Clear as finely wrought porcelain, the stars glittered above. Yet the month of Sha'ban[1] had reached its fullness, and beneath the mountain's bitter wind the trees roared like a river in flood; the ancient mulberries and elms moaned, creaked, and groaned as though lamenting.
As soon as Ali Qushji stepped into the courtyard, someone suddenly leapt out from the building to his right and barred his way.
"Stand, master! What do these guards seek? Whither do they take you?"
Ali Qushji recognized his beloved disciple, Miram Chalabi, and embraced him by the shoulder.
"Fear not, my brother; His Majesty has summoned me. I shall return swiftly."
Ali Qushji entrusted the key of the observatory to Miram Chalabi and stepped into the courtyard. One of the guards led forth a restless steed stamping impatiently in the darkness and held it at his side. Yet Ali Qushji, finding the stirrup, vaulted onto the fidgeting horse and seized the reins. He had not been called "Qushji[2]" in vain—for in the days of the royal hunts with His Majesty, he had tamed many a wild stallion, breaking them to his will in but a moment!
The silence of the night was broken by the thud of horses' hooves. One of the guards rode ahead, the other galloped side by side. When the horsemen crossed the Siyob and ascended the hill, the fortress of Shohizinda[3] cemetery came into view, and beyond it, the lofty domes of the aligned mausoleums. Though the night was moonless, the turquoise domes, reflecting the stars, shone with a strange bluish gleam, glittering in an uncanny light. From afar, from the direction of the mausoleum of Qusam ibn 'Abbas[4], came the mournful recitation of Quran. This sound, akin to a sorrowful melody, seemed like an endless lament from another world. It bestowed upon the vast cemetery, and the domed mausoleums looming fearsomely in the dark behind the old elms, an otherworldly spirit. All existence felt mysterious and grave.
As the horsemen passed beyond the cemetery and drew near the Jome Mosque, they came upon guards who had kindled bonfires here and there, seated in circles around the flames. Hearing the pounding of hooves, the watchmen leapt to their feet; yet at the command of the usher riding ahead, they made way and let the riders through.
The wide square before the Registan was thronged with soldiers, gathered in decuries and seated about their bonfires. From the khanaqahs[5] opposite Mirzo Ulugbek's madrasa resounded the dhikrs[6] of the kalandars[7], rising in unison.
Oh Allah, true friend, oh Allah!
You are the only friend, oh Allah!
Perhaps it was the peril that had spread its wings over the city, but the kalandars' ecstatic chanting of dhikr with their wild cries of "hoo-hoo" sounded fearful. It seemed as though they were not offering praise and glory to God, but rather hurling threats at someone unseen.
Beyond the narrow, dark bazaars, the battlemented walls of the Kuk Saray, girded with a deep moat, loomed in the darkness like an immense cliff. Behind those fortress walls, the domes of the palace brooded black and heavy like ancient mausoleums; the whole citadel resembled a vast graveyard—mysterious and hushed as death itself. Not a single lamp flickered within; even the guards had kindled no fire, and all was swallowed in wintery gloom. Only when they reached the square facing Gur-i Amir did watchmen, bearing lanterns, bar their way. In the darkness their shields gleamed, and the lances with their standards caught a fleeting glint. Passing them by, the riders advanced to the lofty gatehouse flanked by towers, each mounted with cannon. Here, once more, their path was checked by soldiers who had bared their swords. The leading usher displayed his decree, bound in crimson leather, and entered the gatehouse. Soon there came the heavy clanking of locks and chains, and the small side door of the double-cast bronze gate facing Gur-i Amir creaked open. From within stepped a familiar guard, a lantern in hand.
Ali Qushji leapt down from his saddle, handed the reins of his steed to the foremost soldier, and stepped into the gatehouse.
The guard at the gate raised his lantern high, unfastened the door opposite, and made way for him. Beyond lay a courtyard enclosed by towering battlemented walls, its lofty turrets mounted with cannon. Here and there stone lanterns flickered in the gloom. On the left stood a row of low buildings—the divankhanah[8], the hall of state. Behind it, half-veiled by a high wall, glimmered the quarters of the harem. To the right, the gilded domes of two- and three-storied palatial chambers blazed with light. Yet the courtyard was hushed as a graveyard. Only from beneath the earth came a muffled pounding, a heavy thud upon thud: doubtless the armourers were laboring in the vaults below the palace.
The man-at-arms walked past the marble pool, ringed with fir trees, where a silver fountain rose at its center. He came to a pavilion with a tall façade. Of the two gatekeepers stationed on either side of the carved and gilded gate, one pushed it open with brute strength to let them pass.
They passed through a dim, narrow corridor and entered a chamber bright with candles set in golden sconces. Upon the floor lay crimson Turkmen carpets, while the walls were clad in turquoise tiles. At the far end of the hall, a marble stairway ascended to the raised dais.
The familiar, dark-faced royal guard they met at the gate escorted Ali Qushji upstairs.
The great chamber on the second floor lay empty. With a gesture, the palace-keeper bade Ali Qushchi await there, and himself passed through the door opposite into His Excellency's greeting-hall. As the door swung open, for a moment the master's strained, muffled voice was heard; yet when it closed again, all fell silent once more.
Left alone in the chamber, Ali Qushchi felt a strange unease. The wide, torchlit hall, its floor spread with Shirazi carpets and its golden chandelier ablaze with countless candles, had all its walls adorned with the master's hunting trophies and implements. Behold — upon the vaulted niche opposite hung the vast horns of a mountain ram, inlaid with ruby and pearl, set high beyond a man's reach. That ram the master himself had felled years ago, on an autumn hunt in the Hisor mountains; and ever since, he would speak of it with a special pride. Beside the horns, above a crimson leather quiver filled with arrows, was stretched the pelt of a tiger. That beast he had slain on the banks of the Jayhun[9], when returning from his campaign in Khurasan.
Weary from a long and toilsome campaign, His Majesty had sent a courier ahead to Samarkand, summoning Ali Qushchi to the banks of the Jayhun. Fortunate was Ali Qushchi's presence, for in the hunt a tiger, springing suddenly from the reeds tall as camels, leapt upon the master. Swiftly, Ali Qushchi, who rode at his side with bow made ready, loosed an arrow. The shaft struck the beast in the eye, and with a roar it hurled itself heavenward, whereupon His Excellency was spared. Ever after, when the master beheld him, he would jestingly call him "my savior…"
As Ali Qushchi gazed upon the splendor and brilliance of that chamber, a thought stole into his mind, and he gave a wistful smile. Once, when by order of Mirzo Ulugbek he had first set foot within this lofty palace, such a mighty awe had seized his being that his legs trembled as he passed by the marble pools. To think that this majestic, exalted palace had been raised by Sahibqiron, Amir Temur Kuragon himself; that in these gilded chambers dwelt the triumphant conqueror who made the world to quake; that here he sat, weaving in secret his designs to subdue the whole face of the earth — all this had filled Ali with a trembling, as though touched by the sacred. Alas! And now he sat once more in that same exalted palace, the dwelling-place of mighty world-conquerors. Yet within his breast there was neither fear nor awe — only a profound sorrow. Not sorrow for the crumbling of these majestic halls that had once struck wonder into his boyish heart; no, it was grief for his beloved master, sorrow that dark clouds now gathered around his honored head. Why, why had it come to this? Why was it that he, who had grasped the science of the heavens, who with keen thought had unveiled the mysteries of the cosmos and discovered new stars, could not discern the faithlessness of throne and dominion? Why was it that he, who knew the histories of all kingdoms, all powers, all kings and conquerors as one knows the lines of his own palm, did not understand — or, understanding, lacked the will to act — that crown and authority have never kept faith with any man? Why did he not cast aside this vain pomp called power, and devote his whole mind, his keen perception, his entire strength to knowledge, to the radiant light of learning that exalts mankind? Why indeed?..
[1] Sha'ban — The eighth month of the Islamic lunar calendar, preceding Ramadan.
[2] Qushji — A title meaning "falconer" or "master of the hunt," bestowed upon Ali Qushji for his skill in taming horses and prowess in hunting, particularly during royal hunts with Ulugbek.
[3] Shohizinda — A famed necropolis in Samarkand, whose name means "The Living King." It is traditionally associated with Qusam ibn 'Abbas, a cousin of the Prophet Muhammad, believed to be buried there. From the 11th to 15th centuries, Timurid rulers and nobles constructed a series of mausoleums on the site, making it one of the most sacred and architecturally significant complexes of Central Asia
[4] Qusam ibn 'Abbas — A cousin of the Prophet Muhammad, revered in Central Asian tradition as the one who brought Islam to the region. According to legend, he was martyred in Samarkand and buried at Shohizinda, which became a major pilgrimage site
[5] Khanaqah (Pers. khanqah) — a Sufi lodge or hospice, usually attached to a mosque or madrasa, serving as a center for communal dhikr, spiritual retreat, and the instruction of disciples.
[6] Dhikr (Arab. "remembrance") — a central Sufi practice involving the repetitive recitation of God's names or sacred phrases, performed individually or communally, often accompanied by rhythm and movement.
[7] Kalandar — a wandering Sufi ascetic, known for a life of poverty and detachment from worldly ties.
[8] Divankhana – From Persian dīwān (council, chancery) and khāna (house); literally "council house." In Timurid and other Islamic courts, the divankhana was the hall or building where the ruler's viziers and officials gathered to deliberate on state affairs, hold judicial proceedings, and administer the empire.
[9] Jayhun — one of the ancient names of the present-day Amu Darya. The name derives from Old Turkic Joy and Xun, meaning "the land of the Huns." It was widely used during the era of the Hephthalites (White Huns) and the Turkic Khaganate.