DURING the autumn of 1257, Hulagu, a grandson of Genghis Khan, began a march on Baghdad, sweeping with his Mongol forces across the Great Khorasan Road, the route traveled by Rumi’s family four decades earlier. Since the death of Genghis Khan, in 1227, the Mongols had limited themselves to incremental conquests of the south of China, Russian territories, or parts of modern-day Iran, but nothing on the scale of their earlier leveling of an entire civilization in the Central Asian capitals of Samarkand, Bukhara, Balkh, and Merv. Hulagu had renewed global ambitions and was now focused on the ultimate prize of Baghdad, the financial, political, and cultural capital of the Muslim world, where much wealth had been conspicuously displayed for five centuries.
Following the standard practice employed by his grandfather with Khwarazmshah, Hulagu sent Caliph al-Mustasim an ultimatum urgiung him to atone for a contrived list of grievances, including not providing the Mongols with military aid in various conflicts, as the caliph had sworn allegiance to Genghis Khan. The Abbasid Caliph, the thirty-seventh successor in a direct line from the Prophet Mohammad, as well as ruler of a metropolis legendary at least since the creation of its most famous fictional resident, Scheherazade, in The Thousand and One Nights, was dismayed by these blunt demands. A hybrid of pope and emperor, al-Mustasim replied that the entire Muslim world, from as far as North Africa, would wage a holy war to defend the capital and its caliph.
The holy war never materialized. By January 1258 the forces of Hulagu had surrounded the city walls of Baghdad and occupied its suburbs, stretching beyond the confines of the old “round city,” which was quickly filling to capacity with refugees. The Mongols bombarded the city with innovative ammunition, including missiles fashioned from the trunks of local date palms and gunpowder treated with oxygen to create more powerful explosions, as well as rudimentary grenades, smoke bombs, and fire rockets.
The destruction of Baghdad was catastrophic and matched the brutal razing of Termez or Nishapur, decades before, by the unsurpassed creator of terror, Genghis Khan. Destroying dams and diverting the Tigris to create a barrier of water around the city, on February 5, 1258, Hulagu and his forces broke through the walls, burning its great libraries to the ground, massacring scholars and soldiers alike, and piling up their skulls. Hulagu then summoned the captured caliph to his camp outside the city, where the leader of the Islamic faith and his male children would be executed. According to different reports, they were wrapped in carpets or sacks, and either kicked to death by booted warriors or trampled by fierce horses. The Islamic caliphate that had existed for more than six centuries was destroyed within a week, along with its rarefied culture of meticulous Arabic scholarship and research, while the control of the central lands of the realm of Islam passed to an utterly foreign power.
This news could have taken a couple weeks to reach Konya. Eventually Rumi did speak to his circle of the nearly apocalyptic event for orthodox Muslims. As with other historical incidents, he was quite accurate in his basic account, down to the exact dating:
When in the year six hundred and fifty-five Hulagu Khan arrived in the region of Baghdad . . . the Khan ordered the vizier of his kingdom and the pivot of his affairs: “Write a letter on my behalf to the caliph telling him to be obedient and to submit and not to act insolently.” . . . The caliph refused, acted with insolence, and uttered much abuse. That same day Baghdad was conquered and the caliph was taken away as a prisoner.
In his rendition of the imprisonment, Rumi tells of the caliph begging for food and being given instead bowls of jewels, pearls, and coins from his treasury as a lesson for his profligacy in spending monies on luxury rather than armies. Marco Polo chronicled a parallel tale of the caliph imprisoned in the treasury tower where he stored gold. Rumi then detailed his ignominious execution, “in a sack . . . kicked to death.”
The Arabic poets of the time were traumatized by the fall of Baghdad and the caliphate and mourned its passing in rhyme and meter. As one poet sorrowfully wrote of the incomprehensible event, “Oh seekers of news about Baghdad, the tears will tell you.” He saw no benefit remaining as “the beloved has departed.” For yet another poet, the unthinkable disaster signaled a “loss for the kingdom, for true religion,” which could turn a child’s hair white. For some, the waters of the Tigris ran red from the bloodshed, for others, black from the ink of the books. Regarded as marking the apex of an Islamic golden age, Baghdad would remain much depopulated and mostly in ruins for centuries.
Rumi never joined in the wailing chorus. Rather than focusing on damage done to the religion of Islam or the insult to the caliphate, he mostly dwelled on the benefits of fasting, using the Mongols as examples, as they fasted for three days before the battle:
Now if not eating and fasting had such an effect on the affairs of unbelievers and doubters of the faith so that they could attain their goal and become victorious, imagine what would be achieved and bestowed upon supporters of religion and upon all good and pious people if they were to do the same.
As Aflaki summed up Rumi’s treatment of this crucial historical event of the Muslim era: “Mowlana brought forth this story on behalf of the excellence of hunger and not eating.”
The crisis was even less seismic in Rumi’s poetry, dedicated to a spiritual world that had become even more powerfully attractive as the events on the ground in the Middle East and Anatolia grew more dire by the year. Rumi did pay his respects to the power of the caliphate in his Masnavi but in lines likely written years after its demise:
The deputy of the Merciful God, the Caliph of the Creator
Because of him, the city of Baghdad is like springtime
These words of praise, though, were put in the mouth of the Bedouin wife, perhaps purposely dated as a character from times past. He never revealed any orthodox reverence for the figure of the caliph or for any of the symbolic trappings of religious power in Baghdad.
Mongol armies had been appearing intermittently at the gates of Konya, too, ever since their victory over the Seljuks in 1243. In one ghazal, Rumi included a personal nightmare of the Mongols threatening Konya. He atypically dated the dream within the lines of the poem as having occurred on November 25, 1256, perhaps inspired by an actual threat by Baiju, the commander of the occupying Mongol forces in Anatolia:
The Tatar armies, with bows and arrows, swelled the sky
Ordered to rip apart the pregnant sky, to give birth to a baby . . .
On Saturday night, on the fifth of the month of Qa’de
In the year of six hundred and fifty-four
Turbulence shook the town. An earthquake seized the town.
While the poem was phantasmagoric, Konya never suffered the horrific fate of Baghdad. At its conclusion, Rumi was unharmed, calming his own spirit, “Help yourself to sleep.”
Rather than the dramatic reversal of fortune suffered by Baghdad, Konya endured an interregnum of decades of appeasement and subjugation, with some benefits as well as much anxiety and uncertainty. In his letters, Rumi gave glimpses of his own worries as a citizen of the Il Khanate—the vassal empire that was now formidably ruled by Hulagu and his extended family, and stretched from Central Asia to Anatolia, or the entire arc of the world Rumi had traversed. He complained of the greed of the Mongols for demanding endless “taxes and camels.” In one letter to a Seljuk official, away from Konya on military business, he reported horrid disruptions of daily life by rough bands of Mongols:
During your absence, troubles began to occur in this town. Every night they captured a house, and killed women and children, and stole their belongings. . . . Anyone concerned with education during that time had no choice but to close their schools and end their classes. When the mind is filled with frightening thoughts, when every day there is bad news, then there is no time for education. . . . I hope that the prince will protect them, as they are distracted and unemployed. Those used to drinking sweet water, and sitting with scholars, cannot live with such constant distress.
In the same letter, Rumi imaginatively expressed the nature of the power of the Mongols, always menacing, while still allowing the Seljuks a semblance of normal life:
Since this group has gained power over us, fear has prevailed. If it has stopped for an hour, it is as if a viper, sated with its prey, was asleep for a while in the corner. But it is the same viper. It will awake again eventually. Konya today is clearly one of the great centers of knowledge in the world and, God willing, will be allowed to remain so for longer into the future.
One of the ironies of this twilight epoch was the greater freedom granted figures such as Rumi. Islamic culture was allowed to flourish under Mongol rule in Anatolia, and the indifference and tolerance of these rulers toward Sufis, and religious matters generally, overlapped with the fine velleities of Persian and Seljuk culture to create a zone where exploratory mysticism was given leeway—though heatedly disputed—rather than leading inexorably to the brutal executions endured by al-Hallaj and others under the rule of the caliphs in earlier Baghdad.
The shadow sultan of Konya and the Seljuk Empire during all the remaining years of Rumi’s life—and the main foil for his ambivalent relations with the power politics of the era—was Moinoddin Solayman Parvane, the de facto ruler of the Seljuk state in Anatolia during most of the period of the Mongol Protectorate, as well as a somewhat mercurial disciple of Rumi. His father, born in northern Iran, had gained prominence as a trusted vizier of Khaykhosrow II, and negotiated the peace with the Mongols that spared weakened Konya after the Seljuk defeat in the battle of Kose Dag. The son then became a regional commander in Tokat until summoned, in 1256, by the Mongol chief Baiju, who awarded him the more princely and powerful titles of emir hajib and parvane.
The title that stuck to him, and by which he was known in his time, and down through history, was simply “Parvane”—a Persian word with the whimsical-sounding meaning of “butterfly.” He was officially lord chancellor and president of the Divan, or council, and, so, the representative of the sultan in all internal affairs. “Butterfly” referred to his dual function as the chief of the twenty-four secretaries in a sort of department of state, concerned with foreign affairs, especially the constant rustle of communications with foreign powers. Written on finely textured white Chinese paper, these memos were generally in Persian, though the Mongols had begun to introduce Turkish into the chancelleries. In the pantomime of Seljuk power on display at state ceremonies, the Parvane wore an inkpot hung about his neck—the emblem of his office.
Early on during his time in Konya, the Parvane made a point of meeting and cultivating Rumi. A son-in-law of the Parvane was a disciple of Rumi in attendance at many of his talks and was sometimes their go-between. On one introductory occasion, the Parvane sent him to invite Rumi to a gathering of religious scholars at his palace. “How would it be if Mowlana also deigned to honor us with his light-filled presence?” the Parvane asked. “Indeed, that would be the honor of a lifetime.” Rumi came along but created an edifying distraction by seating himself in the courtyard rather than on the high platform reserved for honored guests. The Parvane occasionally sent Rumi gifts, which were invariably refused, eluded, or redirected. When he suggested building a cupola over the simple grave of his father, Rumi replied that the azure arch of the sky would suffice.
Rumi was not at all hesitant about speaking truth to power. When the Parvane appeared one day to ask him to give counsel and advice, Rumi, raising his head after several moments of silence, replied, “I hear that the commander Moinoddin has learned the Quran.” He answered, “Yes, I have.” “I also hear that you have listened to the important works written on the study and classification of the sayings of the Prophet Mohammad.” He replied, “Yes, I have.” Rumi said, “Since you have read the word of God and the Prophet, and you know how to discuss as is required, and yet you do not take counsel from these words and you are not acting in accordance with any Quranic verse or saying of the Prophet—why ever do you wish to hear something from me and then follow that?”
Rumi was known to reassure the Parvane when he worried aloud to him that he was devoting all his time to the brutal machinations of power and politics rather than to his spiritual life. He once sent a message apologizing for not attending one of Rumi’s talks: “Day and night my heart and soul have been at your service, but I have not been able to attend because of my preoccupation with Mongol affairs.” To which Rumi responded:
These are also the works of God, since they have to do with the safety and security of the faithful. You have sacrificed your all, both materially and physically, to give tranquility to the hearts of a few Muslims so that they may occupy themselves with acts of devotion. This is good work, too.
On other occasions, when the Parvane arrived unannounced to solicit wise advice from the spiritual teacher, Rumi hid from him and his retinue. He guarded his privacy and was careful not to show any special favor to the rich and powerful. After keeping the Parvane waiting at length—uncustomary treatment for him—Rumi emerged to find that his guest had learned an important lesson. “For my part, because Khodavandgar was late in coming, I imagined as follows,” said Parvane. “‘This lateness is a lesson for you, Parvane! How bitter and what a hardship it is for people in need to have to be kept waiting to speak to you.’ Your being late has caused this benefit for me.” His newfound humility freed Rumi to indulge in a soaring example of excessive Persian etiquette:
This way of thinking is very good. But the truth is that if a supplicant comes to someone’s door and has a request but his voice and his face are not attractive, he will be quickly sent away. However, if someone arriving with a request has a beautiful voice and is good-looking and pleasant, he would not so quickly be given a piece of bread, to keep him there longer. I came late because your supplications, your love, and your longing are so pleasing to all the men of God that I wished for the benefits to linger.
The Parvane was so happy with this elaborate compliment that he ordered six thousand sultani coins to be delivered to the madrase, which Rumi then distributed among his companions.
Rumi was increasingly displaying otherworldly behavior during this decade—praying until dawn on his rooftop or preaching to a pack of wild dogs. Yet he never abdicated his role as a civic diplomat. He turned out to be skilled at managing the expectations of Seljuk sultans and their emissaries, providing them a connection to a spiritual practice that was sincere but also constituted good public relations requisite with their position. Rumi could create metrically precise poetry while whirling, or deliver legal opinions from the midst of extreme fasts and meditation, due to his scholarly training. Likewise his years of learning the manners of court and academy were never lost. In that sense, he fit a description by the scholar of Sufism Omid Safi of “premodern Muslim saints” as “men and women of power. Their power derived from their sanctity.”
Many were the reports of haughty behavior on Rumi’s part toward the Parvane. In dozens of surviving letters to the statesman, though—more than to any other correspondent—he was quite formal and respectful, which suggests perhaps exaggeration in the reporting of his public rebuffs or a kind of elaborate role-play acceptable to both. In these letters, Rumi employed all the titles of office of the Parvane, including his title among the Mongols, while soliciting favors for children or disciples, such as jobs, tax exemptions, or pardons. Almost all contained the bartering promise of “praying for your prosperity.”
Sometime after the death of the sultan Kaykhosrow II, the Parvane had consolidated his authority within the palace by marrying the wife of the deceased sultan—and mother of the young sultan Alaoddin—Gorji Khatun, the “Georgian lady,” otherwise known as the “Queen of Queens.” While she was the most powerful woman in the Seljuk state, and had become a committed devotee of Rumi, no clear evidence exists that she ever officially gave up her Christian faith, as she never took on a traditional Muslim name. Arriving on the Citadel hill, as a young bride, the Georgian princess had been accompanied by senior Christian ecclesiastics. Later in life after Rumi’s death, she acted as patron of a church in Cappadocia and was depicted in one of the sanctuary murals.
The fervent devotion of Gorji Khatun to Rumi as her personal saint and spiritual guide, though, was never in doubt. When she needed to travel to the royal palace in Kayseri, she commissioned a Greek portrait painter to draw Rumi to console her during her absence. Of the proposal, Rumi said to the painter, “It’s fine, if you are able.” As Aflaki reported, “He drew a very delicate face, but when he looked a second time, the expression was different from the first time.” The painter wound up with twenty sketches, since his subject’s likeness was proving resistant to capture. Unfazed, Gorji Khatun packed all twenty sheets of paper into her trunk and gazed at them whenever she needed to be comforted. Her relationship with Rumi was apparently more satisfying than with her husband, as the Parvane once had to approach Rumi as a marriage counselor when Gorji Khatun demanded a divorce. She said, “I want you to divorce me.” Rumi advised the husband to keep promising “I will do it,” but not follow through, until her mood passed.
The wife of a treasury official and later viceroy, Aminoddin Mikail, was likewise one of the women in Rumi’s circle, and was dubbed by him “Sheikh of the Ladies,” as she hosted weekly Friday evening women’s sama sessions. These sessions, which Rumi often attended, were far more potentially scandalous and incendiary than his public gatherings in the madrase. When he was present, the husbands would stand guard outside. After evening prayers, bending all rules of religious propriety, Rumi visited the women “all alone without any followers.” As Aflaki reported:
He would sit down among them and they would form a circle and gather before him. They would scatter so many rose petals over him . . . Mowlana, in the midst of roses and rose water, would be immersed in sweat, and until midnight he engaged in uttering higher meanings and secrets, and giving advice. Finally, slave-girl singers and rare tambourine players, as well as female flutists would start to play. Mowlana would begin performing the sama and all the women became so ecstatic that they could not tell their heads from their feet, or even whether they were still wearing any covering on their heads. They would cast all their jewels and gold into the shoes of this sultan in hopes that he might accept some small thing or pay them some regard. He did not glance at anything at all. Having performed the dawn prayers with them, he would then depart.
As Aflaki clarified, at that time and in their traditional society, “No Friend of God or prophet . . . behaved in such a manner or style.”
The spirit of tolerance and creativity allowing such expressions of spiritual ecstasy continued to influence, as well, the public building still taking place all over Konya, especially the madrases funded by ministers in the extended circle about Rumi. Rising to power as vizier after the death of the sympathetic regent Karatay was a younger politician, Fakhroddin Saheb Ata, praised by Rumi in letters to him as “my brother” and “lofty and pious.” Perhaps competing with the Karatay madrase, about a hundred yards away, the vizier had built his own Ince Minareli, graced with an innovative slender minaret. Completed during the same year as the fall of Baghdad, the Ince Minareli marked a final baroque phase in Seljuk architecture, its gateway decorated with sinuously twisted Quranic lines in cursive Kufic script, one of the first uses of this more fluid style in architectural inscription, similar to the tumbling and kinetic intricacies of Rumi’s own fluid poetics.
Rumi also maintained relations with the three young sultans, though with differing intensities of feeling and commitment. He knew Alaoddin Kaykobad III particularly, as he was the son of his devotee, the queen mother Gorji Khatun, and had been the designated successor of Kaykhosrow II—even though he was the youngest—since she was his favorite wife. Yet Alaoddin, who was part Muslim and part Georgian Christian, was unlucky in his final destiny. When Mongke, the descendent of Ghengis Khan, summoned the leaders of the Seljuks to his capital in Mongolia, Alaoddin accepted, as the representative of the royal triumvirate but was mysteriously murdered en route.
Rumi was also close with Ezzoddin Kaykaus II, the oldest brother, who was ruling in Konya during much of the latter third of the decade of the 1250s, though he spent most of his time in the pleasant Mediterranean town of Antalya, where he invited Rumi to visit. Rumi declined, telling his circle that while Antalya was warm, “the people there are mostly Greeks, who don’t understand our language, although a few Greeks do.” In one letter, Rumi compared their separation, when Ezzoddin was away from Konya, to that of the patriarch Jacob missing his son Joseph. As his brother Roknoddin Qelij Arslan IV was the favorite of the Parvane, Ezzoddin suffered many setbacks. Rumi’s letters, whenever Ezzoddin found himself again in exile, were always supportive and consoling:
Your kingdom is a shelter for the poor and weak, and a shrine for the innocent and for those who are victims. I am hoping that soon happy news arrives that will tell us of your blessed return, bringing us joy.
Eventually Ezzoddin fled into a final exile in Constantinople, where he wore the purple slippers of Byzantine royalty and practiced Christianity. Roknoddin was then propped up by the Mongols as sole sultan with the Parvane as his designated political intelligence.
Far more troubling to Rumi than the effects of the conquest of Baghdad or internal Seljuk politics during the fall and winter of 1258 was the deteriorating health of Salah, who had grown older and frailer and was bedridden. The decade that Rumi spent with Salah had been nurturing and marked a peak period of his playing musical instruments and whirling in sama sessions. With such different characters, they had often been alone, even when together. Attuned to his friend with the multicolored visions, while creating his own far more delineated and fabulous images of an invisible realm in poetry, Rumi felt freer to explore his contemplative inner world of silence with Salah reliably nearby. He honored this closeness during his friend’s illness by visiting him daily for long periods and neglecting most of his other obligations. Writing to one of the princes, Rumi apologized profusely:
I wanted to come and be at your service and visit your blessed face but I have not had the opportunity because of the weakness and illness of our great Sheikh Salahoddin, because I am busy only with him.
He went on to say that he was praying steadily by the bedside of Salah, but to little avail.
The only friction in an otherwise smooth friendship between these two companions—in contrast to the tumult of his time with Shams—had been caused by jealous tendencies in Salah. Rumi inspired an unusual pitch of rivalry around him, made more pronounced by his air of detachment. Knowing of Salah’s acute sensitivity, Rumi advised his son Sultan Valad not to even mention Shams or the younger Hosam, who Rumi had put in charge during his time in Damascus, in the presence of Salah. “Even though there is no difference between them, one should not mention them,” he said. Sultan Valad reported that his father decided against inviting to Konya, his dear Sufi friend from his time in Damascus, to avoid exacerbating these tensions with Salah.
Mostly, though, Rumi and Salah harmoniously shared in the daily events of each other’s lives. Salah was one of the few with Rumi regularly at intimate family moments or in mundane domestic situations. At the burial of Salah’s mother, Latife, dear to both of them, Rumi stayed behind at the grave with him. “Come let us go,” Rumi encouraged, but Salah wished to linger to pray for her delivery into the hands of angels. When Rumi next saw Salah, he was smiling, his graveside mission complete. On another day Salah hired Turkish laborers to do some work in his garden. Echoing comments common in the polyglot culture, Rumi advised, “For demolition, hire Turks, for building, Greeks.” When Rumi needed a fireplace built, he hired a Greek. Such were the ordinary tales told of their calm and stable companionship.
The final illness of Salah was protracted over weeks and then months. Rumi visited constantly, but such attentiveness, Salah came to realize, was keeping him alive. He finally asked Rumi to release him from his affliction. As Sultan Valad recorded, “He accepted his request and said, ‘So be it.’ He rose from his bedside, and left quickly, setting off down the road towards his own house, and he became engaged with consoling his own pain. He didn’t visit him again for two or three days. . . . Salahoddin, our king, grew lucid, and said to himself, ‘My soul is departing my body. Now I am certain that I am leaving the world of the living. I am heading towards the world of eternity. His not visiting me is the sign that I should leave. This is the sign for me to bid farewell.’”
In one of their quiet conversations before his death, Salah laid out his wishes for an unconventional burial, a blueprint for a style of funeral that advertised the meaning of the kind of life to which he and Rumi were committed. As Sultan Valad remembered these deathbed wishes, “The Sheikh said, ‘Around my dead body, bring the drums and the tambourine. Process towards my grave, while dancing, happy and joyful, ecstatic and clapping, so that all may know the friends of God go towards eternity joyful and smiling. Mine is a death that will be made joyful by the sama.” He envisioned a tuneful procession of dancing accompanied by drums, tambourines, flutes, and snares.
Salah died on December 29, 1258. Baring his head in grief, Rumi then carried out the wishes for Salah’s funeral carefully and explicitly. He ordered that the wind instruments and kettledrum players be gathered, and all processed through the streets of Konya to the family burial site in the sultan’s rose garden. Before the funeral bier, carried on the shoulders of disciples, walked eight troops of singers and reciters, while Rumi spun in sama all along the way. Salah was buried to the left of the sepulcher of Rumi’s father. At the emotional funerary banquet that evening, Rumi recited a sorrowful elegy, echoing in some of its lines and in its radif, or repeated refrain, “weep,” his earlier ode to Shams:
Gabriel and the wings of all the angels turn blue
For your sake, the saints and all the prophets weep.
Stunned by my grief, I am too weak to even speak
Unable to create any comparisons, I simply weep.
The joyous and frenzied funeral of Salah was yet another shock to the orthodox Muslim population of Konya. Muslim funerals were traditionally marked by gravity and restraint, the only remotely musical expression being the somber chanting of the Quran by reciters trained to modulate their tones of grief with an austere solemnity. Called to account for this raucous spectacle—anticipating in its music and song his own funeral—Rumi was sharply questioned. “Ever since time immemorial the bier of the dead has always been preceded by Quranic readers and muezzins,” he was reprimanded. “Now, in your time, what is the meaning of these singers?” Rumi calmly answered their concerns:
The muezzins and Quranic readers and Quran memorizers in front of the bier testify that the dead person was a believer who died in the Muslim religion. Our singers testify that the deceased was a lover as well as a believer and a Muslim.