.
23
Kashmīrī, The Memoirs, 45–6. In this case, Gladwin’s eighteenth-century translation keeps the
desired effect.
24
Ibid., 44.
25
Kashmīrī, ‘Abd al-Karīm. Bayan-i-Waqi’:€ a biography of Nadir Shah Afshar and the travels
of the author Khwaja ‘Abdu’l Karīm ibn Khwaja ‘Aqibat Mahmud Kashmīrī, ed. K. B. Nasim
(Lahore:€Research Society of Pakistan, 1970), 72.
124 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

Turkmen ruler for “looking down with contempt upon the humble Â�possessions
of the natives of Turan.”26
But were these words by ‘Abd al-Karīm Kashmīrī only a form of romantic
or sentimental testimony, a rhetorical device aimed to emphasize Hindustan’s
superiority, a way to portray the remarkable potency of the conqueror he was
accompanying? Alam and Subrahmanyam’s analysis of Kashmīrī’s work
points to a learned and well-informed author who was both honest and self-
assured, and who did not shy away from criticism and censure when neces-
sary.27 His account of Central Asia seems highly reliable.
More or less at the same time as Kashmīrī’s sojourn in the region, two
British merchants, George Thompson and Reynold Hogg, arrived in Central
Asia from Russia with the aim of exploring commercial opportunities around
the Caspian Sea.28 Their journey was rough, negotiating harsh terrains and
gangs of brigands, but they were able to reach the territory of Khorezm. Of
their first destination, the town of Urgench, once the scene of one of the
most bustling markets in the region, Thompson and Hogg had very little to
say:€ “[On September] the 5th [1740], we came to the city Jurgantz, which
appeared to have been a large place; but now was entirely in ruins, no other
building remaining than a mosque.”29 The two foreigners were eager to leave
quickly but were forced to wait three days for their local escorts to finish their
search for gold, which was supposed to “wash out by the rains from amongst
the ruins of this city.”30 When they arrived in Khiva, the British tradesmen,
naturally searching for business ventures, found that the city produced “little
more than cotton, lamb-furrs, of a very mean quality; and a small quantity of
raw silk, some of which they manufacture.” They observed further that, “the
consumption of European cloth and other commodities is inconsiderable, as is
the whole trade of this place; so that no profit can be expected any ways pro-
portioned to the risque.” One of the reasons for this lack of profit for outsiders,
beyond the dangers of travel and the meager selection of merchandise, was
the duty on all goods “belonging to Christians” that amounted to 5 percent,
as opposed to only 2½ percent for Muslim merchants. Thompson and Hogg
estimated that the khan’s entire yearly revenue did not add up to one hun-
dred ducats (a meager sum), and that Khivan trade was conducted only with
26
Ibid., 37.
27
It seems that he remained true to his opening statement, in which he claimed that he kept his account
“free from flattery and exaggeration, which too often stain the historic page” (Kashmīrī, Bayan-i-
Waqi‘, x).
28
Jonas Hanway, An historical account of the British trade over the Caspian Sea (London, 1753), vol.
I, 237–45.
29
This account of Urgench in ruins is confirmed also by other visitors to the region (such as the
Russian merchant Rukavkin in 1753). See Shīr Muhammad Mīrāb Mūnis and Muhammad Rizā
Mīrāb Āgahī, Firdaws al-Iqbāl:€History of Khorezm, translated from Chagatay and annotated by
Yuri Bregel (Leiden, Boston:€Brill, 1999), 550, n. 124.
30
Hanway, Historical Account, 240. Their report does not suggest that the locals actually found
anything.
 Central Asia in Turmoil 125

Bukhara and with Persia, where the merchants carried some cattle, furs, and
hides that they acquired from the Qazaqs and Turkmens “who often prove to
be very troublesome neighbors to them.”31 Realizing that commerce prospects
with Khiva were inconsequential, George Thompson continued on to Bukhara
with the hopes of finding better conditions for more lucrative dealings. He
soon came to the realization that, “the trade of Bokhara is much declined from
what it was formerly.” Although he did not mention particular reasons for this
decline in trade, there is ample evidence to explain them. Some had little to do
with Central Asian considerations and interests. For example, the establish-
ment of direct Russian-Chinese trade relations through Siberia, in the Treaty
of Nerchinsk (1689) and later the Treaty of Kiakhta, disrupted the previously
more dominant trade routes in Central Asia.32
This is not to say that trade came to an abrupt halt or that merchants
ceased to navigate the treacherous routes, but trade clearly suffered con-
siderably. Another reason for trade reduction was the economic interdepen-
dence between nomads and sedentary peoples in the region, ably described
by Holzwarth. To put it simply, when the nomads suffered, the sedentary
economy suffered
� as well. The Jungar attacks on the Qazaqs that had begun
already in the late �seventeenth century took on a new impetus in the first
half of the eighteenth century. Their attacks, particularly forceful in 1708–
1709€– the towns of Sayram and Turkistan were thoroughly ravaged in the
process€– wreaked havoc in the steppes, as many Qazaqs and Qaraqlpaqs
had been taken captive and others were forced to flee to the environs of
Tashkent. The plight of the Qazaqs in that era, and their internal disunity
and separation, forced them to seek help. Attempts to form alliances and
counteralliances between the khans of Bukhara and different Qazaq fac-
tions, whether against the Jungars or against other factions, usually proved
futile, also due to the weakness of the khans of Bukhara and the deteriorat-
ing conditions in their state.

31
Ibid., 241. Interestingly, horses are not mentioned. Cf. with Jos Gommans, “The Horse Trade in
Eighteenth-Century South Asia,” JESHO 37/3 (1994), 228–50. Most of the Central Asia-related
data in Gommans’ interesting book is applicable, with caution, for the last quarter of the eighteenth
century. See Jos J. L. Gommans, The Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire, c.1710–1780 (Leiden, New
York:€E.J. Brill, 1995).
32
In addition to the Treaty of Nerchinsk, Audrey Burton mentions also Peter the Great’s edicts from
1691, 1693, and 1697 as putting further obstacles for Bukharan merchants. See Burton, Bukharan
Trade, 1558–1718 (Bloomington, IN:€ Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies, 1993, PIA
no.€23), 78–80. See also Morris Rossabi, “The ‘Decline’ of the Central Asian Caravan Trade,” in
James D. Tracy ed., The Rise of the Merchant Empires:€Long-Distance Trade in the Early Modern
Period, 1350–1750 (Cambridge, 1990), 368; Wolfgang Holzwarth, “Relations between Uzbek
Central Asia, the Great Steppe and Iran, 1700–1750,” in Shifts and Drifts in Nomad-Sedentary
Relations, eds. Stephen Leder and Streck (Wiesbaden, 2005), 179–216. Somewhat related, see
also Stephen Dale’s comments regarding the decline in Russian-Indian trade in the eighteenth
century in his Indian Merchants and Eurasian Trade, 1600–1750 (Cambridge University Press,
1994), 128–32.
126 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

The disintegration of the sedentary state, discussed hereinafter, also made

sure that different actors in the political arena could, in essence, blackmail
those in power. Holzwarth describes a dire situation whereby different tribal
entities could pillage caravans and shut down trade routes almost at will. In
1721–1723, for example, “virtually all the caravan routes of the Bukharan
capital were blocked.”33 Part of this tribal “extortion policy” also included
(what seems to have been) the intentional invasion of nomads into the sown
lands. The Khitay-Qïpchaq, whose notorious rebellions have been explored
in the context of the nineteenth century,34 apparently were driving their flocks
into the cultivated lands near Samarqand and Qarshi in 1716–1717 only to
leave them bare of fruit and grain.35 Other major disruptions took place fol-
lowing the Jughar battles with the Qazaqs, particularly between 1723 and
1728. Because of the disintegration of the Qazaqs’ own internal coalitions,
the disruption of trade routes in the steppes continued well into the 1750s.36
Not only trade, but also city life deteriorated, and the urban population
dwindled to the extent that several major cities were reported almost totally
depopulated. Conflicts between the dynasty and rebellious tribes and intertribal
warfare wreaked havoc in Central Asian cities with the warring sides �attempting
to pillage one another’s political centers. The most noteworthy example was
the period of the 1720s, after the invasion of the Qazaqs into Mawarannahr.
Following a revolt led by Ibrāhīm Biy, chief of the Keneges in 1722, the large
city of Samarqand was almost deserted; so that when Nādir Shāh invaded
the€city in 1740, only about one thousand families lodged at the fort.37 It took
the entire second half of the eighteenth century to rebuild Samarqand.
The events of 1723 are viewed today by the Qazaqs as one of their most
disastrous hours.38 What began as a series of battles amounted to a full-scale
Jungar onslaught on the Qazaqs, forcing hundreds of thousands to flee from
their pasture lands southward, cross the Syr Darya river, and run away from
the battle scene in the direction of Samarqand and Khojand. As the Qazaqs,
in their flight, disrupted the lives of numerous other nomadic groups in the
khanate of Bukhara, they also ravaged the sown land, both purposefully and
inadvertently. Different local tribal leaders tried to form alliances with the
Qazaqs in order to fight other factions in the khanate.39 During this period of
33
Holzwarth, “Relations,” 192.
34
See P. P. Ivanov, Vosstanie kitaĭ-kipchakov v Bukharskom khanstve, 1821–1825 gg.:€ istochniki i
opyt ikh issledovaniia. Moscow€– Leningrad, 1937 (Trudy Instituta vostokovedeniia Akademii nauk
SSSR, XXVIII).
35
Holzwarth, “Relations,” 192.
36
As evidenced by contemporary Russian and Greek testimonies (Ibid., 198).
37
See V. V. Bartol’d, “Istoriia kul’turnoĭ zhizni Turkestana,” Sochineniia II/1, 271–72.
38
In Qazaq memory, the year is commemorated as the year of the “barefoot flight” (Aqtaban
shubryndy).
39
This was one of the peaks of the Samarqand bid for power, an objective that ultimately came to
naught. On the symbolism involved in this struggle, see my “The ‘Heavenly Stone’ (Kök Tash) of
Samarqand:€A Rebels’ Narrative Transformed,” JRAS 17/1 (January 2007).
 Central Asia in Turmoil 127

uncertainty, which lasted until early 1728, the battles and skirmishes among
the Uzbeks and Qazaqs (and among themselves) considerably interrupted the
living conditions of the population and damaged almost every facet of life.40
The fighting and destruction also caused parts of the previously cultivated
land (for example, in the Middle Zerafshan valley) to revert to their previous
state, reed-covered swamps.41
It took the country quite some time to recover, and it is no wonder that Central
Asia was in dire conditions on Nādir Shāh’s arrival. The large Â�displacement of
populations following the Jungar and Qazaq tumultuous conflict also caused
massive movements of refugees throughout the region, affecting Tashkent
and Ferghana. Indeed, the rise of the khanate of Qoqand later in the century
should be evaluated, in part, also in the context of the flood of refugees from
Mawarannahr.42
Further to the west and south, Turkmens and Afghans were plundering
caravans and rendering the roads unsafe to travel.43 This is also evident in
George Thompson’s notes from Bukhara. One of his main concerns, as part
of his assessment of trade routes and merchandise, was to list local goods
and products (“cotton, lamb-furrs, down, rice, and cattle … soap, cotton-yarn,
and callicoe”) as well as the items that arrived in Bukhara from Iran (“velvet,
silk, cloth, and sashes:€ woollen-cloth is also brought hither from Persia, as
likewise shalloons, indigo, coral, and cochineal”) and from the nomads (“rhu-
barb, musk, and castorium, and many other valuable drugs”). Unfortunately,
Thompson remarked that, “the late wars, and the frequent robberies on the
roads” made it impossible to trade in many different commodities, such as
precious stones from Badakhshan, for example. Like Kashmīrī, Thompson
described a corrupt regime that was holding onto its possessions at all costs.44
He reiterated the conclusions that he and his partner had stated earlier in
Khiva:€ “[The Bukharans] make very little consumption of European com-
modities … no foreign commodity bears a price proportionable to the risque
of bringing it to market.”45
Thompson and Hogg’s visit was only one in a series of attempts to
Â�estimate Central Asia’s potential for trade with the outside world in the first
half of the eighteenth century. Twenty-two years earlier, the Russian empire
�dispatched Florio Beneveni to Bukhara in order to explore, among other
40
Holzwarth described the complex political situation and the conflicting evidence in his “Relations,”
197.
41
Ibid., 208.
42
T. K. Beisembiev, “Migration in the Qoqand Khanate in Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries,” in
Migration in Central Asia:€Its History and Current Problems, eds. Hisao Komatsu, Chika Obiya,
and John S. Shoeberlein (Osaka, 2000), 35–40.
43
Holzwarth, “Relations,” 201.
44
“The khan and his officers are possessed of very rich jewels; but never dispose of them, unless
in cases of the greatest necessity, and even then they are jealous of their being carried out of the
country.”
45
Hanway, Historical Account, 243–44.
128 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

things, trade opportunities. Beneveni’s detailed and interesting report left

very little hope for any substantial commerce with Russia.46 His description
of the �political chaos in the region, the perilous travel conditions, and the
general �economic hardship is evident both from his official report and from
his private diary, translated from Italian by Nicola Di Cosmo.47 Di Cosmo
indicates that Beneveni’s account shows the “general state of weakness and
discord in Khiva, which is just another evidence, together with the interne-
cine wars, the struggle with Bukhara and the weakness of the army, of the
general situation of decay in Khiva at the beginning of the XVIII century.”48
One of Beneveni’s mandates was to investigate reports on precious metals
in the area, particularly gold and silver. In the numerous studies about the
so-called silver revolution€ – the influx of American silver into Asia that,
through mostly European trade, impacted the economies of the continent
already in the sixteenth century€ – Central Asia is usually not mentioned,
and for good reason.49 The region generally remained outside this new sil-
ver market until the middle of the eighteenth century, a change that was
prompted by Nādir Shāh’s invasion. George Thompson clearly stated that
the Bukharans had “no silver money of their own coin; but since Nādir Shāh
took this place, the Persian and Indian silver coin is very current amongst
them.”50 Thompson’s statement echoes the one made by Kashmīrī earlier
about the lack of ready money in Central Asia. The indication of a silver
crisis in the region’s largest state (Bukhara) in the first half of the eighteenth
century may come as a surprise for many who believe that the silver rev-
olution of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries touched on all of Asia.
For those familiar with Central Asian history of the time, this should be
old news, as the devaluation of currency under the Janid dynasty has been
known and debated for some time. Silver in Central Asia was undergoing
depreciation for most of the seventeenth century, as numismatic evidence
from the period clearly demonstrates.51 The percentage of silver in a silver
coin in the beginning of the Janid era (early seventeenth century) was 90
percent. By the end of the seventeenth century, it was as low as 30 percent;
and in the early eighteenth century decreased even further, so much so that

46
Audrey Burton, Bukharan Trade, 1558–1718 (Bloomington, 1993, PIA 23), 2.
47
Nicola Di Cosmo, “A Russian Envoy to Khiva:€the Italian Diary of Florio Beneveni,” in€Proceedings
of the 28th Meeting of the Permanent International Altaistic Conference, at Venice, Italy, July 1985,
ed. Giovanni Stary (Wiesbaden:€Harrassowitz, 1989), 73–114.
48
Ibid., 79.
49
For example, Anthony Reid, Southeast Asia in the Age of Commerce, 1450–1680 (Yale University
Press, 1990).
50
Hanway, Historical Account, 244. In Khiva the situation was even more dire, and the first royal
mint in the khanate was established during the reign of Eltüzer Khan (r. 1804–1806). Khiva’s gold
and silver came from Bukhara and Persia (particularly after Nādir Shāh’s invasion) as was also
attested by Rukavkin in 1753. Cf. with Mūnis and Āgahī (tr. Bregel), Firdaws, 587, n. 389.
51
E. A. Davidovich, Istoriia monetnogo dela Sredneĭ Azii XVII-XVIII vv (Dushanbe:€Akademiia nauk
Tadzhikskoĭ SSR, 1964).
 Central Asia in Turmoil 129

the low essay standard completely prevented its usage outside of Central
Asia.52 Only after Nādir Shāh’s temporary conquest do we have indications
of some Indian and Persian silver circulating in the region, although it is
unclear to what extent.53 The debasement of Bukharan silver also led to
heavy fighting in 1708–1709 in Bukhara.54
Various themes seem to crisscross the last few pages. They include
�international commercial activities that bypassed Central Asia (maritime
trade, influx of silver, and treaties and agreements that found a way around
the region); the often tense and violent relations between nomadic entities
(Qazaqs and Jungars, for example) that spilled into the region and impacted
almost every aspect of life, partly due to the heavy involvement of nomads
in the sedentary economy; the intermittent warfare among Central Asian
�political entities that, among other things, also caused the displacement of
populations on the one hand and rendered roads unsafe for travel on the other;
the profound corruption and the clear powerlessness of the central authorities
in the region to govern more than a very limited territory; and a more general
sense of political and social instability. When we add to the mix the apoca-
lyptic notions that burgeoned in the region’s popular literature and the influx
of Islamic “reform” movements, we can begin also to form an understanding
of the spiritual and psychological dimensions of the crisis.
As mentioned earlier, in the first half of the eighteenth century Central Asia’s
political disintegration was reaching its peak. That era witnessed the collapse
of the political system that was established following the so-called Uzbek con-
quest in the early sixteenth century, a system based on the rule of dynasties
of Chinggisid origin that commanded loyalty on the part of the Uzbek tribes.
Toward the end of the seventeenth century a process that began earlier was
reaching its high point, and the tribes realized that the ruling dynasty that was
once the unifying factor of the state could no longer perform its role effectively.
It is abundantly clear that the central administration was, in actuality, losing its

52
Boris D. Kočnev, “The Last Period of Muslim Coin Minting in Central Asia (18th–Early 20th
Century),” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries,
edited by Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen, and Dmitriy Yermakov (Berlin:€Klaus Schwarz
Verlag, 1996), 433.
53
Gommans describes the “great quantity of money” that “Qirghiz, Bukhārīs and Khiwians” allegedly
carried to “Russian Asia” from 1748 to 1755. See Jos Gommans, “Mughal India and Central Asia
in the Eighteenth Century:€An Introduction to a Wider Perspective,” Itinerario 15/1 (1991), 51;
Reprinted in India and Central Asia:€Commerce and Culture, 1500–1800, ed. Scott Levi, 39–63.
Gommans relies on the English traveler Godfrey Thomas Vinge, who had traveled in the region a
century later. (And it should be mentioned that Vinge was not privy to such information himself,
but borrowed it from the writings of Aleksei Levshin, the ethnographer of the Qazaqs, recorded in
the 1820s.)
54
Holzwarth, “Relations,” 191. This information is based on material provided in the ‘Ubaidāllah-
nāma, a dynastic history that recorded events during the reign of ‘Ubaidāllah Khan (1702–1711).
See Mir Muhammed Amin-i Buhari, Ubaĭdulla-name, tr. A. A. Semenov (Tashkent:€Akademiia
nauk Uzbekskoĭ SSR, 1957).
130 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

grip over the periphery, that the state was unable to maintain its financial system,
and, most critically, was unable to reward the military. Indeed, throughout most
of the period in question the towns and principalities of Shahr-i Sabz, Jizak,
Ura-Tube, Hisar, and many other smaller locales were practically independent.
Only in the 1750s was Muhammad Rahīm Khan finally able to reconquer them
and force them again to pay taxes for their crops and cattle to the treasury
and to send troops to the Manghït ruler in Bukhara.55 Lee briefly summarizes
the consequences of the breakup of Chinggisid realms:€“Individual amirs and
tribal groupings carved out for themselves hereditary fiefdoms and brooked no
interference from the centre.… The fragmentation of Uzbek power, both north
and south of the Amu Darya, made the Tuqay-Timurid realms ripe for invasion
and conquest.”56 What caused this fragmentation?
From the early stages of the formation of the Chinggisid states in the
sixteenth century the principles that had served the nomads in the steppes
were also applied to the sedentary realms. These principles consisted of the
arrangement of a system of so-called appanages (that ultimately resulted in
the increase of tribal affiliation with particular locales), of rules and codes
of succession, of a scheme of recruitment and rewards for military service,
and more.57 The appanage system implied that the entire territory was con-
sidered the possession of the royal clan and was distributed among the male
members of the clan. The four major appanages included, at first, the areas
of Bukhara, Samarqand, Tashkent, and Balkh. The system later expanded to
include numerous other, usually smaller, appanages and subappanages, and
sovereignty over them was often contested. As McChesney points out, the
system was “fundamentally decentralized,” and it was not an easy feat for the
state to actually achieve its goals. Much depended on the khan’s charisma, on
the possibility of future recompense for relevant parties, on the khan’s coop-
eration with other powerful religious and administrative institutions, on the
khan’s relationship with the influential stratum of the Uzbek (and sometimes
non-Uzbek) amirs, and on familial and other types of alliances.
The principle of succession by seniority essentially meant that the �identity
of the next ruler was uncertain and remained unknown until the very end of
the process. This increased the level of competition for the position of the
khan, both by individuals and by clans, and often resulted in the emergence
of new bases of competing powers.58 Attempts to resolve this issue, for exam-
ple in constituting an institution of the heir apparent (throughout most of the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries his seat was in the city of Balkh), were

55
Ivanov, Ocherki, 102–03.
56
Jonathan L. Lee, The “Ancient Supremacy”:€Bukhara, Afghanistan and the Battle for Balkh, 1731–
1901 (E. J. Brill, 1996), 60.
57
For a good overview, see Robert D. McChesney, “Central Asia vi. In the 16th–18th Centuries,” EIr
V, 176–93.
58
For more on this issue, see Martin B. Dickson, “Uzbek Dynastic Theory in the Sixteenth Century,”
Trudy XXV-ogo Mezhdunarodnogo Kongressa Vostokovedov (Moscow, 1960), 208–16.
 Central Asia in Turmoil 131

often unsuccessful due to the heir apparent’s premature death, or decision to

secede, or disregard for the principle. In order to keep the allegiance of the
tribal �leaders and the military, the rulers had to improvise a system of rewards.
The difficulty arose when, after the distribution of land grants, the assignment
of tankhā status (the right to collect taxes from a land or a piece of property),
the waqf endowments, and various other types of allowances, the state lost
most of its revenues.59 Loyalty to the regime was often based on military suc-
cess, thus satisfying the interests of the tribes. However, once the dynasty and
the tribes lost their consensus, the system weakened. The rulers were unable to
provide their troops (or tribes) with victories in wars (or economic gains). This
was combined with a sedentarization process in a land that could only support
a limited amount of agriculture and was coupled with the waning of the older
system of conquests and gains (that some scholars call “imperial ideology”),
as coveted territories to conquer were few and far between. Thus, most of the
warfare in Central Asia from the 1680s (probably earlier) was amongst the dif-
ferent Central Asian polities (Bukhara, Khiva, Balkh, and so forth), set inside a
territorial space that was becoming more and more confined.60
The bureaucratic mechanism was ineffective, partly because there was no
strong centralized regime to enforce the law, collect taxes, and generally be
able to ensure the well-being of the population and maintain its own author-
ity based on military success. The Ashtarkhanid dynasty took control over
the khanate of Bukhara€– the largest, richest, most populous, and most influ-
ential region in Central Asia for centuries€– toward the end of the sixteenth
century.61 The Janids, as their Shibanid predecessors, relied on the principle
of imperial charisma that dictated that only Chinggis Khan’s male descen-
dants were entitled to the throne. However, as the dynasty lingered so did the
challenges to this principle by tribal forces that were beginning to dispute
the central authority and gradually ceased appreciating the Chinggisid appeal.
By the time of the rise to the throne of ‘Ubayd Allāh Khan, son of Subhān-
Quli Khan,62 in 1702 (an ascent that was accompanied by murders), wide

59
See among others, Wolfgang Holzwarth, “The Uzbek State as Reflected in Eighteenth-Century
Bukharan Sources,” AS/EA 60/2 (2006).
60
By and large, the Uzbeks were unable to make the full transition from a nomadic into an agrarian
state, described well by Maria Subtelny for the era of Sultan Husayn Bayqara (Subtelny, Timurids in
Transition:€Turko-Persian Politics and Acculturation in Medieval Iran. Leiden, Boston:€E. J. Brill,
2007.)
61
The most comprehensive study of the dynasty in English is Audrey Burton’s The Bukharans:€
A Dynastic, Diplomatic and Commercial History, 1550–1702 (New York, 1997).
62
Burton calls Subhān-Quli Khan the “last great Ashtarkhanid” (Burton, The Bukharans, 329),
although during his time, too, the situation was already deteriorating. The decline in artistic
patronage, for example, was evidenced in the removal of thirty poets from Subhān-Quli Khan’s
court. See Karin Rührdanz, “Miniatures of the Bukharan Court Atelier in a Copy of Khwājū
Kirmānī’s Khamsa Dated 1078/1667–68,” Ecrit et culture en Asie centrale et dans le monde
turko-iranien x-xix siecles, eds. F. Richard and Maria Szuppe (Cahiers de Studia Iranica) (Paris,
2008), 377, n. 8.
132 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

conflicts emerged.63 Citing the ‘Ubaydulla-nāma, Raziya Muqminova shows

that the threat to ‘Ubayd Allāh was so high that he, in his powerlessness, tried
to replace some of the tribal leaders with craftsmen of “poor parentage” and
allowed simple artisans to “approach the most honorable posts.”64 Of course,
the tribal chieftains would have none of this and they assassinated ‘Ubayd
Allāh, ultimately leading to the ascent of an even weaker ruler, Abu’l-Fayż
Khan, to the fragile throne of the weakening khanate.
The corruption of the rulers that was invoked in the writings of Kashmīrī,
Thompson and Hogg, and others, was well-known in the region. When he
ascended to power in the middle of the century, Muhammad Rahīm Khan, the
first ruler of the Manghït tribal dynasty and the most successful challenger
of Chinggisid authority in Central Asia in centuries, delivered the following
words in his inauguration speech:
From the beginning of the state and the rise of the star of felicity of Muhammad Khan
Shïbānī,65 the past sultans and khaqans established this praiseworthy tradition, and dis-
played noble zeal, and demonstrated miraculous power in arranging the affairs of the king-
dom and securing its borders. For undertaking this exertion and effort, they earned fame
in both worlds and won out over their peers and equals.66 When the will of the Almighty
God resolved upon the expiration of the rule of their dynasty and the destruction of
Mawarannahr, for an [entire] generation they recited a worthless khutba in the name of
Abu’l-Fayż Khan. During his reign all kinds of corruption appeared from every corner of
the kingdom, to the extent that in most of the regions and cities and areas of this country
not a soul was to be found.67

Muhammad Rahīm Khan’s speech (or at least, the words attributed to him by
the historian) emphasized the quality and magnanimity of Shïbānī’s achieve-
ment in conquering Mawarannahr and founding a new dynasty in the early
sixteenth century. After all, that was the period of the arrival into the region
of Muhammad Rahīm’s ancestors and also the beginning of Â�visible Manghït
presence in Mawarannahr.68 By contrast, late Janid rule, �particularly during
Abu’l-Fayż Khan’s long reign (1711–1747), was perceived as the epitome
63
Holzwarth sees these as conflicts between the military “estate” and the bureaucracy. See Holzwarth,
“The Uzbek State,” 327–28.
64
Raziya G. Mukminova, “Social and Economic Life in the Towns of Central Asia in the 15th and
16th Centuries,” in Matériaux pour l’histoire économique du monde Iranien, eds. Rika Gyselen and
Maria Szuppe (Paris, 1999), 274.
65
Muhammad Shïbānī Khan, leader of the Uzbek conquest of Central Asia in the beginning of the
sixteenth century.
66
Literally, “they stole the ball of competition from amongst their peers and equals.”
67
Muhammad Vafā Karmīnagī, Tuhfat al-khānī, MS of the St. Petersburg Branch of the Institute
of Oriental Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences, No. C 525, ff. 255ab. See the full translation
of Muhammad Rahīm’s inauguration in my Ritual and Authority in Central Asia:€ The Khan’s
Inauguration Ceremony, (Bloomington, IN:€ Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies, 2003,
PIA€37), 5–19.
68
See V. Trepavlov, The Formation and Early History of the Manghit Yurt (Bloomington, 2001,
PIA€no. 35).
 Central Asia in Turmoil 133

of the region’s destruction, a devastation that was manifest physically and

spiritually, as the dynasty was disintegrating, as the state was becoming
incapable of collecting revenues, and the general dissatisfaction was pro-
liferating in society. The description of a land in which “not a soul was to
be found” related both to conditions of people that had to flee their homes
and their land and also to the absence of actual tax payers. Even if this
were an exaggeration, aimed at magnifying the role of the new ruler as sav-
ior, the meaning was still clear. The cause for this disaster, attributed first
and foremost to the will of Allah and to the previous ruler’s crooked ways,
was strikingly reminiscent of ‘Abd al-Karīm Kashmīrī’s words that opened
this€chapter and bore close resemblance to the gist of the message in Tīmūr’s
legendary biographies.
One hopes that this brief discussion should be enough to plant doubt in
the minds of those who express skepticism about Central Asia’s trying times
in the first half of the eighteenth century.69 This hardship was not only the
portion of Central Asia’s sedentary core. Central Asia’s neighbors were suf-
fering as well:€the traumatic events during and after the fall of the Safavids in
Iran; the equally dramatic changes in the landscape of the steppes to the north
with the incessant wars between the Qazaqs and the Oirats and in light of the
expanding Russian empire; the crisis in the economy of the Punjab, also a
result of the declining trade with Central and West Asia; and the uprisings in
parts of modern-day Afghanistan.70
Such comparative perspectives from neighboring regions have proven
useful. For example, Ann Lambton’s study of similar developments in
Â�eighteenth-century Iran€– developments that some believe begun soon after
the death of Shah ‘Abbas I (d. 1629)71 and culminated under Shah Sultan

69
Jos Gommans writes that, “Analysing the accounts of the eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century
travelers, it appears that Bukhara, Afghanistan, and Baluchistan were relatively flourishing trad-
ing areas.” (See Gommans, “Mughal India and Central Asia,” 48.) I do not know which travel
accounts would generate this assessment, but I doubt that my reader would share this impression
for eighteenth-century Bukhara.
70
Muzaffar Alam, “Trade, state policy, and regional change:€aspects of Mughal-Uzbek commercial
relations, c. 1550–1750,” JESHO 37/3 (1994), 83 (Reprinted in India and Central Asia:€Commerce
and Culture, 1500–1800, 64–92).
71
Although Rudi Matthee writes cautiously that, “it is not strictly correct to speak of unchecked
decline,” the portion of his essay dealing with the Safavids in the late seventeenth and early
�eighteenth centuries clearly describes a very dire state of affairs, fraught with insurgencies and
rebellions, a corrupt and inept government, a feeble and crooked military, and a general weakening
of the Safavid state. He depicts economic regression, low agricultural yield, deteriorating trade,
and the devaluation of currency as Iran was facing “structural economic weakness, endemic cor-
ruption, and weak leadership.” In addition to unsafe roads, crippled courts, and a “drastic financial
crisis,” the treasury “lacked the funds to equip an army capable of meeting the mounting chal-
lenges of domestic unrest and invasions from outside.” Eventually, Isfahan fell to Afghan forces
(after a six-month siege that resulted in widespread starvation), the Russians and Ottomans were
quick to slice up parts of the country, and the dynasty came to its end. (See Rudi Matthee, “Safavid
Dynasty,” EIr.)
134 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

Husayn (r. 1694–1722)72€ – resulted in what Lambton termed the “moral

decay” at the center of the kingdom.73 In her study about “Tribal Resurgence
and the Decline of the Bureaucracy” in eighteenth-century Iran, Lambton
painted a picture of political contraction and economic decline. She identified
the collapse of the central government as the cause, or at least the impetus for
tribal resurgence and the decline of the administration, describing a situation
whereby a reassertion of tribal authority, first in the periphery then in the cen-
ter, expressed itself in raids and incursions into the central areas, as well as in
revolts against the central government. The three dynasties that followed the
Safavids (the Afshars, Zands, and Qajars) were based on tribal support. Nādir
Shāh, founder of the first of these dynasties, had to rely, at first, on his mili-
tary prowess to justify his rule, but naturally this was not enough to secure a
long-lasting dynasty.
Although Iran and Central Asia differed in many regards, some parallels
persisted. For instance, the central government was no longer capable of
administering the army. As Lambton puts it, “the complicated administrative
machinery for allocating the funds of the empire to its military and civil offi-
cials had ceased to function effectively.”74 This can be clearly seen in Central
Asia, although it does not mean that the old administrative system ceased to
exist. On the contrary, as Lambton demonstrates, the old bureaucracy sur-
vived and lingered on with a few modifications, partly because the person-
nel were the same (only serving different rulers), but their effectiveness was
minimal. Another interesting parallel was the concept of rulership. Lambton
distinguishes between two forms of political theory. One deemed that king-
ship was inherent in the family of kings, and the other held that rule was to be
inherent in the tribe, or the family of the tribal ruler. We have seen the fierce
deliberation over who was worthy of kingship prominently featured in the
Central Asian accounts from that era. The following story from Iran is a good
example:
Before Nādir Shāh ascended the throne he assembled the amirs and the ‘ulamā’ and asked
them to choose a king. They nominated him. He said:€“The king must be the son of a king.
We are not such.” They answered:€“Kingship is in the hands of God. He gives it to whom-
soever He wills.” One participant objected, saying (about Nādir Shāh):€“this fellow is not

72
For a clear view of the crisis (particularly from 1714 onward) based primarily on the Dutch East
Indies Company’s documents, see Willem Floor, The Afghan occupation of Safavid Persia, 1721–
1729 (Paris, 1998). The documents clearly describe a state that has lost its effectiveness, court and
country in total confusion due to the constant shifts in personnel and tribes pillaging the countryside
with no opposition.
73
As we have seen, tyranny, corruption, and poor decision making on the part of the Ashtarkhanid
dynasty in the khanate of Bukhara were repeated themes in the eighteenth-century historical records
whether officially sponsored or not.
74
A. K. S. Lambton, “The Tribal Resurgence and the Decline of the Bureaucracy in Eighteenth
Century Persia,” in Studies in Eighteenth Century Islamic History, eds. Thomas Naff and Roger
Owen (Carbondale:€Southern Illinois University Press, 1977), 111.
 Central Asia in Turmoil 135

a man of any family.” But he was quickly contradicted by the shaykh al-islām that “God
gives kingship and glory.”75

In other words, and as we have seen in Central Asia, the debate regarding who
was worthy of kingship was central to this period of upheaval. The dispute was
intense and introduced new elements into the decision-making process. The
emphasis on the cooperation between the tribal chieftains and the religious
officials (and also Sufis) created a new reality, not only in Iran, but also in
Central Asia. No longer did the king have to be the son of a king (or the khan€–
the son of a Chinggisid), no longer (theoretically, at least) was it enough to
belong to a certain tribe or family, but sanction for sovereignty also had to
come from God. This is clearly stated in the official, and less official, Central
Asian sources.76 The identity of the chosen leader and his basis of legitimation
were not the only issues at stake. In a period when social structures fell apart,
a new social structure was forming. Like the tribal rulers in Central Asia,
Nādir Shāh the Turkmen was viewed, in this context, as the counterreaction
against the decay and weakness of the late Safavid state.77 Nevertheless, the
fact that the Safavids were deposed does not mean that they had completely
vanished, and their charismatic appeal still persisted well into the nineteenth
century.78 This complexity also appears in Central Asia in that era.
The many sources that we surveyed indicate clearly the corrosion in the
authority of the state and the collapse of the central government; the unre-
mitting wars; the confusion, uncertainty, and conflict over the identity of
succeeding rulers; the economic crisis; and so forth. Indeed, we have seen it
all reflected in Tīmūr’s legendary biographies as well:€the uncertainty about
the leader’s identity, the corruption, the premonitions of doom, the desire
for a strong ruler, the fighting with the heretics, and the struggle between
Chinggisids and tribalists. Regrettably, but predictably, Tīmūr’s biographies
have not been among the primary sources that informed the scholarly commu-
nity about conditions in Central Asia in the eighteenth century.

Note on the Transmission of the Decline Paradigm

Contrary to claims in current scholarship, the region’s reputation for crisis did
not emerge first from an Orientalist plot but rather from the body of evidence
presented in sources from and about the region in the eighteenth century. I do
not wish to venture too deep into the discussions of “Russian Orientalism,”
its supposed uniqueness or commonalities with other “Orientalisms,” or the

75
The man who spoke against Nādir Shāh was then strangled, and the shaykh al-islām was given a
robe of honor. See Lambton, “Tribal Resurgence,” 113.
76
Sela, Ritual and Authority, 20.
77
See also Mansur Sefatgol, “Persian Historiographical Writing under the Last Safavids:€ The
Historiographers of Decline,” Eurasian Studies V/1–2 (2006), 319–31.
78
Lambton, “Tribal Resurgence,” 119.
136 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

degree of service that the Orientalists rendered, intentionally or not, to their

mother empire.79 However, several words about the transmission of the idea
of the decline need to be written.
The Russian Orientalists (as well as many non-Russian Orientalists
�working within the milieu of Russian oriental studies) were naturally the
closest to Central Asia, and partly through their assessments the idea of
Central Asia’s crisis in the eighteenth century persisted (persisted, not origi-
nated). The words of the great Vasilii Vladimirovich Bartol’d (1869–1930),
considered by many the founding father of Central Asian studies, open most
discussions in English on the period in question. Bartol’d’s assessment was
that in the eighteenth century Central Asia suffered “a period of political,
economical and cultural decadence.”80 This evaluation continued to dominate
the historiography for many years to come and, of course, given Bartol’d’s
reputation and range of publications in different languages, also made its way
beyond the confines of Russian oriental studies. Although Bartol’d made this
comment in his most rudimentary introduction to the region’s history, this
quote has been preferred, most likely because it has been readily available
in English translation. Bartol’d’s remarkable career enabled him to develop
an intimate acquaintance with the sources, the kind of acquaintance that
today is very rare. This is important, because just accusing Orientalists of
arrogance and haughtiness (which many of them undoubtedly had) does not
excuse dispensing with their unrivaled knowledge and denying their passion
for the study of their subject matter.81 Of course, the Russians arrived in the
region as conquerors and with a clear belief in their superior circumstances,
a belief nurtured not only by their technological and military superiority but
from their Imperial standing€– firm promoters of their civilizing mission. For
many of the newcomers, what they witnessed on the ground, so to speak, also
helped shape their perspective. Bartol’d, for example, was clearly aware of
the long and tenuous relations between Russia and Central Asia, relations that
were often, certainly since Peter I’s reign (r. 1690–1725), politically charged,
and that culminated with Russia’s resolute military conquest of the entire
region. But did Central Asia’s reputation in Russia also cloud Bartol’d’s per-
spective? After all, the scientific explorations and studies patronized by the
tsarist regime and its representatives into Central Asia were already informed
by two centuries of political, economic, and cultural contacts. For scholars

79
See the recent discussion on this topic between Nathanial Knight and Adeeb Khalid in Kritika.
Adeeb Khalid, “Russian History and the Debate over Orientalism,” Kritika 1/4 (Fall 2000), 691–99;
Nathaniel Knight, “On Russian Orientalism:€A Response to Adeeb Khalid,” Kritika 1/4 (Fall 2000),
701–15. See also Knight’s slightly earlier publication, “Grigoriev in Orenburg, 1851–1862:€Russian
Orientalism in the Service of Empire?” Slavic Review 59 (Spring 2000), 74–100.
80
V. V. Barthold, Four Studies, 65. In the original, the Russian word upádok (meaning first and fore-
most “decline,” but can also be interpreted as “decay” or “decadence”) was used.
81
See also the recent study by Robert Irwin, For Lust of Knowing:€The Orientalists and Their Enemies
(London, 2006).
 Central Asia in Turmoil 137

like Bartol’d this was a reality close to home, and he actually regarded it as
an advantage.82
Some, if not many, of the Russian colonizers, much like other European
visitors to the region in the nineteenth century, at first assumed that what they
were witnessing had been a picture of a society frozen for centuries. One
may read in the travel literature of the time (the Russian and the European) a
prevailing assumption that regarded Central Asia as static, undeveloped, and
ruled by “Oriental despots” who were essentially corrupt and enemies of pro-
gress. The “oppressors” relentlessly sustained deplorable practices, the likes
of which had not been carried out in Europe for ages (or at least for a few
decades), such as slave trade, serfdom, ruthless public executions, abominable
torture practices, and so forth. Of course, the technological inferiority of the
locals (in military, science, and medicine) and their almost wholesale rejec-
tion of newer developments (in print, communications, and medicine) that the
Russians had introduced did not contribute to their favorable assessment by
the new conquerors.
Nevertheless, many of these assumptions on the then-current state of
the Muslim populations of Central Asia were also shared by some of the
Muslims themselves, and the Russians were also exposed to more acute
conversations that took place amongst the Muslims, some of them their sub-
jects, �others not. The first was the assumption that the Central Asian decline
was also part and parcel of a much larger crisis€– that of the Muslim world
in general and that of the non-West in an even larger perspective. These
two premises€– that the Muslim world and the non-European world had suf-
fered from the rise of European power and European control of the markets,
trade, and economic and technological developments€– have been at the core
of numerous discussions and debates that need not be repeated here. This
�so-called ascendance of Europe contributed, among other things, to the emer-
gence of movements, sometimes labeled “reform” or “renewal,” that gripped
Muslim communities from Africa to China in the eighteenth �century.83 Some
responded to their encounter with Europe, others to the collapse or down-
fall of Muslim empires (Safavid, Mughal), and yet others to internal affairs
(economic, ethnic, or matters pertaining to theological interpretations and
the validity of religious practice). Many of these movements interacted with
one another, responded to or competed with one another, and also created
networks of communication that influenced the creation or the direction
of similar groups elsewhere. One of the issues that all these movements

82
Bregel brings the following quote from Bartol’d:€ “It seemed to me quite natural that a Russian
Orientalist-historian should be attracted to a region which was geographically and historically
closer to Russia than the other eastern countries, the region where a Russian scholar had at his
disposal material which was much less available to a west-European scholar” (Sochineniia IX,
789–90).
83
See Eighteenth-Century Renewal and Reform in Islam, eds. Nehemia Levtzion and John O. Voll
(Syracuse, N.Y.:€Syracuse University Press, 1987).
138 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

had in common was a growing dissatisfaction with existing circumstances

in their respective communities and a reaction against elements in their
own society (and sometimes with a more “global” Muslim perspective) that
they deemed to be stagnant or ineffective.84 It is no surprise that Central
Asia, too, experienced such a movement specifically in that era with the
arrival of representatives of the Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya.85 Spreading
into Central Asia from India while promoting their alleged founder Ahmad
Sirhindī (1564–1624) as the “renewer of the second millennium,” shaykhs
of the movement settled in different regions in Central Asia and began to
cultivate old and new ties with the locals and to actively engage in politi-
cal and social affairs.86 The newcomers’ arrival was not uncontested. One
of their most vocal representatives, Shaykh Habībullāh, was killed in riots
in Bukhara in 1700.87 Nevertheless, “imbued with the idea of struggling for
the purification of the šarī‘a of all heretical admixtures,” the movement’s
followers took advantage of Central Asia’s “grave economic and political
crisis.”88 The region’s disorder facilitated their ability to involve themselves
in the affairs of the land and, at a time of devastation and destruction, also
to help build the country, particularly in the second half of the eighteenth
century when conditions for such renovation were more forthcoming. As the
biographies of some of the more prominent shaykhs of the tarīqa suggest, in
the beginning (namely, during the first half of the century) many of them had
to leave places that had been in devastation and seek instruction elsewhere
only to return later (and in greater numbers) and become involved in the
84
This type of charge was also connected to earlier trends in parts of the Muslim world that viewed
the era (already in the seventeenth century) as a period of decline. The internal deliberations among
Muslims were not lost on the Russian scholars (or their European colleagues), and they began to
translate, among other things, the calls within the Muslim world to examine the reasons for the
decline and the ways to remedy the situation. Thus, for example, the famous seventeenth-century
Risāle of Qoči Beg, a treatise about the causes for the Ottoman “decline” presented to the Ottoman
sultan Murād IV, was edited and translated into Russian by V. D. Smirnov (see his Kočybeg
Gümüldzinskii i drugie osmanskie pisateli XVII. věka, St. Petersburg, 1873) and served to inform
many of Smirnov’s contemporaries.
85
Baxtiyor M. Babadžanov, “On the History of the Naqshbandiyya Muğaddidīya in Central
Māwarānnahr in the Late 18th and Early 19th Centuries,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central
Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries, eds. Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen and
Dmitriy Yermakov, Vol I. (Berlin, 1996), 385–413.
86
Many of the followers of this new branch of the Naqshbandiyya claimed spiritual and/or biological
descent from Makhdum-i A‘zam (d. 1542), the famous Central Asian Naqshbandi shaykh whose
descendants increased the tarīqa’s influence in different parts of the world.
87
About him and his successors, and about their influence on the Manghït court, see Anke von
Kügelgen, “Die Entfaltung der Naqšbandīya Muğaddidīya im mittleren Transoxanien vom 18. bis
zum Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts:€ Ein Stück Detektivarbeit,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and
Central Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries. Vol. 2:€ Inter-Regional and Inter-Ethnic
Relations, eds A.v. Kuegelgen, M. Kemper, and A. J. Frank (Berlin, 1998), 101–51.
88
Babadžanov, “On the History,” 412. See also Jo-Ann Gross, “The Naqshbandīya Connection:€From
Central Asia to India and Back (16th–19th Centuries),” in India and Central Asia:€Commerce and
Culture, 1500–1800 (New Delhi, 2007), esp. 243–47.
 Central Asia in Turmoil 139

reconstruction activities of ruined areas, activities that had been supported

by the first Manghït rulers, from Muhammad Rahīm Khan to Shāh Murād.89
Beyond their social activities, the representatives of the Naqshbandiyya-
Mujaddidiyya played a role in the changing character of religious organiza-
tions and loyalties90€– part of the profound transformation that Central Asia
was experiencing in the eighteenth century, clearly affected by the crisis.
During Shāh Murād’s time, the practices of dhikr jahr (the loud vocal repeti-
tive commemoration of Allah) and samā‘ (varied musical practices, often
associated with the dhikr) were criticized in line with some promoters of the
Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya.91
The internal Muslim discourse over the need for reform€– and, of course,
the discord over what “reform” actually meant€– continued in Central Asia
and became particularly visible under the so-called reformists (Jadids) of the
late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.92 This development has been
probed to a great extent before.93 Suffice it to say that most studies on the
Russian perspective on the Jadids explored either Russian fears of the Jadids94
or the Russian strategies of co-opting the reformists.95 It is unclear whether the
“reformist” arguments also helped fashion Russian opinion on the majority of
their Muslim subjects and their state of supposed stagnation.
In the early Soviet era, Russian and Soviet scholars (such as Bartol’d,
Khodorov, Ivanov, and Iakubovskii, among others) generally accepted the
premise of the decline in the eighteenth century, but also tended to agree that
the crisis was beginning to diminish in the second half of the century with the
rise of the so-called tribal dynasties and the different political and economic
89
As described, for example, in ‘Abd al-‘Azīz Namangānī’s Tadhkira-i Majdhūb Namangānī (MS of
the Institute of Oriental Studies of the Academy of Sciences of Uzbekistan, No. 2662/II; SVR III,
374), ff. 14ab, 15b, 16b.
90
The changing patterns of “Sufism” in Central Asia have yet to be explored fully. See also Devin
DeWeese, “‘Dis-ordering’ Sufism in Early Modern Central Asia:€Suggestions for Rethinking the
Sources and Social Structures of Sufi History in the 18th and 19th Centuries,” a paper delivered
at the ‘Uzbek-Japanese Scientific Cooperation:€History and Culture of Central Asia (Sources and
Methodological Issues), Tashkent, 2009.
91
Yasavi rituals were declared by Shāh Murād, who preferred Mujadidi rituals, to be undesired inno-
vations (bid‘a). See Bakhtiyar Babajanov, “About a Scroll of Documents Justifying Yasavi Rituals,”
in Persian Documents:€Social History of Iran and Turan in the Fifteenth to Nineteenth Centuries,
ed. Kondo Nobukai (London, New York:€RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 68.
92
Whether the Jadids had been the direct successors of the Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya is a topic
that we need not engage here. Both movements were trying to occupy€– in addition to other, dissim-
ilar positions€– a stance that critiqued established practices. One of the precursors to the Jadid call
for reform was Mulla Abu al-Nasr Qūrsāwī (1771–1812), who had studied in Bukhara and became
highly critical of its madrasas’ curriculum. See Hisao Komatsu, “Bukhara and Kazan,” Journal of
Turkic Civilization Studies 2 (2006), 110.
93
The most authoritative study in English is Adeeb Khalid’s The Politics of Muslim Cultural
Reform:€Jadidism in Central Asia (Berkeley:€University of California Press, 1999).
94
Typically along Pan-Turkic lines or potential instigations of rebellion.
95
At first, to educate the “masses” and make them more Russian-like; later to enable the Russians to
rule Central Asia more easily.
140 The Legendary Biographies of Tamerlane

measures that they had begun to implement.96 However, mixed into the debate,
and gradually coming to dominate it, was the general picture of Central
Asian society upon the Russians’ arrival (which I alluded to previously) and
whether Russian colonialism encouraged or hindered Central Asia’s progress
and development. Most of the heated discussion concerned the way to view
tsarist colonial rule and less the actual circumstances in the region before the
Russian expansion; the latter conditions mattered in the debate on whether the
Russians were saviors or disrupters of “natural” development.97
To summarize the very extensive debate in a few words, Russian
�colonization of Central Asia was regarded at first as negative in the Soviet
era (except by a small cadre of Russian nationalists), then as a lesser evil,
and later as civilizing and good, effectively rescuing the Central Asians from
themselves (or at least from their rulers).98 This view, articulated particularly
in Moscow, provoked a counterreaction by Central Asian scholars (Mirzaev,
Nabiev, and others) as well as some sympathetic Russians (Chekhovich).99
The contested question continued, and the different guidelines for history
writing emanating from Moscow were followed with varying degrees of
adherence and success. Given the rise in nationalist sentiments, Soviet histo-
rians began to refrain from using the word “decline” and opted for the more
appeasing “relative stagnation” or even reversed the picture entirely.100 Even
at the height of continued controversy from the late 1960s to the mid 1980s,
most Soviet scholars (including Central Asians) agreed that the region was
suffering from a decline from the end of the seventeenth century and into
the first half of the eighteenth century.101 Essentially, even with all the harsh
ideological constraints imposed by the Soviet regime (constraints that were
changing throughout the Soviet era), scholars still debated the issue and their
publications were not uniform.

96
For bibliographic references, see Eli Weinerman, “The Polemics between Moscow and Central
Asians on the Decline of Central Asia and Tsarist Russia’s Role in the History of the Region,” The
Slavonic and European Review 71/3 (July 1993), 430, n. 7.
97
Therefore, much of the argument was about “capitalism” or lack thereof in the region.
98
This was particularly prevalent during and after World War II, in a Soviet effort to curtail growing
nationalist sentiments in Central Asia. Weinerman, “Polemics,” 433. See also Lowell Tillett, The
Great Friendship:€Soviet Historians on the Non-Russian Nationalities (Chapel Hill, 1969).
99
Weinerman paints a picture whereby in the 1950s scholars from European Russia were stand-
ing in opposition to Central Asian scholars and Russian scholars from Central Asia. Weinerman,
“Polemics,” 445.
100
Weinerman, “Polemics,” 462. This just goes to show how important it is to evaluate scholarly
contributions within the “ideological” framework in which they are written. The framework need
not be an instruction from above, but can also be a compliance with fashion and style.
101
See the references in Weinerman, “Polemics,” 470, n. 178.
Conclusion

The eighteenth century presented Central Asians with an unprecedented

opportunity to embark on a new understanding of their geographical and cul-
tural space, indeed, their place in the world, and also begin to fashion their
self-image. One way to examine how these insights were shaped in society’s
upper echelons is to review the rhetoric in the more official sources and to
grasp how they had been exhibited by the regime. Elsewhere, I investigated
the officially declared policy of the court (or court propaganda, if you will)
through the prism of court ritual, and more specifically, through the inau-
guration ceremonies of new khans and amirs.1 These rituals were accorded
distinction and privilege in the official chronicles, and their descriptions
uncover many layers in the court’s understanding of itself, its changing com-
position and functions over time, and in the court’s perception of its sources
of inspiration and, consequently, of its legitimacy.
Conversely, Central Asia’s “popular history” that appeared in the eighteenth
century brought before its audience extensive and compelling narratives about
the region’s most illustrious son and conqueror of much of Central Eurasia in
the fourteenth century. The study of Tīmūr’s heroic apocrypha opens a win-
dow into many expressions of Central Asian experiences, knowledge, and
awareness in the eighteenth century. The two historical realms, the courtly and
the popular, were connected by the circumstances of their formation and by
the issues that they addressed€– from the changing perceptions of the ruler’s
identity and the legitimacy of his rule, a question constantly invoked in all the
narratives from the period, to the relationship between religion and state; from
their interpretations of traditions and customs and invocation of sources of
inspiration to their understanding of their place in the world. All these related
issues dominated the cultural discourse in Central Asia even beyond the
so-called early-modern period.
While reading the biographies side by side with the official chronicles of the
time, it seems that many of the concerns that Tīmūr’s biographies addressed

1
See Ron Sela, Ritual and Authority in Central Asia:€ The Khan’s Inauguration Ceremony
(Bloomington, IN:€Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies, 2003), [PIA 37].

141
142 Conclusion

also troubled the court histories:€the lack of stability in the state, the need for
change, the image of the ideal ruler, and the question of his origin as the basis
for his legitimacy. Both types of sources€– the more official and the less offi-
cial€– saw the legitimacy of the ruler as coming first and foremost from the
divine and, therefore, both accorded a place for Islam in the decision-making
process. Both still acknowledged the significance of older Central Asian tra-
ditions, but even if the Timurid ideal was received very coldly by the formal
elites when it claimed its share in the cultural conversation, other significant
segments of the society seemed to embrace it, among them Sufis, political
oppositions, and probably many in the population. We historians should not
be tempted to welcome only the position of the formal elites. After all, the real
strength of the legendary biographies lies in their unique and meaningful per-
spective on a key period in Central Asia’s history. The biographies are differ-
ent from other forms of historical literature; they constitute a manifest against
the corruption of rulers and officials, a call to respect Islamic traditions, and
an attempt to situate Central Asia within a greater geopolitical and religious
sphere. This was a creation born out of a period of crisis that offered its read-
ers and listeners a new prospect, a memory, a point of identification, a source
of hope, and a belief in the long-term triumph of their Muslim community. It
is one of the substances that was holding Central Asian societies together.
Tīmūr’s legendary biographies emerged from and responded to a prevail-
ing crisis in the first half of the eighteenth century. It is no wonder that much
of Tīmūr’s literary portrait painted in this volume portrayed our hero plunged
into a society in turmoil and spending most of his life fighting for its recovery
and salvation. When young Tīmūr arrived in the city of Bukhara€– Central
Asia’s political and spiritual center since the middle of the sixteenth century€–
he encountered deceitfulness, thuggery, drunkenness, and a population liv-
ing in fear, unwillingly taking part in appalling schemes thrust on them from
above. The apocalyptic qualities that accompanied these tales only added to
the despair and the challenge. And yet, the hero prevailed.
Books of Tīmūr were clearly Central Asian creations. The works had been
written and copied exclusively in the region, and for three centuries they
remained in Central Asia and did not migrate elsewhere. The geopolitical set-
ting in the many different stories portrayed Central Asia as the pivot of the
world, the center from which and unto which everything must pour forth or
come back. Both narrators and audiences imagined Central Asia’s past, pre-
sent, and future and also visualized the world surrounding them. Books of
Tīmūr were not dynastic stories but, as most people in the region probably
viewed it then, a history of Central Asia, retold through the biography of one
of its most memorable individuals:€a figure native to the region, brought up
and educated in the region, who, out of its own mold or cast burst out into the
world assisted by numerous members of the community. Tīmūr came from
within, not from the outside. For the audiences he was not a foreign invader, a
consequence or an offshoot of the Mongol invasion. In fact, he was not even a
Turko-Mongol, as most studies on the histories of the fourteenth and fifteenth
 Conclusion 143

centuries present him. He was a Turk, and he came to the fore at a historical
junction well after the Uzbek conquest of Central Asia when the ruling dynas-
ties, as well as the majority of the population, were already much more Turkic
than before.
The legendary biographies originated Central Asia’s claim of Tīmūr; not, as
most scholars erroneously believe, the invocation of his image in the course of
late twentieth-century Uzbek nation building. Central Asians, particularly those
in the sedentary regions of Mawarannahr, have been claiming Tīmūr for them-
selves as their native champion since the early eighteenth century. While the
world around them€– Imperial Russia, China under the Qing, India under the
Mughals, the Ottoman Empire, and Iran under the Safavids and the following
dynasties€– was expanding in other directions, Central Asians were becoming
more and more isolated, more and more absorbed in their own circumstances.
Thus, Tīmūr’s saga came into being almost intuitively€– a product of an age
that witnessed Central Asia’s boundaries becoming clearer and the need for a
rallying ethos in their own decentralized world growing stronger. Perhaps par-
adoxically, these processes also required the narrators and audiences to situate
Central Asia in the world with very little knowledge of that world. It was a
natural attempt to give Central Asia an “international” existence and signifi-
cance that it deserved (in their minds, of course) without having to actually
set foot outside its own borders. The biographies were leading the readers or
listeners around the world, and the world, in turn, came to them. Despite the
many interactions that Tīmūr held with other civilizations (mostly as a leader
who had come to overpower them), an overwhelming sense of Central Asia’s
remoteness and lack of knowledge about the world emanates from the biogra-
phies. The quirk of fate was symbolized in the story of the seven distinguished
ambassadors from China, India, Iran, Iraq, Turkey, Russia, and Europe who
arrived in Bukhara with the intent of killing the six-month-old infant, only to
meet their untimely death by the hand (literally, the hand) of the local powers.
Such a story not only portrayed the greatness of the Sufi shaykh and the glory
of God but also bestowed great pride on the people of Bukhara, placing their
town at the center of the narrative€– and the universe.
Indeed, within Central Asia’s geographic space in the narrative, Bukhara
enjoyed one of the most central positions:€ the place that most influenced
Tīmūr’s youth and, consequently, Tīmūr’s education and character. Once he
left Bukhara as an adult, he was already self-assured, knew right from wrong,
and assumed responsibility for his actions. Bukhara was the focal point of his
encounters with his Sufi teachers and mentors, where he had received his spir-
itual training, and where he undertook tests administered by the unseen world.
Bukhara was also the setting for Tīmūr’s first love and eventual marriage. Not
only was Bukhara the center of religious activity in the Books of Tīmūr, it was
also the center of political power€– the location of the khans’ seat, the place
that had shaped ideas on the nature of rulership and decreed who was entitled
to govern. In fact, the story of Bukhara in the narrative may be analogous to
the state of affairs in the area in the first half of the eighteenth century.
144 Conclusion

The biographies survived in dozens of manuscripts and different rendi-

tions. Whereas some of the texts were hastily copied and apparently used
rather often, other manuscripts seem to have been valuable material objects.
Such diversity may serve to further our conclusions that the texts were used
by different audiences for different purposes and, as we have seen, even
continue to be used in present-day Uzbekistan. One particularly elaborate
copy (TN 4436) was even endowed as a waqf and bears numerous seals.
This manuscript was copied from a text dated back to Shah Murād’s time,
and the �colophon, mentioning the year 1282 A.H. as the date of copying,
declares that the “Tīmūr-nāma of sāhib-qirān was copied during the ghazā
(namely, holy war) against the Russians.” It seems likely that the text had
been commissioned and executed as the Russian army was advancing toward
the city of Jizak, or perhaps already after the memorable capture of the town
and humiliation of its citizenry (at least from the Uzbek perspective). This
copy may have assumed a very different understanding on the part of the
audience, a call to unite against a foreign invader.2
Although it is clear to the historian that the historical Tīmūr and the Tīmūr
of the Tīmūr-nāma were not identical,3 it should be said that for most Central
Asian readers and listeners in the eighteenth century (and beyond) it may have
been the same figure, and the impact of this knowledge on them and the way
in which this knowledge was brought to them through the unique style of the
work was probably fairly significant. It created a figure that they could iden-
tify with; it reinforced a “Central Asian” culture and sent a didactic message
regarding their place in the Muslim community. Of course, part of this ethos
was to help shape a historical memory and the restoration of a great past. The
work revolved around the main figure of the hero, who was not limited by
some of the confines of more “historical” chronicles. Contrary to “historical”
chronicles, the biographies’ methodology of recording “events” was different,
which is why Books of Tīmūr could not be a part of the canon but apocry-
phal creations that served different audiences. This is precisely their greatest
worth for the historian:€their ability to shed light on audiences in a particular
time frame. Of course, such matters are rarely simple and straightforward.
Even questions of authorship and patronage are still unresolved. At the same
time, these heroic apocrypha also entertained relationships (structural, con-
tentwise)€– the exact nature of which is still to be determined€– with the rich
canon of historical works that have shaped Central Asia’s past. Determining
the Tīmūr-nāma’s relationship with Timurid literary pillars, for example,
would make for fascinating case studies. Much has yet to be done.

2
I intend to dedicate a separate paleographical study to this complex manuscript.
3
See Amina Elbendary’s comments on Baybars in Elbendary, “The Sultan, the Tyrant, and
the Hero:€ Changing Medieval Perceptions of al-Zāhir Baybars,” Mamlūk Studies Review 5
(2001):€151.
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Index

Aaron, 99, 101 Altun Beshik, 17

‘Abd al-‘Azīz Khan, 31, 60 Amu Darya, 112, 130
‘Abdallāh Khan (Shibanid), 31, 37, 38 Angīz Bahādur, 26
‘Abd al-Wakīl, qāżī, 24 ‘Antara ibn Shaddād, 44
Abraham, 22, 101, See€also€Ibrāhīm Aqbugha Nayman, 106
Abū Bakr al-Siddīq, 22 Aq Qoyunlu, 30
Abu’l-Fayż Khan, 31, 36–38, 40, 118, 123, 132 al-Aqsa (mosque), 103
Abu’l-Ghāzī Bahādur Khan, 41 Aq Saray, 17
Abu’l-Khayrids, 2, 10 aq-süyek, 43
Abu’l-Khayr Khan, 108 Arab(s), 44, 51, 64, 94, 100, 102, 113
Abu’l-Mufākhir, 65 Arabia. 100, See€also€Arab(s)
Abu’l-Qāsim (Mīrzā), 30 Arabic language, 7, 34
Abū Sa‘īd (Ilkhanid), 65, 66 Aristotle (Aristū), 65
Abū Sa‘īd (Mīrzā), 30 Ark of the Covenant, 98, 101
Ādam, 22, 77, 88, 98–99, 101 Arlat, 57, 71
Afghan(s), 127 Arslan Khan, 60
Afghanistan, 133 Ashtarkhanid(s), 14, 36–37, 72, 131, 134
Afrāsiyāb, 100 Asiatic Museum (St. Petersburg), 38
Ahmad Shāh, 12 assassins. See€Nizārī Ismā‘īlīs
Ahrār, Khoja ‘Ubaydallāh, 30 atalïq, 61
Aimāq, Aimaqiyya, 55, 64 Awrangzīb, 11
Aini, Sadr al-Din, 47 Aylangir, 26
‘Ajam, 99 al-‘Aynī, 73
Akbar, Jalāl al-Dīn Muhammad, 11 Ayyūb (Job), 59–60
Aksak Tīmūr, 19 Ayyūb, al-Sālih, 52
Alan-Qo’a, 26 Ayyūbid(s), 52
Alexander Romance, 46
Alexander the Great, 1, 11, 20, 23, 64, 65, 98, Baba Tükles, 115
101, 111, 112 Bāburnāma, 33
and the building of the barrier, 111 Bābur, Zahīr al-Dīn Muhammad, 10, 16, 17, 18,
his letter to Tīmūr, 99 30, 122
model for kingship, 12, 23, 100, 102 Badakhshan, 79, 113, 127
predicts Tīmūr’s birth, 65, 71 Baghdad, 28–29
Alhīl Noyān, 26 Bahman, 100
‘Alī b. Abī Tālib, ‘Alid, 22, 106 Bākharzī, Sayf al-Dīn, 20, 27, 54, 56, 57, 58, 59,
‘Alī Sultān, 95 67, 68, 69, 71, 72–73, 75, 83, 84, 85, 86
altan urugh, 43 al-Bākharzī, Yahyā, 27

157
158 Index

bakhshī, 105 Cairo, 52

Balkh, 10, 11, 28, 94, 96, 97, 98, 113, 122, 123, Caspian Sea, 1, 107, 124
130, 131 Central Eurasia, 1, 141
intellectuals in, 16 Chaghatay(s), 27, 28, 55, 57, 61, 80
its fate at the end of the world, 113 Chaghatay (Chinggis Khan’s son), 55, 79,
Kashmīrī’s description of, 123 95, 110
seat of the heir apparent, 130 Chaghatayid, 27, 54, 56, 79, 92
Tīmūr’s inauguration in, 92 Chaghatay language, 1, 11, 15, 16, 34,
under Janid rule, 37 See€also€Turkic language
Balkhī, ‘Abdallāh, 24 Chāku (Barlas amir), 64, 67, 68, 69
Baraq Khan, 28, 71, 79, 81, 83, 85–87, 92 Chekhovich, Olga, 140
Barlas (tribe), 27, 54–55, 62, 68–69 China, 19, 66, 68, 111, 121, 137, 143
Bartol’d, Vasilii Vladimirovich, 28, 121, 136, Chinese, 68, 125
137, 139 Chinggisid(s), 2, 10, 15, 17, 19, 32, 55, 61, 82,
Bashkir(s), 37 83, 90, 92, 93, 120, 129, 130, 131, 132, 135
Bayān (Sulduz amir), 80, 81, 86 description of, 102
Bayān-Qulī Khan, 27, 28, 54–56, 57–58, 62, legitimacy of, 14, 15, 43
65–67, 68, 69, 71, 72, 79, 82–83 in Tīmūr’s biographies, 54
Bāyazīd (Jalayir amir), 81 Chinggis Khan, 2, 8, 10–12, 15–16, 18, 26, 37,
Bāyazīd Bistāmī, 50 43, 54, 55, 72, 89, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 98,
Bāyazīd Yïldïrïm (Ottoman sultan), 28, 64–65, 108, 131
71, 98 appearance in Tīmūr’s biographies, 26, 93, 96
Baybars, al-Zāhir (Mamluk sultan), 51–52, 53, Tīmūr’s relations with, 8, 15, 16, 19
75, 90 Christian(s), 41, 52, 99, 112, 124
al-Bayhaqī, 101 Clavijo, Ruy Gonzáles de, 54
Bayqara, Sultān-Husayn, 11, 30, 131 Constantinople, 101
Bayżāwī, Qāżī, 24 Crimea, 28
Beneveni, Florio, 127, 128 Cyrillic, 34
Berke Khan, 73
Berlin, 35 dādkh‘āh, 79
Binā’ī, Kamāl al-Dīn, 17 Daftar-i Chingīz Nāma, 19, 20
al-Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies, 36 al-Dajjāl, 111, 112–13
Book(s) of Tīmūr. See€Tīmūr-nāma Damascus, 10, 52, 75
Budapest, 35 Daniel, 101
Buddhist, 105 Danish, 47, 48
Bukhara, 10, 12, 18, 28, 31–32, 37, 38, 42, 50, Dāniyāl Biy, 32, 41
57–58, 61, 67, 74, 83, 113, 127, 130, 143 Dasht-i Qïpchaq, 28, 41, 109
in the eighteenth century, 118, 121, 122, 123, Dāstān-i Amīr Tīmūr, 33, 40
125, 127, 128 Daulatshaykh Oghlan, 104, 108, 109, 110
manuscript production in, 5, 33, 36 David, 101
population in, 89 dhikr, 34, 115, 139
prominence in Tīmūr’s biographies, 54, 58, Dhū’l-Qarnayn. See€Alexander the Great
67, 79, 91, 114, 143 Dilshād Khātūn, 65, 66
storytellers’ description of, 47 al-Dīnawarī, 101
Sufis in, 56, 57, 72 Du’a (Chaghatayid khan), 56
Bukhārī, ‘Abd al-Khāliq, 33 Dughlat (tribe), 95
Bukhārī, Mulla Tanish Muhammad, 24 Dūrān Khan, 56
Bulghar(s), 20 Dushanbe, 4, 35
Bulghārī, Hasan, 73 Dūst Muhammad, 101
Burgul Noyān, 26
Burhān al-Dīn. See€al-Marghīnānī, Burhān al-Dīn East Turkestan, 1
Buyid, 23 Edigü, 43
Byzantine Empire, 65 Egypt, 52, 53, 98
 Index 159

English, 129 Haydar Dughlat, Mīrzā, 28

Epic(s), 3, 4, 5, 44, 46, 49, 50, 51, 100, 101, 102 Henri III (of Castile-León), 54
Erkul Bahādur, 26 Heraclius (Hirqal), 99, 101
Ethiopia, Ethiopian(s), 113 Herat, 29, 30, 114, 122, 123
Europe, 22, 35, 41, 65, 66, 117, 119, 120, 128, Heroic apocrypha, 1, 3, 7, 20, 22, 35, 45, 91,
137, 138, 140, 143 101, 111, 141, 144
perceptions of Central Asia, 117, 120 Hezarlachin, 62
Tīmūr’s reputation in, 2, 10, 12, 13 al-Hidāya (Hidāyat), 28, 66
trade with Central Asia, 124, 127 Hindu(s), 73, 75
travel to Central Asia, 20, 137 Hindustan, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8–12, 16–18, 19, 28, 29, 30,
62, 66, 68, 113, 114, 117, 122, 124, 138, 143
Farangistan, 65, 66 Hisar, 67
Farīdūn, 100 Hogg, Reynold, 124, 127, 132
Fathabad (Bukharan suburb), 59 Hülegü, 66
Faydabad, 12 Hungarian, 2, 41
Fayż Athar, 59 Husayn (‘Alī’s son), 46
Ferghana Valley, 17, 55, 118, 127 Husayn (amir), 95, 96–97, 102
fidā’ī Nāsir, 113 Husayn Sūfī, 28
Firdawsī, 117
Fitrat, ‘Abdorauf, 13 Iakubovskii, A. Iu., 13, 14, 139
Folklore, folkloric, 2, 39, 50, 51, 53 Ibn al-Faqīh, 101
Franks, 52, 53, 68 Ibn ‘Arabshāh, Ahmad, 54, 57, 80, 102
Ibn Battūta, 27
Gabriel, 113, 114 Ibn Khaldūn, 10
Gerasimov, Mikhail, 13 Ibn Khurradādhbih, 111
German language, 2 Ibrāhīm, 22, 99
Ghazan Khan, 71 Ibrāhīm Biy (Keneges amir), 126
Ghażghām (mountain), 57 Ichil, 26
Goethe, 13 Idrīs, 99
Gog and Magog, 23, 104, 111–12 Ilkhanid(s), 28, 66
Golden Horde (Qïpchaq Khanate), 28, 29, 42, ‘ilm-i jafr, 106, 111
43, 73 Imām-Qulī Khan, 31
Greek(s), 65, 126 India. See€Hindustan
gūrgān, gürägän, 11 Inner Asia, 1, 60
Gur-i Amir, 17 Irānī, ‘Alī, 24
Iranian, 11, 45, 89, 90, 102
Habībullāh (Shaykh), 138 Iraq, 28, 29, 30, 66, 68, 143
hadith, 49 Irāq-i ‘Arab, 12
Hāfiz-i Abrū, 3 ‘Īsā. See€Jesus
Hagiography, hagiographical, 3, 51, 73, 91 Isaac, 101
hajj, 31, 77, 115 Isfahan, 113, 133
Hājji Musā, 45 al-Isfahānī, Abū Nu’aym, 101
Hājjī, Öttemish, 56 Isfandiyār, 100
Hākīm Nizārī, 114–15 Iskandar. See€Alexander the Great
Hakīm Sābi Bakhshī, 105 Iskandar (‘Abdallāh Khan’s father), 31
Haleb, 28 Islam, 32, 45, 52, 53, 74, 75, 89, 142
Hamza, 115 conversion to, 42, 73
Hanafi, 27, 28, 66 defended by Tīmūr, 29, 89
Hanbali, 50 duality of power in, 23
Händel, Georg Friedrich, 13 its history in Central Asia, 72
Hārūn. See€Aaron Ismā‘īl, 101
Hasan (‘Alī’s son), 46 Ismā‘īli(s), 24
Hātifī, ‘Abdallāh, 4, 24, 42 Ivanov, P. P., 139
160 Index

Jacob, 101, 115 Khorezm, 28, 93, 94, 115, 120, 124
Ja‘far al-Sādiq, 106 khutba, 28, 132
Jahāngīr (Mīrzā), 28, 29, 114 Khwāndshāh. See€Mīrkhwānd
Jahāngīr (Mughal ruler), 11 Kiakhta, Treaty of, 125
Jahānshāh (Barlas amir), 83 Kirman, 28
al-Jāhiz, 89 al-Kisā’ī, 23, 101
Jāmī, ‘Abd al-Rahmān, 114 Kitab-i Tārīkh-i Ayyām, 105
Jāmi‘ al-a‘zām, 24 Klemm, V., 41, 42
Jamshīd, 98, 100 Kök Tash, 18, 19
Janid(s), 31, 32, 37, 128, 131, 132, Kubrā, Najm al-Dīn, 56, 71, 93, 94
See€also€Ashtarkhanid(s) Kubravi, Kubraviya, 56, 93
Japheth. See€Yāfith (Japheth) Kuhinor, 57
Jatta, 28 Kuhistan, 115
Jerusalem, 1, 103 Kulab-i Hisar, 95
Jesus, 22, 41, 101, 111, 112, 113 Kulal, Shams al-Dīn, 73, 76, 78, 79, 97
Jews, Jewish, 99 Kunūz al-a‘zam, 36, 42
al-Jīlānī, ‘Abd al-Qādir, 50 Kurdistan, 28
Jizak, 130, 144 Kurds, Kurdish, 100
Jochi, 37
Joseph. See€Yūsuf Lachin (tribe), 62
Jungar(s), 125, 126, 127, 129 Levshin, Aleksei, 129
Jupiter (planet), 11 Lot (Lūt), 60, 101
Jurgantz. See€Urgench
Jūybārī khojas, 31 maddāh, 49
Jūybārī, Sa’d al-Dīn, 31 madrasa, 25, 30, 32, 38, 91, 113, 139
Juzun. See€Faydabad Maghrib, 77–78, 113
al-Mahbūbī, 28, See€also€Sadr al-Sharī‘a
Ka‘ba, 113 Mahbūbī (family), 27
Kal’, E., 38 al-Mahdī, 113
Karimov, Islam, 10 Majālis al-nafā’is, 24
Karmina, 31 Makhdum-i A‘zam, 138
Kashghar, 55, 62, 69, 114 Malfūzāt-i Tīmūrī, 4
Kāshgharī, Sa‘d al-Dīn, 114 Maliki Ajdar, 38
Kashmir, 114 Malik Ra’no, 66
Kashmīrī, ‘Abd al-Karīm, 117–19, 122–24, 127, Malikshāh. See€Qazān Khan
128, 132, 133 Mamlūk(s), 51, 53
Kay-Ka’ūs, 100 manāqib, 51
Kay-Khusraw, 100 Manchu, 119
Kay-Qubād, 100 Manghït(s), 17, 32, 33, 118, 130, 132,
Keneges, 126 138, 139
keshik, 55 Mangïshlaq, 107
Khalīl (Mīrzā), 29–30 al-Marghīnānī, Burhān al-Dīn, 28, 66, 113
Khanykov, Nicolai, 48 Marlowe, Christopher, 13, 102
Khitay-Qïpchaq, 126 Mashhad, 28
Khiva, 33, 41, 115, 118, 121, 122, 125, 128, 131 Mashrab, Baba Rahīm, 50
descriptions of, 124, 127 Maulānā Ashraf, 24
Sufis in, 56, 72 Mawarannahr, 6, 17, 20, 30, 65, 66, 105,
and Timurid historiography, 18 132, 143
Khiżr, 114 battles over, 10, 14, 104, 112
Khiżr Khoja, 12, 15 biographies focus on, 31
Khodorov, 139 claims to the throne of, 54, 55
Khojand, 67, 126 eighteenth-century crisis in, 121, 126,
Khorasan, 10, 11, 16, 28, 50, 55, 66, 67, 112 127, 132
 Index 161

Mazandaran, 28 Nayman, 106

Mecca, 1, 113 Nerchinsk Treaty of, 125
Merv, 30, 33, 123 Nishāpūrī, Hasan, 24
Middle East, 10, 50 Nizām al-tavārīkh, 24
Miklukho-Maklaĭ, N. D., 39 Nizārī Ismā‘īlīs, 53, 113
Ming(s) (Uzbek tribe), 17, 18 Noah. See€Nūh
mingbāshi, 80 Noghay, 43
Mīrānshāh (Mīrzā), 28, 29, 104–06, 108–09 Nūh (Noah), 22, 23, 37, 91, 99, 101, 110
Mir ‘Arab, 30
Mīr Baraka, 73, 95, 96 Ögedei Khan, 84, 95, 98
Mīrkhwānd, 3, 11, 24, 38, 101, 102 Oirats, 133
Mīrzā Rumūz, 39 Öljei (Sulduz amir), 83
Miyankal, 67 Olufsen, Ole, 47, 48
Moghul(s), Moghulistan, 28, 55, 69 One Thousand and One Nights, 46
Möngke Khan, 59 Orientalist(s), 4, 37, 42, 120, 121, 135, 136, 137
Möngke the Drunk, 97 Osman Ghāzī, 65
Mongol(s), 11, 12, 16, 26, 28, 52, 53, 55, 59, 62, Otrar, 19, 24, 29
66, 89, 93, 107, 120, 142 Ottomans and Ottoman Empire, 1, 3, 10, 12, 29,
Mongol Empire, 42, 98 53, 64, 65, 71, 73, 74, 89, 90, 133, 143
Morocco, 89 decline of, 138
Moscow, 14, 41, 112, 140 Tīmūr’s reputation in, 2, 12
Moses. See€Mūsā Özbek Khan, 43, 73, 115
Mu’ayyad (Arlat amir), 57, 81
Mughals and Mughal Empire, 2, 10, 11, 30, 120, Pan-Turkic, 139
122, 133, 137, 143 Paradoz, Malham, 83
Muhammad (Prophet), 1, 12, 22, 64, 65, 92, Pārsā, Muhammad, 73
101, 112 Persepolis, 98
Muhammad Rahīm Khan (Manghït), 17, 32, Persia, 117, 122, 125, 127
118, 130, 132, 139 Persian(s), 45, 48, 89, 114, 115, 119, 128, 129
Muhammad Shïbānī Khan, 14, 16, 30, 108, 132 Persian language and literature, 1, 3–5, 11, 33,
Mu‘izz al-Ansāb, 26 35, 36, 39, 40, 46, 48, 97, 100, 101, 123
Mulla Muhammad Rajab, 38 Peter the Great, 125, 136
Mulla Nasradin, 50 Pīr Muhammad, Mīrzā, 29
Mullā Shādī, 17 Poe, Edgar Allen, 13
Multani, 122 Polo, Marco, 84
Muminov, Ibragim, 14 Punjab, 133
al-Muqaddasī, 122
al-Muqanna‘, 37, 113 Qabūl Khan, 15, 94–95
Muqminova, Raziya, 132 Qachulai, 15, 27, 92, 94–95
Mūsā (Jalayir amir), 68 Qādiriyya, 50
Mūsā (Moses), 22, 99, 101, 112 Qaidu, 84
Mustafā ‘Alī, 12 Qaidun, 62, 63, 70
Muzaffar, Muzaffarid dynasty, 28 Qajar(s), 45, 46, 134
qalandar, 49
Nādir Shāh, 11, 12, 118, 123, 126, 128, 134, 135 Qalmuqs, 53, 75, 119
Namazgah, 60 al-Qalqashandī, 73
Naqshband, Bahā’ al-Dīn, 20, 28, 73 Qandahar, 12, 29
Naqshbandi, Naqshbandiyya, 11, 28, 30, 114, Qārāchār Noyān, 26
138 Qarakhanid(s) (Ilek Khans), 60, 89
Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya, 138, 139 Qaraqorum, 55
Nāsir-i Khusraw, 20, 24, 113, 114, 115 Qara’unas, 61
Nasrallāhī, ‘Abdallāh b. Muhammad, 15, 16 Qarshi, 28, 67, 68, 87, 105, 106, 126
Navā’ī, Mīr ‘Alī Shīr, 3, 24 Qasr-i Arifīn, 73
162 Index

Qazaghan (amir), 42, 61, 62, 73, 91, 95 Samarqandī, ‘Abd al-Razzāq, 24, 38
Qazān Khan, 56, 72 Sanjar Ghāzī, Sultān, 65
Qazaq(s), 119, 120, 125–27, 129, 133 Sarāy Khānïm, 29
Qing dynasty, 143 Sarāy Mulk, 83, 84, 87
Qïpchaq(s), 73 Sayram, 125
Qisas al-anbiyā’, 7, 33 Sayyid Ata, 20, 42, 43, 73
Qïzïl-bāsh, 30 Secret History of the Mongols, 26
Qoči Beg, 138 Semenov, A. A., 38, 39, 42, 49
Qongrat(s) (Uzbek tribe), 61 Seth. See€Shīth
Qoqand, 1, 17, 18, 49, 121, 127 Shāh ‘Abbās, 12
Qoyliq, 114 Shāh-i Zinda, 17
Queen of Sheba, 16 Shāh Jahān, 11
Qūrsāwī, Mulla Abu al-Nasr, 139 Shāh Mansūr, 28, 114
Shāh Murād, 31, 32, 33, 139
Rābi‘a Sultan Begïm, 16 Shāh-nāma, 47, 100, 101, 102, 110, 117
Radloff, Wilhelm, 50 Shahr-i Sabz (Kish), 13, 17, 28, 38, 58, 62, 67,
rawāfidh, 30 70, 76, 79, 87, 97, 108, 113, 130
Rawżat al-safā’, 24, 102 Shāhrukh (Tīmūr’s son), 26, 28, 29, 30
Rigistan, 48 Shāh Safī, 12
risālachi, 48 Shāh Shujā‘, 28, 66, 98
Ross, Edward Denison, 48 Sham, 28
Rum, 28, 64–66, 68, 99 Shamsabad, 60
Russia, 1, 19, 20, 22, 38, 49, 66, 113, 124, 127, Shams al-Mulk, 60
128, 133, 136, 143 Sharh al-Wiqāya, 28
Russian(s), 6, 7, 28, 37, 42, 68, 112, 119, 125, sharī‘a, 6, 17, 60, 80–81, 83, 90, 91, 106, 107,
135–37, 139, 140, 144 108, 113, 115
Russian language, 34, 41 Shaykh al-‘Ālam. See€Bākharzī, Sayf al-Dīn
Rustam, 100 Shaykh al-Islam, 30
Shïbānī Khan. See€Muhammad Shïbānī Khan
Sa’d (imam), 80 Shïbanid(s), 14, 37, 60
Sadr al-Sharī‘a, 27, 58, 59, 63 Shiblī, Sultān, 98
Sadr-i Ziyā, 17 Shi‘ite, 16, 30, 45, 119
Safavi, Isma’il (shah), 42 Shiraz, 28
Safavid(s), 2, 10, 11, 12, 16, 30, 42, 45, 133–35, Shīth, 99
137, 143 Siberia, 125
safīd jāmagān, 113 sikka, 28, 61
Sāhib-qirān, 11, 17, 27, 28, 29, 55, 59, 64–66, Silk, 100, 101
68, 69, 78, 79, 82, 84, 85, 86, 92, 93, Silver, 117, 128, 129
96–99, 105, 106, 107, 108–10 Simurgh, 110
Sālih, 100 sīra, 7, 51–53, 75
Sali Saray, 95 Sirāj Qamari, 66, 67, 85–86
Saljuqs (Saljuqids), 65, 89 Sirat, ‘Abd al-Rahmān, 38
Sallām al-Tarjumān, 111 Sīrat ‘Antar, 44
Sām (Shāh-nāma hero), 110 Sīrat Baybars, 40, 51, 52, 53, 90, 91, 111
Sām (Shem), 23 Sirhindī, Ahmad, 138
Samarqand, 10, 12, 13, 18, 19, 29, 30, 67, 106, Skrine, Henry Francis, 48
108, 109, 113, 130 Sodom, 60
in the eighteenth century, 122, 123, 126 Solomon, 22, 101
a pilgrimage destination, 17 Sorqaqtani (Möngke’s mother), 59
storytellers in, 49, 50 Soviet, 14, 50, 117, 140
Tīmūr’s tomb in, 11, 123 Soviet Union, 122
 Index 163

Soyulik Ata, 63 Toqtamïsh Khan, 28, 29, 104, 107, 108, 109
Söyünch Khoja (Söyünjük) Khan, 15, 16 Toqtemür Khan, 28
Soyurghatmïsh Oghlan, 98 törä, 12
St. Petersburg, 4, 35–36, 37, 38, 39, 42, 132 Transoxiana. See€Mawarannahr
Subhān-Quli Khan, 131 Tuhfat al-asāmī, 24
Sufi(s), 1, 5, 8, 11, 29, 31, 40, 49, 51, 54, 59, 60, Tuhūr, Sultān, 65
71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 77, 88 Tumanai Khan, 94
Sulaymān, 22 tumanbāshi, 80
Sultān Muhammad (ruler of Tashkent), 15, 16 tumār, 46
Sultān Muhammad (Tīmūr’s grandson), 111 tümen, 26
Sunni, 30, 45 Tuqay-Timurid(s). 130,
Surughu Oghul, 56 See€also€Ashtarkhanid(s)
Suyung Khān-zāda, 107, 109 Tūrān, 65, 117, 119
Swedish, 2 Turco-Iranian, 3, 11
Syr Darya, 126 Turkestani, 42
Turkey, 64, 66, 113, 117, 122, 143
Tabriz, 24 Turkic language, 3, 5, 33, 34, 36, 40, 63, 66, 94
Tadhkira-i Majdhūb Namangānī, 139 Turkic people, 2, 28, 49, 52, 89, 90, 117
Tadhkirat al-ahbāb, 24 Turkish, 2, 41
Tadhkirat Dawlat Shāhī, 24 Turkmen(s), 12, 16, 30, 62, 118, 120, 124, 125,
Tajik(s), 2, 39, 41, 47, 89, 90 127, 135
Tām al-tavārīkh, 24 Turks, 16, 75, 89, 107
Tamerlane. See€Tīmūr Tūzūkāt-i Tīmūrī, 4
Taraghāi Bahādur, 26, 27, 55, 58–59, 60, 61, 62,
63, 67, 68–70, 72, 76, 83, 86–87 ‘Ubayd Allāh Khan (Janid), 31
Taraghiyya, 58 ‘Ubayd Allāh Khan (Shibanid), 30
Tārīkh-i Farakh Shāhī, 24 Ūj b. ‘Anaq, 112
Tārīkh-i Sāhib-qirān, 35 ‘ulamā’, 5, 58, 72, 73, 79–80, 113–14, 134
Tārīkh-i Sāhib-qirān Amīr Tīmūr Gurgān, 35 Ulugh Beg, 16, 28, 30
Tārīkh-i Shāhrukhī, 24 ‘Umar b. al-Khattāb, 22
Tārīkh-i Tīmūrī, 24, 35 ‘Umar Nisfarat, 105
tarīqa, 138 ‘Umar Shaykh, 96, 97
Tāshkandī, Salah al-Dīn, 33, 34 Umm al-bilād, 123
Tashkent, 4, 5, 10, 16, 33, 34, 36, 49, 122, 125, Ura-Tube, 130
127, 130 Urgench, 124
Tatar(s), 19, 20 ‘Uthmān b. ‘Affān, 22
Tawārikh-i Bulghāriyya, 20 Uyghur(s), 94, 95
Tegina Begïm, 42, 55, 59, 61–64, 67–68, 69, 70, Uzbek(s), 2, 9, 10, 15, 28, 71, 104, 129
72, 74, 75 and national identity, 14, 143
Temüjin. See€Chinggis Khan role in Tīmūr’s biographies, 106, 107, 110
Tengri, 66, 107 tribal dynasties, 17, 130
al-Tha’alabī, 101 tribes of, 2
Thamud, 100 Uzbekistan, 4, 9, 10, 13, 14, 21, 34, 44,
Thompson, George, 124, 125, 127, 128, 132 122, 144
Tīmūr, 1, 5, 19, See€also€Sāhib-qirān Uzbek language, 2, 5, 34–35
Timurid(s), 2, 3, 9, 10–18, 20, 24, 26, 27, 30,
38, 54, 95, 101, 142, 144 Validov, A. Z. See€Togan, Zeki Velidi
Tīmūr-nāma, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 25, 34, 38, 40, 41, Valikhanov, Chokan, 50
42, 43, 44, 46, 47, 50–52, 142, 143, 144 Vámbéry, A., 19, 41, 47, 112
Tīmūrning saghanasi, 13 Vargas Llosa, Mario, 13
Togan, Zeki Velidi, 37, 38 Vāsifī, Zayn al-Dīn, 17
164 Index

Venus (planet), 11 Yasavi, Ahmad, 73, 139

Vinge, Godfrey Thomas, 129 Yazdī, Sharaf al-Dīn ‘Ali, 3, 4, 11, 15–16, 24,
25, 38, 64, 65, 99
waqf, 12, 40, 131, 144 Yemen, 11, 30, 77–78, 89
al-Wāthiq, 111 Yighachlïq, 87
al-Wiqāya, 28 Yuqun Aqa, 62, 63
Wolff, Joseph, 19 Yūsuf, 52, 99, 101
World War II, 13, 140
Zafar-nāma (Yazdī), 3, 4, 11, 24, 25, 99
Xinjiang. See€East Turkestan Zahhāk, 100
Zāl, 110
Yādgarshāh (Arlat amir), 79–81 Zands, 134
Yāfith (Japheth), 23, 65, 99 Zangī Ata, 73
Yājūj and Mājūj. See€Gog and Magog Zanjir Sara, 67, 68, 69
Yār-Muhammad Bahādur Khan, 40 Zerafshan, 127
yasa, 12, 17, 95 Zhukovskiĭ, V. A., 37–39
Yasa‘ur, 56 Zubdat al-āthār, 15
Cambridge Studies in Islamic Civilization

Titles in the series:

popular culture in medieval cairo Boaz Shoshan

e a r l y p h i l o s o p h i c a l s h i i s m :€ t h e i s m a i l i n e o p l a t o n i s m o f a b ū y a ’ q ū b
al-sijistāni Paul E. Walker
indian merchants in eurasian trade, 1600–1750 Stephen Frederic Dale
p a l e s t i n i a n p e a s a n t s a n d o t t o m a n o f f i c i a l s :€ r u r a l a d m i n i s t r a t i o n
around sixteenth-century jerusalem Amy Singer
arabic historical thought in the classical period Tarif Khalidi
m o n g o l s a n d m a m l u k s :€ t h e m a m l u k – ī l k h ā n i d w a r , 1260–1281 Reuven
Amitai-Preiss
hierarchy and egalitarianism in islamic thought Louise Marlow
t h e p o l i t i c s o f h o u s e h o l d s i n o t t o m a n e g y p t :€ t h e r i s e o f t h e
qazdağlis Jane Hathaway
c o m m o d i t y a n d e x c h a n g e i n t h e m o n g o l e m p i r e :€ a c u l t u r a l h i s t o r y
of islamic textiles Thomas T. Allsen
s t a t e a n d p r o v i n c i a l s o c i e t y i n t h e o t t o m a n e m p i r e :€ m o s u l , 1540–1834
Dina Rizk Khoury
the mamluks in egyptian politics and society Thomas Philipp and Ulrich
Haarmann (eds.)
t h e d e l h i s u l t a n a t e :€ a p o l i t i c a l a n d m i l i t a r y h i s t o r y Peter Jackson
e u r o p e a n a n d i s l a m i c t r a d e i n t h e e a r l y o t t o m a n s t a t e :€ t h e
merchants of genoa and turkey Kate Fleet
r e i n t e r p r e t i n g i s l a m i c h i s t o r i o g r a p h y :€ h a r u n a l - r a s h i d a n d t h e
Â�n a r r a t i v e of the ‘abbāsid caliphate Tayeb El-Hibri
t h e o t t o m a n c i t y b e t w e e n e a s t a n d w e s t :€ a l e p p o , i z m i r , a n d i s t a n b u l
Edhem Eldem, Daniel Goffman, and Bruce Masters
a monetary history of the ottoman empire Sevket Pamuk
t h e p o l i t i c s o f t r a d e i n s a f a v i d i r a n :€ s i l k f o r s i l v e r , 1600–1730 Rudolph
P. Matthee
t h e i d e a o f i d o l a t r y a n d t h e e m e r g e n c e o f i s l a m :€ f r o m p o l e m i c t o
�h i s t o r y G. R. Hawting
c l a s s i c a l a r a b i c b i o g r a p h y :€ t h e h e i r s o f t h e p r o p h e t s i n t h e a g e o f
al-ma’mūn Michael Cooperson
e m p i r e a n d e l i t e s a f t e r t h e m u s l i m c o n q u e s t :€ t h e t r a n s f o r m a t i o n o f
northern mesopotamia Chase F. Robinson
p o v e r t y a n d c h a r i t y i n m e d i e v a l i s l a m :€ m a m l u k e g y p t , 1250–1517 Adam
Sabra
c h r i s t i a n s a n d j e w s i n t h e o t t o m a n a r a b w o r l d :€ t h e r o o t s o f
�s e c t a r i a n i s m Bruce Masters
culture and conquest in mongol eurasia Thomas T. Allsen
r e v i v a l a n d r e f o r m i n i s l a m :€ t h e l e g a c y o f m u h a m m a d a l - s h a w k a n i
Bernard Haykel
t o l e r a n c e a n d c o e r c i o n i n i s l a m :€ i n t e r f a i t h r e l a t i o n s i n t h e m u s l i m
tradition Yohanan Friedmann
g u n s f o r t h e s u l t a n :€ m i l i t a r y p o w e r a n d t h e w e a p o n s i n d u s t r y i n t h e
ottoman empire Gábor Ágoston
marriage, money and divorce in medieval islamic society Yossef
Rapoport
t h e e m p i r e o f t h e q a r a k h i t a i i n e u r a s i a n h i s t o r y :€ b e t w e e n c h i n a a n d
the islamic world Michal Biran
domesticity and power in the early mughal world Ruby Lal
p o w e r, p o l i t i c s a n d r e l i g i o n i n t i m u r i d i r a n Beatrice Forbes Manz
postal systems in the pre-modern islamic world Adam J. Silverstein
kingship and ideology in the islamic and mongol worlds Anne F.
Broadbridge
justice, punishment, and the medieval muslim imagination Christian
Lange
the shiites of lebanon under ottoman rule Stefan Winter
women and slavery in the late ottoman empire Madeline Zilfi
the second ottoman empire, political and social transformation in
the early modern world Baki Tezcan
n o n - m u l s i m s i n t h e e a r l y i s l a m i c e m p i r e :€ f r o m s u r r e n d e r t o �
coexistence Milka Levy-Rubin