Abstract
The relations between the Islamic empires of the early modern period—the Ottomans, the Safavids, and the Mughals—have long been the subject of research, as have been the links between each of them and Europe. The present paper adopts a different approach, addressing the relations between them and Central and Eastern Europe as part of a single geopolitical continuum. This is done by focusing on the events of the late 1630s—the Safavid-Mughal conflict over Kandahar and the Ottoman-Safavid Treaty of Zohāb (1639)—and the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth’s interest in them, as well as how these issues are reflected in the sources, including Polish intelligence reports and Safavid and Mughal chronicles. Such an examination shows not only the scope of interest of various state actors in global affairs, but also offers us a glimpse into the intertwined political relations of early modern Eurasia.
Introduction and Background
The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (1569–1795) was part of the same early modern geopolitical arena as Safavid Persia, even if they were not quite neighbors. Yet what did Poland actually know about Persia and where did the diplomatic intelligence come from? Was it limited to the specific issue of Safavid-Ottoman conflict? To a degree, these issues have interested scholars ever since the contemporary period itself, as evidenced by the writings of the Jesuit traveler Tadeusz Juda Krusiński (1675–1751) from 1734 and 1740 (idem 1734, 284–89; idem 1740, 145–75).1 While no longer considered wholly reliable today, they formed until very recently the basis of most scholarship on Polish-Safavid relations. Numerous texts have been written on the history of the diplomatic contacts between the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Ottoman and Safavid Empires, as well as the commonwealth’s knowledge of and general interaction with the so-called Islamic East.2 Even so, it seems that the issue of the extent to which Polish policy-makers were aware of the diplomatic practices of their Persian counterparts, and more generally their world and worldview, has not sparked much of a scholarly interest. The present paper aims to be but a step towards the better understanding of the complexities of the commonwealth’s knowledge of the Islamic East and, more importantly, their participation in its geopolitical orbit.
This study is based upon an examination and comparison of the available sources, beginning with the contents of a Polish intelligence report (Biedrzycka), discussing inter alia the loss of Kandahar to the Mughals during the reign of Shāh Safi (r. 1629–42). In order to properly understand the document and its historical context, I shall compare it with other sources with the aim not being to reconstruct the events recorded, but to uncover which narrative—or elements of which narratives—found their way into the Polish-Lithuanian report. Thereafter, a number of reports on Safavid-Ottoman relations received by Polish-Lithuanian authorities will be compared briefly with the above-mentioned Safavid chronicles in order to put the issue into a broader context. Finally, to add further context, I will also compare these works with the main Mughal chronicles of the period. While it will soon become clear that the Polish-Lithuanian informant did not have—and could not have—access to information known to the Mughals, these chronicles are the most detailed sources available on the events in Kandahar. They also present a different, albeit not contradictory, view of the events. Thus, this research is also an attempt to explore the broader continuum of the relations of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth with the so-called Gunpowder Empires, as well as the commonwealth’s perception of the relations between the Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Empires.
This paper will argue three points regarding the sources. First, Polish reporting pays significantly more attention (and detail) to the military aspect of international relations than Safavid literary chronicles, even in the case of the Ottoman-Safavid War (1623–39). Obviously, this aspect precisely interested the Polish-Lithuanian state. At the same time, the Polish material presents the Iranian side of the Safavid-Mughal conflict over Kandahar to such an extent that one could even say that it repeats the official Safavid narrative—not by citing specific sources, but by repeating what could be compared to talking points in today’s media. Despite striking similarities to the literary chronicles, as we will see, both the Polish intelligence report and the Safavid chronicles relied upon accounts or chronicles of Safavid officials.
Secondly, one can observe parallels between the Polish-Lithuanian report on Safavid-Mughal relations and the Mughal view of the Safavid-Ottoman relations. Both the Polish and Mughal sources focus on military matters and limit their narrative to issues that could impact the relations of their country with its rival—the Ottoman Empire, in the case of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and the Safavid Empire, for the Mughals. We thus have an opportunity to investigate how one extreme of the Gunpowder Empire continuum (i.e., the Polish-Lithuanian and Ottoman frontier) perceived the other end (i.e., the Safavid-Mughal frontier). While including the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in the context of these Islamic empires might be controversial, I incorporate it here provisionally, due to its extensive relations and shared geo-political space with the Ottomans. Also, we should remember the rivalry between the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and Ottoman Empire over influence in Moldavia.3 Moreover, with regards to the diplomatic relations between the states, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth often employed the very same Armenian merchants and adventurers as the Safavids (Jaśkowski, Kołodziejczyk, and Mnacʿakanyan, 97–104).
Finally, due to the fact that the sources themselves suggest the influence of events from one edge of this world on events at the other end, I raise the question of whether Mughal-Safavid relations affected Polish-Ottoman relations and vice-versa. The ultimate answer to this question is not presented here, as it deserves a separate study. Unfortunately, our understanding is seriously limited due to the lack of official correspondence between the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Mughal Empire.4
Safavid Sources
Iranian chronicles are among the chief sources for Safavid history, but the situation is more complex regarding the fall of Kandahar. Probably the most detailed source for the early period of the reign of Shāh Safi—the continuation (zeyl, c. 1634) of Eskandar Beyg Monshi (1561/2–c. 1633)’s Tārikh-e ʿālam-ārā-ye ʿAbbāsi (The World-Adorning History of ʿAbbās, 1628/9)—ends approximately five years into Safi’s reign.5
Mohammad-Maʿsum Esfāhani (c. 1597–c. 1647)’s Kholāsat al-siyar (Summary of Biographies, c. 1642) is a contemporary source which offers much detail on many events of the time. Esfahāni began writing his chronicle in 1638 and, after some time, gained Safi’s patronage and was admitted to the royal library. Initially, he intended the chronicle to be a universal history from the creation of the world until his time; the shah, however, ordered him to focus on his rule. Mohammad-Maʿsum’s rose to the important post of inspector of the royal stables (moshref-e tavila), but, though he was a rather influential member of the Safavid court during the reigns of ʿAbbās I (r. 1587–1629) and Shāh Safi, he lost both his post and his influence in 1644 during the rule of ʿAbbās II (r. 1642–66) and served later as an inspector in Karabakh (Esfahāni 1978, xiv–xxiv). Due to his departure from the court, the chronicle ends with the events of 1641–42/1051. Unfortunately, Kholāsat al-siyar does not report much about the events of Kandahar—it provides information mostly when particular news from the border reached the capital. Moreover, it describes the events themselves without significant detail, while also offering little insight into the discussions of the shah’s “inner circle.” Still, it seems to be a good source for the general chronology of the events, as well as for information held by the middle or slightly-higher level officials at the court.
On the other hand, Vali Qoli b. Dāvud Shāmlu (1625/6–after 1675)’s Qesas al-khāqāni (Imperial Stories, 1661–75) offers probably the most extensive account of the events in Kandahar among all Safavid sources, containing information not found elsewhere. Although its author was only around twelve years old at the time of the events, his official and literary career was very much intertwined with Kandahar and the eastern parts of the Safavid state in general, especially Sistan (Shāmlu, xi–xvi). He was, furthermore, almost a local, having being born in Herat. Hence, he was well aware of the happenings in Kandahar. Still, his text contains only the “local” perspective from Khorasan; while it offers much insight into the Safavid-Mughal struggle over the city, it conveys barely anything at all from the point of view of Safavid policy-makers.
By contrast, the “twin” sources of Mirzā Mohammad-Tāher Vahid Qazvini (d. c. 1700)’s Tārikh-e jahān-ārā-ye ʿAbbāsi (The World-Adorning History of ʿAbbās, c. 1663) and Mohammad-Yusof Vāleh Qazvini (d. c. 1693–95)’s Khold-e barin (Delightful Paradise, 1667), which are only distinct from each other stylistically, were composed by high-ranking brothers and thus provide us a window into the way that Shāh Safi’s court perceived events in the East. While slightly later than the other sources, these texts are valuable because of the senior position of their authors, especially Vahid Qazvini, who became a royal council secretary (majles-nevis; see below) around ten years following the events in question and would serve eventually as grand vizier (r. 1691–99). Furthermore, both his Tārikh and his Monshaʾāt (Writings)6 indicate clearly that he was responsible for the official correspondence regarding the later conflict over Kandahar (1649–53), signaling that he had more than a layman’s grasp of the subject. Furthermore, though he achieved his high status years after the events in question, he had been an adult at the outset of his career at the time of the conflict.
Vahid Qazvini’s work, which is of greater interest to us (as he probably served as his brother’s informant), covers the history of the Safavids from their origins until 1663–64/1074, focusing on the rule of ʿAbbās II; however, his history is far from precise when it comes to the rulers preceding Shāh Safi. Regarding Vahid Qazvini’s position as majles-nevis, one must note that later Safavid and early Afghan sources describe this office as encompassing two separate jobs. At first, it meant the official charged with taking notes at the shah’s meetings (hence the name), but, by Qazvini’s time, the duties associated with this office started to include drafting royal orders. In a way, majles-nevis took over the duties of secretary (monshi). Due to their knowledge of all royal meetings and intimate involvement in the affairs of the state, the majles-nevis often filled the function of the ruler’s official historian, as was the case with Qazvini (Quinn and Melville, 254; Minorsky, 52–54, 121–22; Jāberi Anṣāri, 43–45; Barati; Nasiri 1993–94/1372, 26–30; 2008, 41–43).
There are also a few interesting passages in a lesser-known source, the Tārikh-e Shāh Safi (The History of Shāh Safi), written by Abu’l-Mafākher b. Fazlollāh al-Hoseyni Savāneh-Negār Tafreshi (d. after 1667), which was finished rather late, in July 1667/Moharram 1078, but dedicated wholly to the rule of Safi. Little is known about its author, it is not even entirely clear whether “Savāneh-Negār,” which he called himself, was an official position or a nickname he adopted (Tafreshi, xxi–xxxi, 7, 205).
Other well-known Safavid sources are not very useful for examining the events discussed here. For example, the Zobdat al-tavārikh (The Cream of Histories, 1652) by Mollā Kamāl (d. after 1653–54), offers only a very brief and somewhat ambiguous account—evidenced even by the fact that the editor of its printed version saw it necessary to explain it in a footnote (Dehgān, 93). Similarly, the Kholāsat al-tavārikh (The Summary of Histories)—not the more famous one by Qāzi Ahmad Qomi in 1590, but a seemingly anonymous one7—similarly mentions the events only in passing (ibid., 22–23).
As one can see, while there is no single “correct” Safavid source on the Kandahar conflict, there are several useful sources, each offering a glimpse of one aspect of the events. Even Eskandar Beyg’s Zeyl, which does not cover the fall of Kandahar, is of value when discussing earlier developments by shedding light on how they were perceived at the moment, without the hindsight possessed by later authors. Shāmlu’s Qesas provides local insight into the proceedings, while Esfahāni’s Kholāsat al-siyar, Vahid Qazvini’s Tārikh-e jahān-ārā, and Vāleh Qazvini’s Khold-e barin present the perspective of middle- and upper-level central court officials. In an interesting twist, Tafreshi’s Tārikh reflects both the perspective of one living in the middle of the action, before the conclusion of some of the events, and the perceptivity of later authors.
The Polish Intelligence Report
The Polish intelligence report on Kandahar, which is the subject of this study, was sent by Jan or Piotr Romaszkiewicz, an Armenian translator and agent, to Stanisław Koniecpolski (1591–1646), the Polish grand hetman,8 on 15 January 1540, and reconstructed in two versions on the basis of several copies by Biedrzycka (565–78). Romaszkiewicz has been the subject of a few rather cursory studies (the most recent and detailed of which was carried out by Tomaszewski). Although this Armenian was a prominent person in the diplomatic and intelligence service of his time, his identity is still to an extent shrouded in mystery. Even efforts to determine his exact name have not borne fruit, thus both possibilities (Jan and Piotr) are usually given. He probably entered Grand Hetman Koniecpolski’s service in the mid-1630s, becoming one of his most trusted men in missions to the Ottoman Empire, Moldavia, and Crimea—probably due to Romaszkiewicz’s good knowledge of Ottoman Turkish. He also served in the royal chancery. Many years after the events discussed here, he would gain some notoriety after organizing the escape of Polish prisoners from Crimea in 1651–52. He was, however, known not only for his diplomatic talents and his daring, but also as a spendthrift who was falling constantly into debt, an adventurer, and an overall controversial individual. He penned the report in question following his return from Istanbul, where he had been observing the relations between the Ottoman Empire and Iran (Tomaszewski).
His intelligence mission reflected the vital interest of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in the recent Safavid-Ottoman war due to the fact that Ottoman involvement in the East made their military action in Europe much less probable. Thus, Romaszkiewcz, who was in Constantinople at the time when a Persian envoy arrived at the Ottoman sultan’s palace, tried to reach the emissary or one of his Armenian companions, to ascertain their new policy towards the Ottoman state. This mission was made even more important by the death of Polish-Lithuanian envoy to the Safavid court, Teofil Szemberk in 1638 (Kołodziejczyk 2017a, 82–87), which meant there was a lack of internal information from the Safavid court. Romaszkiewicz, therefore, had the important and unique opportunity of obtaining information reflecting the Safavid perspective on the conflict. Having met an Armenian member of the envoy’s delegation, he learned about the peace treaty between the Ottoman Empire and the Safavid state. Although Polish intelligence was aware of the negotiations that led to the Treaty of Zohāb (or Qasr-e Shirin, 17 May 1639), external observers were not certain until the end of that year whether the treaty had actually been signed.9 The Persian Armenian informant stated that this new treaty would be respected, as the shah would now be engaged militarily on Iran’s eastern front.
Romaszkiewicz on the War over Kandahar: A Comparison with Safavid Sources
Romaszkiewicz’s presented the Iranian shah’s involvement in the East, as well as his reason for the conflict and for signing the peace treaty with the Ottomans, as follows: The shah is moving all his forces against “Candechar,”10 i.e., the “King of the Indies,” who captured some of the Persian lands during the Persian-Ottoman “Babylonian War” [i.e., the struggle over Baghdad]. The incursion occurred because the Persian grand vizier, “Taratt Chan,”11 stationed with twenty-five thousand troops at the Indian border, had been—probably unjustly—accused of treason and commanded to stand before the shah; fearing for his life, he fled to India, allowing most of his forces to be dispersed, but still keeping about five thousand retainers at his side. The Indian king then asked the shah to send his (i.e., the Indian monarch’s) brother who had been granted asylum in Persia12—dead or alive—back to India, in exchange for Taratt Chan. Shāh Safi, however, refused to comply and stated that he himself would bring the Indian king’s brother to India, capture the traitor, and reclaim his lands (Biedrzycka, 569–71, 576).
This summary of Romaszkiewicz’s report, which in turn cited an Armenian companion of the Persian envoy, cannot be left without commentary. First of all, the use of “Candechar” as the name of “the King of the Indies” is an obvious mistake, since the ruler of the Mughal Empire at the time was Shāh-Jahān (r. 1628–58). Either the Armenian interviewed by Romaszkiewicz was ill-informed, or—far more probably—Romaszkiewicz himself confused the name of the city captured by the Mughal forces with the name of their king.13 Given that Kandahar was an important trade center and a perennial cause of conflict between the Safavid and Mughal Empires, it stands to reason that an Armenian in the service of the Iranian court would be familiar with the city. Thus, the fault for this error must lay with Romaszkiewicz—an Armenian, too, but one operating mostly in the Western and Ottoman sphere and, as it seems from his career, more a man of action than a scholar.
A detail from a 1636 map of the Safavid Empire by Matthäus Merian the Elder (1593–1650), showing the area of Kandahar
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia Commons
A detail from a 1636 map of the Safavid Empire by Matthäus Merian the Elder (1593–1650), showing the area of Kandahar
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia CommonsA detail from a 1636 map of the Safavid Empire by Matthäus Merian the Elder (1593–1650), showing the area of Kandahar
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia CommonsSecondly, although the date given by the Polish informant is not very precise, we know that the siege of Baghdad took place in 1638/1047–48 (Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 289–93; Vāleh Qazvini, 265–72; Esfahāni 1989, 261–62; 1978, 251–54). As—according to Vahid Qazvini—the events of Kandahar took place in the same Hejri year of 1048, which began in mid-May 1638, Romaszkiewicz’s information seems accurate. According to Esfahāni, who offers a slightly different date, the news of the rebellion reached the shah on 02 Zu’l-Hejja 1047, which translates to 17 April 1638 (Esfahāni 1989, 253–54; 1978, 242–43). The apparent lack of consisting dating between the sources is due to the events’ occurrence in the spring. Chroniclers arranged events in accordance with both the lunar Hejri calendar, using numbers, and the solar year, bearing animal names. Since the solar year began on the first day of spring, there was almost always a bit of an overlap between the lunar (numbered) years and the solar (named) years. And verily, both Vahid Qazvini and Esfahāni date the events as the Year of the Tiger (bārs-yıl/pārs-yıl) (see also Vāleh Qazvini, 260).
Another matter deserving clarification is the identity of “Taratt Chan,” mentioned in the letter and more significant than the exact chronology. At the time, the Safavid grand vizier, bearing the title, “Eʿtemād al-Dowla (the trust of the state),” was Mirzā Mohammad Sāru Taqi (r. 1633–45) (Haqiqat Rafiʿ, 337–42). Kandahar’s governor (beyglerbeyg), who turned over the city to the Mughals, was ʿAli-Mardān Khān (d. 1657) of the Kurdish Zig tribe, son and successor as governor of the famous Ganj-ʿAli Khān (d. 1624) (Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 285–88).14 So was Romaszkiewicz entirely wrong, or, perhaps, did he—as in the case of “Candechar, King of the Indies”—simply confuse various elements of his source’s information? To answer to this question, one has to delve into the origin of ʿAli-Mardān’s infidelity, where again Romaszkiewicz conflated elements of the narrative.
Both Vahid Qazvini and his brother Vāleh Qazvini record that ʿAli-Mardān, governor of Kandahar, had profited highly during the vizierate of his brother-in-law Mirzā Tāleb Khān Ordubādi (r. 1610–21, 1632–34). Because of their friendship and kinship, Tāleb Khān overlooked the fact that ʿAli-Mardān kept some of the revenues of Kandahar for himself. When—after Tāleb Khān’s assassination—Sāru Taqi, who was extremely diligent in fiscal matters, became the new grand vizier in 1634, ʿAli-Mardān began to fear for his life and thus to entertain the idea of defecting to the side of the Mughals by giving them Kandahar, especially since his (unnamed) opponents were preparing reports and inciting the new vizier against him. Further augmenting the governor’s fears of the central government was his capture of lands that the imperial council had granted to the Afghan chieftain Shir Khān. ʿAli-Mardān had accused Shir Khān of unspecified crimes that he had committed himself, involving conspiring with the Mughals, as it was to them that Shir Khān fled after his defeat. In addition, mountain fortifications he built in the late 1630s in the vicinity of Kandahar raised suspicions that he had political ambitions beyond a simple governorship—made worse by the fact that ʿAli-Mardān informed the Safavid court about his actions only after he had completed them (Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 285–86, Vāleh Qazvini, 260–62).
As a result, the shah grew concerned about his governor’s rising power and the risk that he might switch sides. By around 1638, he had summoned ʿAli-Mardān to Esfahan, but the latter, fearing rightly Sāru Taqi’s enmity towards him, did not comply and instead sent annually large sums of money to the court. At the court council, the chief of the imperial guard (qurchi bāshi) Jāni Beyg (Khān) Bigdeli Shāmlu (r. 1638–45) advised compromise with ʿAli-Mardān, arguing that any sudden action could frighten him into joining the Mughals and the situation on the Ottoman front was hard enough. He counseled waiting to summon ʿAli-Mardān later, under better circumstances. Other members of the council, however, disagreed and decided that decisive action should be taken, so that other subjects of the shah would not get the idea that one can disobey their master. The shah accepted the latter position and dispatched the commander of the slave soldiers (qullar-āqāsi) Siyāvash Khān15 to bring ʿAli-Mardān to the royal court for questioning, even, if necessary, by force (Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 286–87, Vāleh Qazvini, 262–64).
Terrified for his life, ʿAli-Mardān sent a letter to Shāh-Jahān, offering him Kandahar. As a result, Mughal forces led by Saʿid Khān (d. 1652), the governor of Kabul, entered the city and subsequently defeated Siyāvash Khān, who was forced to retreat. Despite the dispatch of some reinforcements, a large-scale operation was impossible due to the Ottoman invasion of the western Iran. Hence, Saʿid Khān managed to gain control over Bost, located 120 km west of Kandahar, as well. ʿAli-Mardān, having surrendered Kandahar to the Mughals, was then escorted his entourage and wealth to Lahore and he served Shāh-Jahān in important governorships until his death (Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 287–88, Vāleh Qazvini, 264–65).
Esfahāni provides a similar, albeit much less detailed, account of ʿAli-Mardān’s rebellion in Kholāsat al-siyar. According to him, ʿAli-Mardān Khān met with Safdar Khān (d. 1645), Shāh-Jahān’s envoy, as early as October 1634 (Esfahāni 1989, 190, 192; 1978, 173, 176). The sources do not imply that this meeting involved any talk of treason, which sounds reasonable, but it cannot be ruled out, as Tāleb Khān’s assassination—which precipitated the events that led to ʿAli-Mardān’s defection—took place only a few months earlier, on 27–28 July 1634/01–02 Safar 1044 (Esfahāni 1989, 188–89; 1978, 171–72; Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 260–61; Vāleh Qazvini, 199–204; Eskandar Beyg 1938/1317, 141–46;16 Dehgān, 89). Later, ʿAli-Mardān met another messenger from India. Then, on 27 January 1637/01 Ramazān 1046, the shah received news of ʿAli-Mardān’s letter to the Siyāvash Beyg, in which the governor warned the qullar-āqāsi that should he come to Kandahar, he would feel threatened and rebel. The shah’s reaction was to present ʿAli-Mardān’s envoys (all of whom had been present at the court) with ceremonial robes (khelʿat) and send them back bearing a conciliatory letter (Esfahāni 1989, 251; 1978, 239). Esfahāni then narrates the rebellion itself, the surrender of Kandahar to the Mughals, and, finally, Siyāvash Beyg’s unsuccessful attempts at recovering the province. He does so in roughly the same fashion as Vahid Qazvini, the main difference being that he provides exact dates for certain events, as well as more detail on military affairs from the court’s perspective (idem 1989, 253–57; 1978, 242–46). Unfortunately, the reasons for ʿAli-Mardān’s rebellion, as well as his earlier attempts at expanding his autonomy, are absent from Esfahāni’s chronicle. Also missing is the debate at the royal council regarding the approach towards ʿAli-Mardān. These variances may stem from the fact that Esfahāni was more contemporary (hence, could provide more detail) and of a lower rank (hence, less information about the council).
Esfahāni does, however, include a few important pieces of information regarding the events at Kandahar that are missing from the narratives of the Qazvini brothers. He reports, for example, that Siyāvash had intercepted orders that Shāh-Jahān had sent to Saʿid Khān and forwarded them to the shah. Yet, instead of waiting for the monarch’s reaction, he engaged the Mughal commander in a battle in which he suffered defeat (idem 1989, 254–55; 1978, 243–44). Esfahāni also states that the former governor of Bost, Safi Qoli Soltān Siyāh-Mansur, was sentenced to death for conspiring with the Mughals—however, the Mughal sources do not note his execution and, moreover, do not mention any treason on his part, but name him simply as one of the Safavid commanders in the battle between Siyāvash and Saʿid Khān (Lāhuri, II, 44; Kambu, II, 231). According to the Mughal sources, he served afterwards as governor of Esfarayen until he indeed fled to India in 1644 (Lāhuri, II, 352; Kambu, II, 327). Apparently, the Safavid court had cleared him of treason or else Shāh Safi would have had him put to death. Also, there could have been confusion among the authors regarding various members of Siyāh Mansur tribe, who served in various years as governors of Esfarayen and Bost (Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 542; Vāleh Qazvini, 515).
Study of these accounts should also consider the element of bias. After all, both Vahid Qazvini and Esfahāni (three, if one counts Vāleh Qazvini’s Khold-e barin, which on this topic is almost identical with his brother’s Tārikh-e jahān-ārā) wrote their texts after ʿAli-Mardān’s rebellion from the perspective of the central court. Hence, they present the events from hindsight and with a negative attitude towards ʿAli-Mardān. Thus, while the narrative is exactly what we would expect Romaszkiewicz to have heard from a member of an official Safavid delegation, it is nonetheless tempting to look into other accounts of the same events, less tainted by prejudice.
For example, Vahid Qazvini and Vāleh Qazvini (when discussing the rebellion in Kandahar) present the conflict between ʿAli-Mardān Khān and Shir Khān as though the latter had managed justly the lands granted to him. Thereafter, the devious ʿAli-Mardān attacked him, plundered his riches, forced him to flee to India, before blaming the Afghan warlord of scheming against the shah. Other scholars, especially earlier ones, are far from unanimous in depicting the affair in so one-sided a manner. Eskandar Beyg, who died before ʿAli-Mardān’s rebellion, presents this affair (which occurred in 1630–31) in a completely different light. In his version, it is Shir Khān who ignores both the orders of the governor of Kandahar and of the shah himself and starts raiding caravans coming from India, as well as the lands of the Mughal Empire, causing much chaos and harming the relations between the two states. He writes that Shir Khān did so because he wished to become famous and important in the region, suggesting that he sought greater autonomy or even independence. After his defeat at the hands of ʿAli-Mardān, he tried to win the support of the Mughal governor of Multan, seemingly by offering him Kandahar. Yet this proposal was rejected and, after his forces were routed again, he had no choice but to flee to the lands of the Hazara between Balkh and Kabul (Eskandar Beyg 1938/1317, 73–76).
Interestingly, one of the people captured by ʿAli-Mardān when he took Shir Khān’s fortress was a supposed Mughal prince. Later, during the second round of fighting between ʿAli-Mardān and Shir Khān, the prince, a band of Afghan kinsmen of Shir Khān, and a group of Indians tried to take over Kandahar in ʿAli-Mardān’s absence, but were defeated and later captured; all were put to death except the assumed prince, who was delivered to the shah (ibid., 75–77).
Even more striking is that even some chronicles written after ʿAli-Mardān’s treason also present these earlier events in a similar fashion—most surprisingly of all, Vāleh Qazvini’s Khold-e barin. While the author, in the later sections discussed previously, presents the governor of Kandahar as a schemer who attacked Shir Khān and then used him as a scapegoat, in the earlier parts of his narrative that cover the fight between ʿAli-Mardān and the Afghan warlord, he presents them virtually in the same manner as Eskandar Beyg. Moreover, he suggests that Shir Khān wished to become the ruler of India, as was the case with his namesake from the time of the Mughal emperor Homāyun (r. 1530–40, 1555–56) (Vāleh Qazvini, 88–94).17 Tafreshi, too, depicts ʿAli-Mardān positively when recording the affair of Shir Khān (Tafreshi, 59–61).
Then, there is the matter of the reasons for ʿAli-Mardān’s rebellion and how the campaign progressed. Again, we find viewpoints other than that of the Qazvini brothers and Esfahāni. Tafreshi describes it all as more or less a misunderstanding for which certain courtiers and Siyāvash Beyg were to blame. En route to Khorasan, one of his confidants suggested during a drinking party that Siyāvash himself should replace the governor of Kandahar. This caused ʿAli-Mardān to fear for his life and attempts to calm him only added to his fear, as he thought that the conciliatory letters were intended only to make him lower his guard. He felt betrayed, especially considering his and his father’s long service to the Safavids. Interestingly, according to this version, ʿAli-Mardān even cited his fight with Shir Khān when discussing his exemplary service, noting that he wrestled back control of the Afghan lands on behalf of the shah.
Only then did ʿAli-Mardān supposedly asked for the help of the Mughals, who sent Qelich Khān (d. 1654), the governor of Multan, to take control of the city and assume its governorship. In a battle between the Siyāvash and the Mughal armies, Safavid warriors killed many of the Indian troops and then left for Herat. ʿAli-Mardān asked Shāh-Jahān for more troops and departed for India. A large-scale expedition against the Mughal force was impossible at the time due to the Ottoman advance on Baghdad. Apart from repeating these general points—especially lessening the blame on ʿAli-Mardān, who committed treason as a last resort, and not rehabilitating Shir Khān—Tafreshi narrates the events in similar fashion as the other later sources. His text, however, is much more disjointed and chaotic, repeating the same events more than once in a single section (Tafreshi, 163–66).
Shāmlu’s Qesas al-khāqāni provides the most extensive Safavid source on ʿAli-Mardān’s rebellion. It also offers a slightly different perspective on the reasons for his treason, linking it seemingly with the activities of the Mughal envoy Safdar Khān, who supposedly received permission to leave the Safavid court in 1636–37/1046, the Year of the Pig (tenguz-yıl).18 However, Shāmlu does not describe the exact nature of the contacts between the governor and the envoy—he simply starts the narrative by mentioning that Safdar Khān was sent back to India. Thereafter, he records that the shah heard numerous reports about ʿAli-Mardān’s dwindling loyalty and readiness to start an open rebellion—one such action his building of fortifications near Kandahar. Hence, the shah decided to send his qullar-āqāsi Siyāvash Khān, commander of the forces of Khorasan, to investigate the issue and punish the governor. Quickly, however, this information reached ʿAli-Mardān, filling him with fear. Upon the advice of Mashhad Qoli, one of his trusted men, and unbeknownst to the residents of Kandahar, he sent agents with a message to the ruler of India, promising Kandahar and his fealty and asking for help in return; he also mentioned that it was his only avenue for survival. He also appealed to ʿEvaz Khān (d. 1641), the governor of Ghazni, for help (Shāmlu, 241–43).
ʿEvaz Khān hastened with seven hundred of his choice troops. When he entered Kandahar, the people of the fortress realized that ʿAli-Mardān was switching sides. The religious leader (sheykh al-eslām) of the city, Sheykh Mohammad-Amin, cautioned ʿAli-Mardān against betraying the Safavids, pointing to the shameful nature of this act and to the ill-fate of those who had committed treason. He also called for the killing of ʿEvaz Khān and his men, telling ʿAli-Mardān to send their heads to the capital, thus removing all doubt as to his loyalty.19 The governor, however, decided to follow the advice of his confidant, who told him to disregard the words of the sheikh (Shāmlu, 243–45).
While ʿAli-Mardān was still fearful because ʿEvaz Khān’s troops were not well-prepared and ʿEvaz Khān was trying to reassure him, further news arrived. Saʿid Bahādor (the very same Saʿid Khān mentioned above), governor of Kabul, had set out for Kandahar and was now eight farsakhs (40 km) from the city, leading nearly forty thousand men.20 In addition, Siyāvash Khān was at an equal distance from Kandahar with an army of his own. ʿAli-Mardān sent a messenger to Saʿid, urging him to hasten to Kandahar, as the proximity of the Safavid forces might lead to the unrest in Kandahar. He also sent gifts and a conciliatory letter to Siyāvash, greeting and welcoming him. Finally, he gathered and secured his family and wealth. When the Mughal forces under Saʿid arrived, he welcomed them to the city (Shāmlu, 245–47).
Kandahar, roughly during this time, as described by French traveler Jean-Baptiste Tavernier (1605–89)
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Tavernier, I, 772a
Kandahar, roughly during this time, as described by French traveler Jean-Baptiste Tavernier (1605–89)
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Tavernier, I, 772aKandahar, roughly during this time, as described by French traveler Jean-Baptiste Tavernier (1605–89)
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Tavernier, I, 772aSiyāvash was not duped by ʿAli-Mardān and, having learned of the latter’s plans, rushed to battle against the Mughal armies. Saʿid Bahādor, on the other hand, presented ʿAli-Mardān with the orders to surrender the fortress to him and move on to India. ʿAli-Mardān happily accepted the long-awaited instructions, but he was uncertain which of his men would follow him. Saʿid Bahādor informed him that there were traitors among his own Kurdish Zig tribesmen who had conspired with Sheykh Mohammad-Amin. Also, the Safavid forces were approaching and were ready for battle. If the Zig forces were sent forward, their loyalty or lack thereof would be discovered. Hence, the Mughal forces were readied and the Zigs were dispatched before them, some willingly and some under duress (Shāmlu, 247–50).
According to Shāmlu, the initial Safavid attacks were successful, causing a rift in the Zig troops between the single men, who went over to Siyāvash’s side, and those with families and possessions (presumably in Kandahar), who stayed with ʿAli-Mardān. Siyāvash realized that Kandahar was an impregnable fortress and that his army—which supposedly numbered three thousand men—was too small to capture it. Therefore, he retreated and reported the situation to the shah. As more Mughal troops crossed the Helmand (Hirmand) River, the governor of Nimruz joined Siyāvash’s camp, bringing with him lavish gifts.21 After the battle, ʿAli-Mardān killed the local leaders, who had been (and presumably still were) loyal to the Safavids, and plundered their possessions. Urged on by his advisor, he murdered Sheykh Mohammad-Amin, who remained loyal to the shah. Then, together with his entire retinue and riches, ʿAli-Mardān departed for India. Saʿid Bahādor became the commander of Kandahar and supposedly sent Qelich Khān and a few other commanders to capture Bost and Zamin-Dāvar, which they did (Shāmlu, 250–53).
This account, while more extensive than other Persian sources, is not necessarily more reliable. It offers little explanation for ʿAli-Mardān’s treason. Mashhad Qoli, supposedly the governor’s close advisor and driving instigator behind the rebellion, is not corroborated by Mughal sources, which mention other advisors. On the other hand, Shāmlu includes details, such as the murder of the sheykh al-eslām, that are not mentioned in other Persian sources, but do appear the Mughal chronicles (as will become evident below). Furthermore, the chronicler has clearly invented the numbers of Mughal troops, as they differ quite substantially from Mughal sources—although his approximation of the size of Siyāvash’s force seems more or less reliable. Furthermore, he focuses on the events of Kandahar, mentioning the rest of the campaign only in passing, aside from paying some attention to his own patron. Finally, as we will see below, Shāmlu confuses the ranks of Saʿid Khān and Qelich Khān—the latter had received the governorship of Kandahar and the former only administered it until his arrival (cf. Shāh-Navāz Khān and ʿAbd al-Hayy Khān 1888–91, II, 433, III, 93; 1979, II, 542, 676).
Going back to Romaszkiewicz: it seems that he conflated ʿAli-Mardān and Tāleb Khān, whose name he corrupted to “Taratt Chan.”22 It is clear from Vahid Qazvini’s account that ʿAli-Mardān’s falling out with the court began with the death of Tāleb Khān, to whose clique he belonged. Additionally, Tāleb Khān served as grand vizier, further correlating with Romaszkiewcz’s description. Thus, we may conclude that, while Romaszkiewicz probably distorted the story he had heard from the Persian envoy’s companion, his report remained largely reliable.
When it comes to the number of Persian forces under the command of ʿAli-Mardān, it is hard to check the accuracy of Romaszkiewicz’s report. At the same time, one has to suppose that he had a rather large contingent, given the importance of Kandahar and the fact that the central government feared his possible rebellion. The fact that we find a rather specific number in the Polish letter may reflect the fact that the information was being sent to a military commander, who probably expected such details. Interestingly, as we will see, this number is, in a way, supported by Mughal sources like the Pādshāh- nāma and ʿAmal-e Sāleh, from which we may infer that, during the campaign of Siyāvash, ʿAli-Mardān had at least three thousand men.
The manner in which ʿAli-Mardān invited the Mughals to Kandahar and surrendered the city to them is similar in both Romaszkiewicz’s letter and the works of the Safavid historians, especially the Qazvini brothers. While the latter are far more precise, the former reports that the rebel commander had allowed most of his troops to leave and retained only about a fifth of his original army. While such exact numbers are not found in the Iranian sources, both some Safavid and, as we will see, Mughal chroniclers seem to agree that many of ʿAli-Mardān’s troops joined the Safavid side, deserted, received permission to leave, or were sent to far-away garrisons.
Another discrepancy between the Polish report and the Persian sources concerns the content of the exchange of letters between Shāh-Jahān and Shāh Safi. According to Vahid Qazvini, the Persian envoy to the Mughal court, Yādegār Beyg, brought a letter from Shāh-Jahān in mid-1639/early 1049, in which the Mughal emperor expressed his hope that the events of Kandahar would not end the long tradition of friendship between the two rulers. He also offered to pay the Safavids the equivalent of the revenue of Kandahar and sent gifts including an ornamental bottle, a chalice, and firearms (Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 295).23 Shāh Safi did not accept this offer and, apparently, launched preparations for a military campaign, which intensified in 1641–42/1051 (Vāleh Qazvini, 305–6; Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 302–3), after his visit to Mazandaran. On the other hand, Esfahāni mentions that Shāh-Jahān asked for friendship and assistance for his son, whom he had sent to Transoxiana—which, given the recent hostilities, is a surprising request and probably not one he expected to be accepted—but, strangely enough, makes no mention of either Kandahar or the gifts (Esfahāni 1989, 275–76; 1978, 274–75). Yet, we still have to keep in mind that due to his lower rank, Esfahāni may have had less access to exact information about the deliberations of the shah’s council. Also, we must keep in mind that Yādegār was dispatched to India before the fall of Kandahar and his arrival there coincided more or less with the arrival of ʿAli-Mardān at the court (which is clear from Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 281). Thus, the subject of Safavid demands is absent from the narrative of the Mughal historians (cf. Kambu, 271–73, 247–48).
Therefore, while our sources agree on an exchange of messages between both rulers, they do not quite concur on their content and none provides their exact text.24 Generally, one should defer to Qazvini and other Persian chroniclers, especially in light of Romaszkiewicz’s mistakes noted previously. At the same time, despite less reliability in some details—perhaps those deemed less important—Romaszkiewicz’s broad picture was still accurate, so it is impossible to dismiss his claims entirely, especially given the allegation that Dāvarbakhsh, son of Shāh-Jahān’s brother Khosrow Mirzā (1587–1622), was in Persia at the time (Biedrzycka, 572 n. 10). Since Mughal chronicles assert that Dāvarbakhsh had been killed a decade earlier in 1628/1037, this could either be a mistake on their part or reveal the presence of a false pretender hiding in Safavid territory. Qazvini, like other Safavid historians, states that Dāvarbakhsh (or Bolāgi/Bolāghi, as he was also known) had indeed fled to the Safavids (like other supposed Mughal princes) and even mentions that the meeting with Yādegār Beyg took place around the time that Shāh Safi was drinking wine in Dāvarbakhsh’s quarters (Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 295).25 While we cannot definitively prove Romaszkiewicz’s claims entirely true or false, it is clear that the Mughal proposals were more complex than what Qazvini recorded; nevertheless, our sources all agree on the rejection of Shāh-Jahān’s peace offer.
Polish Intelligence Reporting on Safavid-Mughal Relations and on Safavid-Ottoman Relations
Having identified both the strengths and weaknesses of Romaszkiewicz’s letter, we now compare his reporting on the Safavid-Mughal relations with that on Safavid-Ottoman relations, as found in Koniecpolski’s letters, to get a broader picture of the level and type of Polish interest in Safavid affairs, yet we have to keep two issues in mind:
First, the amount of documents on Safavid-Ottoman relations is much higher, making any comparison a rather futile task, since it would be unfair to compare one letter written by a single individual (in the case of Kandahar) with numerous letters written by several authors. This imbalance indicates clearly the greater importance of Safavid-Ottoman relations for the policymakers of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth than the Safavids’ relations with their eastern neighbors. To understand not only the quantitative, but also the qualitative, difference, it is sufficient to limit ourselves only to the reports sent to the Polish grand hetman Koniecpolski in the period close to that of the capture of Kandahar.
Second, the military aspect of events is the most detailed and precise. Information begins with the Ottoman preparations for the war (NN to Koniecpolski, 22 February 1638; NN to Koniecpolski, 28 March 1638; in Biedrzycka, 486) and covers important events of various fronts of the campaign, such as the defeat of the Tatar forces at the hands of the Persians in the Yerevan theater of war around the same time as the main body of the Ottoman forces reached Baghdad (NN to Koniecpolski, 15 November 1638; NN to Koniecpolski, 16 November 1638; in ibid., 522); Esfahāni mentions (1989, 259–60; 1978, 250) this event only in passing. The Polish correspondence also contains a rather detailed account of the capture of Baghdad by means of treachery, which corresponds almost entirely with what we can find in Vahid Qazvini’s Tārikh and is even more detailed than Esfahāni’s text (NN to Koniecpolski, 28 January 1639; in Biedrzycka, 531–32; Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 289–94; Esfahāni 1989, 262–63; 1978, 253–54).
Interestingly enough, when it comes to the peace talks between the Safavid and Ottoman Empires, letters received by Koniecpolski are much more detailed than what we find in the Persian sources. Qazvini states simply that Morād IV (r. 1623–40) fell ill and, having heard about the failures of his troops in Yerevan, he left his army to his vizier and—ordering him to make peace with Shāh Safi—returned to his own lands (Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 293). Shāh Safi accepted the proposal and sent his own envoys to the Ottoman grand vizier Qarā Mostafā Pāshā (r. 1638–44) to discuss the details, leading to the signing of the Treaty of Zohāb/Qasr-e Shirin in 1639 (Vahid Qazvini 2005/1383, 293–94). Unusually, Vāleh Qazvini’s account here is much more precise than his brother’s, as it contains the text of the Persian and Ottoman treaties (Vāleh Qazvini, 272–81). Esfahāni records the arrival of an Ottoman envoy, which began the process of peace negotiation, the reciprocation of a Safavid envoy to the Ottomans to prepare the groundwork for a peace treaty, and finally the arrival of an envoy bearing the treaty itself, which he presents in both versions (Esfahāni 1989, 264–75; 1978, 256–74).26
In contrast to the Persian historians, Koniecpolski’s informants discuss the negotiations leading up to the signing of the treaty; for example, in a letter dated 09 March 1639, we read about the initial Ottoman demands, namely, that Iran pays an overdue eighteen—years’ worth of tribute; surrenders Yerevan and Tabriz and all lands previously held by the Ottomans; and sends one of the shah’s sons to be kept as a hostage in Constantinople (Biedrzycka, 533–34). An anonymous letter dated 30 November 1639 reports that a minor envoy of the Safavid shah made a presentation to the Ottoman council after having been kept waiting for several days, as the Ottomans had expected a more senior envoy with tribute and the peace treaty. The informant notes a sense of joy in Constantinople, owing to Shāh Safi’s release of a number of Ottoman prisoners of war, taken by the population as a sign of peace. Nevertheless, the author adds that such an act cannot be in itself sufficient proof, given the fact that the shah could always change his mind and imprison them once again (Biedrzycka, 560–61). This report corresponds Esfahāni’s account, which mentions the liberation of prisoners upon the arrival of the initial Ottoman envoy, even before the peace negotiations began in earnest (idem 1989, 264–65; 1978, 256–57). Finally, the January 1540 letter mentioning “Candehar, king of the Indies” includes a definite mention of the signing of the peace treaty.
Putting aside the delay in the spread of the information about the Treaty of Zohāb, as well as an explanation of how the Safavids managed to convince the Ottomans regarding the terms for peace, this brief overview of the contents of the Polish letters makes clear the differences in the reporting on Safavid-Mughal and Safavid-Ottoman relations. In quantitative terms, as noted above, Safavid-Ottoman relations were more relevant and important from the point of view of Polish-Lithuanian interests. Qualitatively, our only Polish report on the Mughals in Koniecpolski’s documents is based on a conversation with an Safavid Armenian agent and presented as an explanation for a particular shift—towards peace—in Safavid-Ottoman relations.
The importance of Safavid-Ottoman relations for Polish intelligence cannot be denied and, therefore, even tangentially-related factors were treated seriously. This is the reason why Romaszkiewicz thought it necessary to report on the events of Kandahar, though he did not consider it crucial to investigate further. Likely, other Polish informants and agents acted the same way. Thus, the only aspects of Persian-Mughal relations that interested the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth were (i) whether there was peace or war between the two states; (ii) whether Safavid activities in the East influenced their western policy; and (iii) what were the consequences of Safavid-Mughal relations for Safavid-Ottoman—and, as a result, Ottoman-Polish relations.
The Mughal Point of View
Having analyzed how Romaszkiewicz’s report corresponds with the official Safavid narrative of the events at Kandahar, we can now use Mughal texts as a further point of comparison. The similarities between Romaszkiewicz’s letter and the Safavid narratives—the Polish emissary was essentially retelling and confusing the Persian account—become even more apparent in light of the Mughal description of the conflict. A more important question is whether we can detect a similar interest on the part of the Mughals in Ottoman-Persian relations, as we did with the Poland, demonstrating the extent to which the two extremes of the Gunpowder Empire continuum sought information about political and military developments on the opposite end of that world.
To answer this question, I have examined three Mughal sources, two of which are chronicles: the Pādshāh-nāma (The Book of the Emperor, c. 1648) by Mollā ʿAbd al-Hamid Lāhuri (d. 1654), generally considered to be the main source for the reign of Shāh-Jahān, and the ʿAmal-e Sāleh (The Work of Sāleh, 1666) by Mohammad-Sāleh Kambu (d. after 1666), a celebrated poet, statesman and historian of Shāh-Jahān’s times. Though both sources present similar accounts—even with regards to the structure of the text—they differ at times on the details. The third source is the Maʿāser al-omarāʾ (Traces of noblemen, 1780), a biographical lexicon of Mughal statesmen and commanders compiled by Samsām al-Dowla Shāh-Navāz Khān (d. 1758) and his son ʿAbd al-Hayy Khān (1729/30–82), which generally agrees with Lāhuri’s version of the events.
More than offering us simply another perspective on the situation at Kandahar, these sources reveal the point of view of the opposing party involved in the events. In other words, we have a non-Iran-centric account—not only of what happened in Kandahar, but more generally of Safavid-Ottoman relations. Much as Iran was important for the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth due to its relations with the Ottomans, news about the Ottoman Empire was relevant for the Mughals due to their relations with the Safavids. Yet, while Romaszkiewicz mentions India in his letter, there is no similar interest in the Polish-Lithuanian and Ottoman frontier anywhere in works of the Mughal historians.
Obviously, Mughal authors had an entirely different perspective on the background to the conflict over Kandahar, considering the city as the property of the Mughal emperors, lost in 1622 to Shāh ʿAbbās due to the ineptitude of the local governor (Lāhuri, II, 26–27; Kambu, II, 225–26; Shāh-Navāz Khān and ʿAbd al-Hayy Khān 1888–91, II, 796; 1979, I, 186–87). Shāh-Jahān, since his ascension to the throne, sought an opportunity to recapture the city, but was preoccupied with other business (Lāhuri, II, 27; Kambu, II, 226). Lāhuri provides a more detailed account than Kambu: Shāh-Jahān ordered Saʿid Khān (d. 1652), the sowbadār (governor) of Kabul, to prepare his troops for the possible conquest of Kandahar and to send a trusted envoy to the city, who would both spy on the fortress and military garrison and try to convince ʿAli-Mardān to join the Mughals. Thus, Saʿid Khān sent a messenger to ʿAli-Mardān, who relayed that he would send his response in due time through his own trusted emissary. The Safavid governor sent the latter under the pretense of offering gifts in return for those given to him by the previous acting governor of Kabul, but his actual mission was to bring ʿAli-Mardān’s response to Saʿid Khān—which, sadly, the Pādshāh-nāma does not reproduce (Lāhuri, II, 27–29).
Finally, in 1637–38, Shāh-Jahān launched preparations for the campaign, but, according to Lāhuri (II, 29), these were delayed initially by the famine in Punjab. He also notes (II, 29) the strengthening of Kandahar’s fortifications by ʿAli-Mardān—a detail not mentioned by Kambu. Both chronicles agree that, as soon as the Mughal armies began to march, ʿAli-Mardān grew frightened and asked Shāh Safi for help. Misunderstanding his governor’s request as a sign of his deceptive nature, the shah decided to kill ʿAli-Mardān and his family (Kambu, II, 226). Thus, he instructed the governor’s eldest son to come to the capital and sent the qullar-āqāsi Siyāvash Beyg from Mashhad under the pretense of bringing aid to ʿAli-Mardān, but actually bearing orders to kill or capture him. Lāhuri adds that Safi was further influenced by sycophants and courtiers who informed the shah at drinking parties that ʿAli-Mardān’s riches and power caused him to entertain corrupt thoughts for which he should be punished and his treasures confiscated (Lāhuri, II, 29–31; Kambu, II, 226). The latter point corresponds with what the Persian sources said about the shah’s decision to send Siyāvash Beyd.
Learning the truth, ʿAli-Mardān decided to surrender to the Mughals. According to the clearly sympathetic author of Pādshāh-nāma, he reasoned that, with the Mughals en route to Kandahar, the Safavid (or, as the text calls them, “Qezelbāsh”) troops would be unable to protect the city—especially given their constant losses at the hands of the Ottomans. Thus, he wondered whether it was worth risking his life for Safi—a bloodthirsty tyrant desiring to kill him—and concluded that he would feign loyalty to the shah, while simultaneously working behind the scenes to ally himself with the Mughals (Lāhuri, II, 30–31). Thus, he complied with the order, sending his son to the royal court as a hostage, in order not to appear rebellious (ibid., II, 30–31).
Meanwhile, he sent envoys to Saʿid Khān with communication for Shāh- Jahān (Kambu, II, 227). According to Lāhuri, he asked both the governor of Kabul and ʿEvaz Khān, the governor of Ghazni, to be ready to offer him military aid in the event that the Safavid army would arrive before the Mughal emperor’s response, as there was no time and he had little troops (see below). He explained that, since the shah had ignored his father’s and his faithful service, he had no other option but to seek refuge with Shāh-Jahān (Lāhuri, II, 32–33).
To Siyāvash, he wrote that the Safavid qullar-āqāsi should not come to Kandahar, since there would be too many men and too few provisions in the fortress. Remaining outside the city would bring the risk of a clash with the Mughal forces. Ignoring ʿAli-Mardān’s advice to wait, Siyāvash reached Farah and informed ʿAli-Mardān about his approach. This time, ʿAli-Mardān responded in no uncertain terms that he would not allow him to reach the fortress upon pain of death, making it clear that he was defecting to the Mughal side. Siyāvash continued towards Kandahar to confront the approaching Mughal forces, while also managing to win over some of ʿAli-Mardān’s troops (Lāhuri, II, 31–32; Kambu, II, 227). In Kandahar, ʿAli-Mardān purged his men of those whom he suspected disloyalty, sending some away and killing others. He kept only a group of his faithful relatives and slave-soldiers (gholāms). He also related the developments to Shāh-Jahān, asking for help, as he was turning over the fortress to the emperor (Lāhuri, II, 32; Kambu, II, 227–28).
The Mughal chroniclers report that, even before the emperor had a chance to respond, ʿEvaz Khān departed Ghazni for Kandahar with a thousand cavalrymen. Lāhuri, in his more detailed account, relates that ʿAli-Mardān surrendered the smaller fort of Moqor to him, before inviting him to Kandahar itself, which he reached on 08 March 1638/21 Shavvāl 1047 (Lāhuri, II, 34; Kambu, II, 228). After ʿEvaz Khān, one of Saʿid Khān’s sons, Mirzā Sheykh, on the orders of his father, hastened with the soldiers to the fortress of Qalat (five stations from Kandahar), taking it without a fight from ʿAli-Mardān’s representative.
Immediately after ʿEvaz Khān’s arrival, ʿAli-Mardān, in order to discourage Siyāvash, ordered the reading of the Friday sermon (khotba) in the name of Shāh-Jahān and struck a coin in the emperor’s name, effectively acknowledging Mughal suzerainty. He also sent nine ashrāfis (gold coins) to Shāh-Jahān along with a request for assistance (Lāhuri, II, 34; Kambu, II, 228). Around 12 March/25 Shavvāl, ʿAli-Mardān brought Mirzā Sheykh into the city with honors, threw a huge party, and brutally killed Mohammad-Amin (erroneously called Mohammad-Saʿid by Kambu), the qāzi of Kandahar who remained loyal to the shah. Saʿid Khān himself also advanced to Kandahar with close to five thousand horsemen (Lāhuri, II 34–35; Kambu, II, 228).
When Shāh-Jahān received letters from both ʿAli-Mardān and Saʿid Khān on 11 March/24 Shavvāl, he sent Qelich Khān, the governor of Multan, to assume the governorship of the province of Kandahar, proceeding as fast as possible with the entire army of Multan. He also dispatched other military and administrative figures with their troops and other supplies to defend Kandahar in the event that Shāh Safi would try to retake it. The emperor ordered Saʿid Khān to set off for Kandahar, if he had not done so already, with the entire army of Kabul and with large (and specific) amounts of money—for ʿAli-Mardān, for his own needs, and to aid others coming to support ʿAli-Mardān. He instructed the governor to make all necessary preparations for Qelich Khān’s arrival and rebuff any attempts by Siyāvash to threaten the city. Afterwards, Saʿid Khān should take ʿAli-Mardān to Kabul, from where he would send him to the emperor along with Mirzā Sheykh. In addition, Shāh-Jahān wrote to ʿAli-Mardān himself and presented him with precious gifts (Lāhuri, II, 35–38; Kambu, II, 228–29).
According to Lāhuri, Saʿid Khān first moved from Peshawar to Kabul, but, as there was a great need for haste, he did not take much—or even enough—weaponry. Fifteen koruh (30 km) outside Kabul, he met both ʿAli-Mardān’s messenger and the herald bringing the newly-struck coins and sent them with his personal envoy to the emperor. He continued with other military figures and the entirety of the troops of the province (Lāhuri, II, 38–39; Kambu, II, 229). Reaching Qalat, Saʿid Khān learned from the letter from Mirzā Sheykh and ʿEvaz Khān that Siyāvash and his forces were six koruh (12 km) from Kandahar. Moreover, some of the troops in Kandahar, while pretending to be loyal to ʿAli-Mardān, were conspiring with Siyāvash, urging him to come to Kandahar. Thus, Saʿid Khān had to proceed with caution (Lāhuri, II, 39; Kambu, II, 229–30), reaching Kandahar on around 02 April/17 Zu’l-Qaʿda, where ʿAli-Mardān welcomed him and received his gifts, pledging fealty and thus receiving the honor for which he had long yearned. Lāhuri also adds that he offered his loyalty in the manner of the Mughal Empire, which, however, seems dubious, given the later necessity to instruct him on Mughal customs, as noted below (Lāhuri, II, 39–40; Kambu, II, 230).27
The surrender of Kandahar to Qelich Khān, as depicted in a manuscript of Lāhuri’s Pādshāh-nāma, MS. Musée Guimet (Paris), MA 3318
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia Commons
The surrender of Kandahar to Qelich Khān, as depicted in a manuscript of Lāhuri’s Pādshāh-nāma, MS. Musée Guimet (Paris), MA 3318
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia CommonsThe surrender of Kandahar to Qelich Khān, as depicted in a manuscript of Lāhuri’s Pādshāh-nāma, MS. Musée Guimet (Paris), MA 3318
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia CommonsThe Mughal emperor sent a further order to Saʿid Khān, instructing him to fight and organize the defenses against the army of “Iraq” (i.e., Safavid Iran), and that should Siyāvash attack the region of Kandahar, Saʿid Khān should leave Qelich Khān in the fortress and lead the army fighting the enemy himself. The message reassured him of further troops and provisions on the way, as well as the money that had been sent (Lāhuri, II, 40–41; Kambu, II, 230).
Siyāvash’s agents intercepted this missive (as we have already learned from the Persian sources) and he forwarded the information to Shāh Safi and commenced preparations for battle. Lāhuri adds that Safi wanted neither to come himself nor to send more troops and, as this became known, it led to the loss of morale among the Persians and encouraged the Mughals (Lāhuri, II, 41; Kambu, II, 230). Yet—as the Persian sources report—Safi did send troops, though they did not arrive on time due to Siyāvash’s swift advance.
With Siyāvash approaching and little time to prepare, Saʿid Khān could not wait for Qelich, who was late, so he left Mirzā Sheykh with two thousand cavalry and ʿAli-Mardān with a small force in the citadel (qalʿa or qalʿa-ye arg). According to Lāhuri, ʿAli-Mardān wanted to join the fighting, but Saʿid Khān feared that one of his soldiers might remain loyal to the Safavids and assassinate the governor. Thus, Saʿid Khān left the city, taking three thousand of ʿAli-Mardān’s men of doubtful loyalty, who were under the leadership of ʿAli-Mardān’s nephew (Lāhuri does not name him, Kambu identifies him as Hoseyn Beyg). Saʿid Khān set out with a total of around eight thousand horsemen in all and an unspecified number of elephants (Lāhuri, II, 42–43; Kambu, II, 230).
On about 11 April/26 Zu’l-Qaʿda (Lāhuri, II, 42–43; Kambu, II, 230–31), the Mughal force met the Safavid army outside of Kandahar.28 The battle ended with a decisive Mughal victory and the entire Safavid camp fell into their hands. Lāhuri adds that Siyāvash fled so desperately that he crossed the over-flowing Helmand River, resulting in the drowning of many of his men (for a detailed description of the battle, see Lāhuri, II, 43–46; and, to a lesser extent, Kambu, II, 231–32). Three days later, Kandahar’s mosques announced the rule of Shāh-Jahān. In the defiance of the Shiʿi practice of the Safavids, those gathered in the mosques praised the first four caliphs (Lāhuri, II, 47; Kambu, II, 232). Saʿid Khān sent a message notifying the emperor, who then rewarded the commanders with promotions, gifts, various respects, and robes of honor (Lāhuri, II, 47–49; Kambu, II, 232–33).29
During these events, the Mughal envoy to the Safavid court, Safdar Khān, who was on his way back to India, reached Kandahar. There, he informed Saʿid Khān that Shah Safi was extremely angry because of the loss of the city and had said that it was easy to forget Baghdad or Esfahan—but difficult to let Kandahar go. Therefore, he planned to send an army under several commanders and even intended to join them himself. Lāhuri, however, does not report Safi’s desire to participate. Concerned, Saʿid Khān wrote to the Mughal prince Mohammad Shāh Shojāʿ (1616–61), who had reached Kabul on his way to Kandahar, asking him to forward all artillery to Kandahar, but to remain in Kabul: should Iran’s ruler lay siege to the city, he could relieve Kandahar with a large army, and should the shah stay behind, then the Mughal force could capture Bost and Zamin Davār. According to the Indian historians, Siyāvash, after losing the battle, appointed commanders to the forts still in Safavid hands and manned them with troops to harass the enemy before taking flight himself (Lāhuri, II, 49–50; Kambu, II, 233).
When the news of the events of Kabul and Kandahar reached Shāh-Jahān, he instructed Saʿid Khān to wait for Qelich Khān’s arrival and then30 to send ʿAli-Mardān to Kabul, while he should focus on capturing and other fortresses in the province. After Qelich Khān reached the area on around 03 May/18 Zu’l-Hejja, Saʿid Khān left the city walls with his men and set up a camp outside. Per his instructions, he sent ʿAli-Mardān Khān, accompanied by ʿEvaz Khān and fifteen hundred cavalrymen, to Moqor, from where another escort would take him onwards to Kabul (Lāhuri, II, 50–51; Kambu, II, 233).
Once ʿAli-Mardan reached Botkhāk, where the prince Shāh Shojāʿ was camping, he was welcomed by several dignitaries, who taught him Mughal protocol and etiquette, after which he officially pledged fealty to the prince. Receiving then lavish gifts and a robe of honor, he was seated to the left of the prince, along with other notables. Afterwards, ʿAli-Mardān continued onwards to Shāh-Jahān (Lāhuri, II, 51–52; Kambu, 233–34). The Mughal prince also dispatched further commanders, soldiers, and weaponry (the historians provide more specific details on all three) to Kandahar, while he continued himself on to Kabul (Lāhuri, II, 52; Kambu, II, 234). Interestingly, the Mughals stationed one thousand fewer soldiers at Kandahar than the force that had just left the city with ʿAli-Mardān, meaning that the overall Mughal contingent was smaller than the original Safavid garrison.
A detail from a c. 1730 map of the Ottoman Empire and Iran by Renier (1698–1750) and Joshua (1704–65) Ottens, showing the area of Kandahar
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia Commons
A detail from a c. 1730 map of the Ottoman Empire and Iran by Renier (1698–1750) and Joshua (1704–65) Ottens, showing the area of Kandahar
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia CommonsA detail from a c. 1730 map of the Ottoman Empire and Iran by Renier (1698–1750) and Joshua (1704–65) Ottens, showing the area of Kandahar
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia CommonsBoth Kambu and Lāhuri describe in painful detail the Mughal military campaign against the other fortresses in the area. They note that all of the defenders were put to the sword, except in Bost, where its commander, an Armenian gholām, and his officers were welcomed to a feast after the battle and allowed free passage to Iraq. Both accounts also stress the need to engage in military action before the Safavid forces managed to gather crops and supplies—as though there was a scramble by both sides to gather crops and raid villages before their opponent managed to do so (Lāhuri, II, 52–63; Kambu, II, 234–37). Another curious aspect of the Mughal accounts is that they present an overview of the size and composition of the Safavid army, providing data on the pay of Iranian ministers, officers, and other officials, which is then compared with that of Mughal dignitaries, who earned far more money (Lāhuri, II, 63–64; Kambu, II, 237–38).
Comparison of the Polish, Mughal, and Safavid Sources
When comparing the Mughal narratives with their Safavid and Polish-Lithuanian counter-parts, we observe that the former texts focus more on military issues, paying extreme diligence to the movements of the armies—especially when compared to the Safavid texts. Despite some discrepancies, especially concerning chronology, their accounts agree generally with the other material and are, in fact, our most specific sources. Indeed, Lāhuri’s chronicle (and, to a lesser degree, Kambu’s) seems to be the best account of the war over Kandahar among all analyzed here. At the same time, Kambu, omits almost entirely the political background to ʿAli-Mardān’s rebellion. This could be for a number of reasons. Naturally, a Mughal source would be less informed than a Safavid one when it comes to the internal politics of Iran.31 Furthermore, Kambu probably did not want to present the Mughals negatively as having suborned treason and offered protection to corrupt Safavid officials. Thus, he ignored claims of misconduct or sedition regarding ʿAli-Mardān, especially given his subsequent prominence in the Mughal state. It is likely that ʿAli-Mardān had planned previously to join the Mughals, since, after all, it is generally accepted that he was in touch with Qelich Khān since at least 1636 (Islam, I, 251). Kambu may be hinting at this when he observes that, by entering into the service of the Mughals, ʿAli-Mardān received the honor for which he had long yearned. At the same time, a total whitewashing of history is not possible, and Kambu has no problems describing the governor’s brutality, noting for example that he not only disbanded some of his troops of whom he suspected disloyalty, but actually executed those of whom he suspected posed a threat to his plans. Ultimately, all sources agree more or less that ʿAli-Mardān had no choice but to defect to the Mughals, given the danger to his life. In the Mughal narrative, however, the omission of his relations with the assassinated Safavid vizier Mirzā Tāleb Khān Ordubādi means that the events of Kandahar are devoid of the larger context. Kambu only mentions (I, 282) in passing Tāleb Khān’s execution in a section devoted to Shāh Safi’s general drunkenness, brutality, and erratic behavior; even this aside is absent from Lāhuri’s narrative. At the same time, the Mughals pay great attention to Mughal actions as a factor for ʿAli-Mardān’s decision to switch sides. If Romaszkiewcz’s account is a retelling of the Safavid narrative, one might say that the Mughal chronicles present the story from the vantage point of ʿAli-Mardān.
Unusually, Kambu and Lāhuri give no account of political negotiations between the two rulers Shāh Safi and Shāh-Jahān, which—according to the Safavid sources—consisted of Shāh-Jahān’s readiness to compensate the Iranians for the loss of Kandahar. Indeed, information about the diplomatic efforts is limited on the one hand to praising Safdar Khān’s rapport with the Iranian shah and the gifts he received during his stay in Esfahan and, on the other hand, to describing the gifts sent by the Mughal emperor to the Safavid envoy Yādegār Beyg and his sovereign (and, obviously, gifts given earlier by Yādegār to Shāh-Jahān). These gifts, however, should not be interpreted as an attempt at reconciliation, as Qazvini suggests, since Shāh-Jahān sent his imperial colleague an ornamental bottle and a precious chalice (Kambu, II, 247–48), which could be considered an insult, given Shāh Safi’s well-known addiction to alcohol and drugs. Naturally, these details are also missing from Romaszkiewicz’s Ottoman-centric account.32
Even more relevant to our analysis is the fact that, while the Mughal historians offer almost no information about the content of the diplomatic talks between the Safavids and the Mughals, their accounts are quite detailed regarding other aspects of foreign policy. One of these aspects, as noted, was the exchange of gifts. Another was information about conflicts between the Safavids and the Ottomans. For example, while Lāhuri and Kambu tell us nothing about Yādegār Beyg’s talks on the subject of Safavid-Mughal relations, they inform us that the envoy brought news of the Safavid capture of Yerevan; still, we must recall that he had been dispatched before the war over Kandahar (Lāhuri, II, 93; Kambu, II, 241). In other passages, we find rather detailed accounts of the siege of Baghdad (including an account of the circumstances of the death of the Ottoman vizier) and some specifics of the peace talks that led to the Treaty of Zohāb, albeit focusing on the exchange of territory (Lāhuri, II, 188–90; Kambu, II, 268–69). Interestingly, in an almost identical manner to Romaszkiewcz, Lāhuri and Kambu state that, after having signed an agreement with the Ottomans, Safi desired to retake Kandahar (Lāhuri, II, 291–92; Kambu, II, 302).
The full c. 1730 map of the Ottoman Empire and Iran by the Ottens brothers, showing much of the Gunpowder Empire continuum
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia Commons
The full c. 1730 map of the Ottoman Empire and Iran by the Ottens brothers, showing much of the Gunpowder Empire continuum
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia CommonsThe full c. 1730 map of the Ottoman Empire and Iran by the Ottens brothers, showing much of the Gunpowder Empire continuum
Citation: Journal of Persianate Studies 15, 2 (2022) ; 10.1163/18747167-bja10030
Source: Wikimedia CommonsBoth Safavid and Mughal sources exhibit a patronizing attitude towards their opposing side. While stressing the supposed friendly relations between the two dynasties, each rather constantly refers to the foreign counterpart as a vali (governor) and not as an independent ruler—as both sides, however, acknowledge the Ottoman sultan.33 While this complex issue seems to require a separate study, one could posit that it may have had to do with the Mughals’ claims to the Timurid heritage, which would make them the true rulers of Iran. As for the Safavids, it could stem from the brief period in which Humayun acknowledged their suzereinty or possibly their own claim—as the rulers of Iran—to be the heirs of Timur, as evident from their use of his most famous title “Sāheb-qerān (possessor of the auspicious conjunction)”—i.e., born during a conjunction of celestial bodies. In any case, the Polish report, ignorant of such questions of legitimacy, considered all three rulers to be of identical status with regard to their legitimacy. Thus, a seemingly important aspect of diplomacy and propaganda (or even, as we would call it today, soft power and public relations) among the Gunpowder Empires was lost in translation to the Polish-Lithuanian intelligence service.
Reporting at the Edge of the Gunpowder Empires: Further Research?
Both the Polish-Lithuanian report and the Mughal historians offered a rather clear and precise account of the military events of the Ottoman-Safavid conflict and its ensuing peace negotiations. The Polish-Lithuanian source is a bit more precise, but this is due to the fact that Romaszkiewicz was present in the capital of the Ottoman Empire, one of the parties to the conflict, whereas Lāhuri and Kambu were court historians of a neighboring country of the other party. The Mughal accounts thus differ inasmuch as they could not retell the events from the perspective of a reporter, but rather as a passive receiver of information. It would be tempting to compare the relations between the Mughals and the Ottomans with those of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Safavid Empire, keeping in mind the obvious differences.
Romaszkiewicz’s letter demonstrates the importance of Safavid-Mughal relations for Safavid-Ottoman and, consequently, Ottoman-Polish relations. Thus, we might first ask whether there were any important developments in Ottoman-Polish relations as a consequence of Safavid-Mughal relations. Secondly, it would be interesting to inquire conversely whether Polish-Ottoman relations impacted Safavid ties with the Mughals. We can point to at least one case that suggests the latter situation—Shāh ʿAbbās I’s campaign that resulted in the capture of Kandahar (1622) took place around the time of the first Battle of Khotyn (1621), about which ʿAbbās was well-informed (Sotuda and Afshar, 217–18). We should recall that a state’s policymakers did not have to be aware necessarily of developments on the other end of the continuum to be influenced by them. This can be shown by what (or who) is missing from Koniecpolski’s correspondence—the Uzbeks. Despite the fact that the Uzbeks were a recurrent threat to eastern Iran during this period, which saw numerous conflicts between the two sides, I have not found any mention of the Uzbeks in any Polish-Lithuanian documents. This, strengthens the conclusion that the commonwealth’s policymakers were aware of the importance of Ottoman-Safavid relations for Polish-Ottoman ones and thus limited their interest in Iran to this matter (notwithstanding Polish support for Catholic missions there; see Załęski). Other aspects of Persian politics—in our case, the conflict with the Mughals over Kandahar—became important only insofar as they impacted the Safavid-Ottoman war. Hence, it is not surprising that knowledge of events to the east of Iran was seriously limited—in fact, the more or less detailed account of the “Candechar” affair can be attributed only to a random opportunity in which the Polish-Armenian agent was able to obtain direct information from the Persian delegation at Istanbul.
We can find a parallel on the Persian side, once again relating to the Battle of Khotyn, which ended in a stalemate. As noted, Shāh ʿAbbās was aware of the conflict, receiving information from both Christian and Ottoman sources (Sotuda and Afshar, 217–18; Eskandar Beyg 2003/1382, III, 983–84), each of whom claimed victory (Kołodziejczyk 2004). Eskandar Beyg, Shāh ʿAbbās’ historian, provides another piece of information; while ʿAbbās had at first sent a speedy courier (mosriʿ) to investigate the issue, the rebellion of the Janissary Corps and the ensuing regicide of ʿOsmān II (r. 1618–22) eliminated the need for further intelligence, since it did not matter whether his Ottoman opponent had won a battle in a distant country, but rather that he was weakened. We see that Eskandar Beyg did not even see fit to identify the specific “Frank (farangi)” against whom the sultan had waged war.
In Esfahāni’s chronicle from the 1630s, we find another example where a shah—this time, Safi—expressed interest in Ottoman-European relations, when he ascertained that Morād IV sought peace with Iran in order to go to war in Europe—perhaps the same possible war about which Romaszkiewicz reported. According to Esfahāni, the Christians were the ones preparing for an invasion—and meanwhile the sultan needed to put down a potential rebellion in his capital of Istanbul (idem 1989, 263–64; 1978, 255–56). Clearly, this information was of value for Iranian decision-makers in negotiating peace with the Ottomans.
The observations in this study suggest that the study of Eastern and Central Europe should consider more broadly the history of South Asia—and vice-versa. Some links between the Ottoman-European and the Safavid-Mughal realms have been explored recently by Matthee, who points out that when the Ottomans were preoccupied with European issues, the Safavids would often engage the Mughals, and that all three Gunpowder Empires, when waging war, would try to avoid fighting on two fronts. However, as Matthee’s focus was on Safavid efforts to protect their state, the broader subject of the continuum from Central/Eastern Europe to South Asia (or, indeed, even further beyond) still awaits further research.34
Acknowledgements
This study has been supported by the National Science Centre, Poland, under the research project, “Minutes of the First Iranian Parliament (1906–08): Translation and Linguistic, Literary, and Historical Analysis,” no. 2019/35/D/HS3/00041. I would like to thank the anonymous reviewers for dedicating their time and effort to read and review the manuscript. Their suggestions greatly improved the present article. I would also like to express my gratitude to Dr. D. Gershon Lewental for his help, as well as patience he exhibited when editing the manuscript.
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M. Połczyński, “The Relacyja of Sefer Muratowicz: 1601–1602 Private Royal Envoy of Sigismund III Vasa to Shah ʿAbbas I,” Turkish Historical Review 5.1 (2014), pp. 59–93, DOI 10.1163/18775462-00501009.
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J. Reychman, Tłumacze języków wschodnich w Polsce XVIII wieku (Translators of Eastern Languages in Poland in the Eighteenth Century), Warsaw, 1947.
J. Reychman, Znajomość i nauczanie języków orientalnych w Polsce XVIII w. (Knowledge and Teaching of Oriental Languages in Poland in the Eighteenth Century), Wrocław, 1950.
J. Reychman, “Grudziecki (Gurdziecki) Bohdan,” in Polski słownik biograficzny, Kraków, 1960–61, vol. 9, pp. 40–41.
M. A. Rokni and St. A. Jaśkowski, “Ravābet-e Irān va Lahestān dar ʿahd-e Safaviyya,” Pazhuheshhā-ye ʿolum-e tārikhi 6.2 (February–March/Esfand 2015/1393), pp. 79–98, DOI 10.22059/jhss.2015.56613.
G. Rota, “Una nota su Moldavia, Valacchia e la strategia anti-ottomana della Repubblica di Venezia nel 1638–1639,” in Cr. Luca and G. Masi, eds., L’Europa Centro-orientale e la penisola italiana: Quattro secoli di rapporti e influssi intercorsi tra stati e civiltà, 1300–1700, Brăila/Venice, 2007, pp. 207–225.
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St. Stasiak, “Les Indes portugaises à la fin du XVIe s. d’après la relation du voyage fait à Goa en 1596 par Christophe Pawłowski, gentilhomme polonaise: Notes et excursiones: Deuxième série,” Rocznik Orientalistyczny 5 (1927), pp. 21–44.
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As evidenced by the length of the relevant sections of the cited texts, these are two separate works.
To note just a few, see Reychman 1947; 1950; 1960–61; Natoński; Bałczewski; Kołodziejczyk 2000; 2011; 2019; Taqavi and Jaśkowski; Nagielski; Jaśkowski, Kołodziejczyk, and Mnacʿakanyan; Borkowski; Królikowska-Jedlińska; Józefowicz-Czabak; Krzyszkowski; Chowaniec; Jaśkowski and Kołodziejczyk. Among the pioneering works one should definitely mention Załęski, remembering that, even according to the author, it was more of a sketch of a study, and the final chapters of Szapszał’s work. Relatively well-known Brzeziński was already more or less dated by the time it was published. Apart from the well-known Krusiński, probably the largest body of work was composed by the Armenian trader and unofficial Polish-Lithuanian royal envoy, Sefer Muratowicz, whose account of his mission to Persia (1745; 1777; 1807; 1980) has been relatively well-known in Polish-language scholarship at least since its first publication in the eighteenth century; see also Mańkowski; Szuppe; Połczyński; Rokni and Jaśkowski; Kołodziejczyk 2017b.
In fact, a large portion of Jan (or Piotr) Romaszkiewicz’s 1640 intelligence report (see below) is dedicated to this topic.
Or, at least, I could not locate any correspondence in the Libri legationum, the collections of diplomatic letters held in the Central Archives of Historical Records in Warsaw.
For this reason, the 1938 published edition of this text was supplemented by relevant sections from Mohammad-Yusof Vāleh Qazvini’s Khold-e barin.
There exist many manuscripts and lithographic editions of Vahid Qazvini’s Monshaʾāt, but we still lack a critical edition of this work; although the lithographic editions from the Indian subcontinent often have marginal notes, these are intended only to explain unfamiliar words and expressions in the text. For a few examples of the correspondence on Kandahar, see Vahid Qazvini 1713/1125, pp. 5–8, 11–13, 24–30, 30–33, 44–47, 64–74, 95–104 (dated 07 December 1713/19 Zu’l-Qaʿda 1125; references are to pages rather than folios, as the pages of the manuscript have been numbered with a pencil).
It would seem that this work is similar to the Tārikh-e pādshāhān-e ʿAjam (History of the Emperors of Iran), Mojmal al-tavārikh (Compendium of Histories), and other short historical works presented in the siyāq system of numerical notation. These works have been discussed in Eliyāsi and Khālendi.
The grand hetman was the chief commander of regular troops, also authorized to maintain intelligence service and diplomatic relations with Poland’s southern and eastern neighbors. This concentration of both military and diplomatic power in the hands of one official was the result of the career of Jan Zamoyski (1542–1605), who held both positions, and was more a matter of political practice than legislation.
For example, on 30 November 1639 (more than half a year after the treaty), Koniecpolski wrote to his king that the peace might be signed, as the sultan was trying very hard to accomplish it (Biedrzycka, 557).
The Polish text spells the name “Kandechar” in the second version (Biedrzycka, 576).
The second version calls him “Forchat Chan” (Biedrzycka, 576). For reasons provided later, “Taratt Chan” seems more correct.
The second version adds that he fled to Iran during an unspecified Indo-Persian conflict.
Kandahar (called Kandastar) was very briefly mentioned in Nowe Ateny (New Athens, 1746), the first and best-known Polish encyclopedia of the eighteenth century (Borkowski, 99; Chmielowski, 587). Moreover, there are numerous mentions of Kandahar throughout Krusiński’s narrative of the Afghan rebellion (1734), including the lesser-known Polish manuscript of the text (Krusiński n.d.; I am grateful to Mr. M. P. Borkowski for giving me access to his unpublished transcript of the text). As we know from other sources, by a little over a century later, knowledge of the geography of the Islamic East was already well developed in Polish-Lithuanian literature (Borkowski 2014); there were even travelers who had reached India (Stasiak 1925; 1926; 1927). All this occurred, however, after Romaszkiewicz’s time.
For the biography of ʿAli-Mardān, see Shāh-Navāz Khān and ʿAbd al-Hayy Khān 1888–91, II, 795–808; 1979, I, 186–94; Soroush.
Some sources—among them, Vāleh Qazvini—refer to him with the title of beyg (lord or prince).
Although Eskandar Beyg includes this affair in his chapter covering the year 1633–34/1043, it is clear from the months he mentions that his dating agrees with the rest of the sources.
This, however, may be the case of Vāleh Qazvini simply embellishing Eskandar Beyg’s account when discussing the earlier events.
This chronology seems incorrect. Other authors, such as Esfahāni, deem 1044 the Year of the Pig (or, rather, the Year of the Pig began during 1044) (cf. idem 1978, vi). While, as we have seen earlier, there can be some confusion in the relation between the numbered lunar and the named solar years, it can only be a difference of one year, not two. Still, Safdar Khān was sent back to India on 28 October 1637/03 Jomādā II 1046, the Year of the Ox (ud-yıl)—actually 03 Jomādā II 1047 (Esfahāni 1989, 250; 1978, 238). Hence, it would seem that Shāmlu provides the correct year number, but incorrect name. Still, it is interesting that, according to the Mughal sources, as we will see soon, Safdar reached Kandahar much later.
The reasoning for this advice was that issuing a religious decree (fatva) to kill a group of people is a wrong-doing, yet it is possible to allow a small evil in order to obtain greater good.
This number is obviously made up or an honest mistake, as it is off by an entire order of magnitude.
According to Shāmlu (252), who worked in the Nimruz chancellery a few years later, Malek Hamza Khān was unable previously to engage the Mughal forces, as he was preoccupied with another campaign.
Also, as no one with a name similar to “Forchat” played any important role in this story, we must dismiss this form, which appears in the second version.
The Khold-e barin presents an identical account to the Tārikh-e jahān-āra (see Vāleh Qazvini, 287).
Esfahāni adds little to this particular subject, while Shāmlu, Mollā Kamāl, and Tafreshi provide no information.
The most detailed Iranian account of the way in which these princes arrived in Persia would probably be Eskandar Beyg’s chronicle (1938/1317, 120–26). While Esfahāni might be considered a useful source because of his detailed chronology, he omits mention of the events surrounding Bolāghi’s arrival (1989, 133, 141–43; 1978, 116, 125–26). For a general discussion of the subject, see Flores and Subrahmanyam.
Interestingly, Esfahāni inserts into his account of the peace treaty information about a contemporary dispute between the khan of Bukhara and the Mughal prince Shāh-Shojāʿ (r. 1616–61) (Esfahāni 1989, 267, 275; 1978, 259, 274).
It is possible that this initial pledging of loyalty led the Mughals to decide to teach him the local etiquette.
Lāhuri and Kambu differ on both the distance from the city (one koruh/2 km and one farsakh/5 km, respectively) and the size of the Safavid army (around five or six thousand or seven thousand, respectively). Lāhuri’s numbers are identical to those of Shāh-Navāz Khān and ʿAbd al-Hayy (1888–91, II, 797; 1979, I, 187), but this could simply mean that the latter account is based on Lāhuri’s. On the other hand, Shāh-Navāz elsewhere (idem 1888–91, II, 433; 1979, II, 676) repeats Kambu’s estimates. Regardless, it is clear that the forces were far more equally matched than Safavid sources would have us believe.
These Mughal passages accord well with Romaszkiewicz’s report in terms of the size of ʿAli-Mardān forces, however, they provide a smaller estimate of Saʿid Khān’s army (according to Kambu, about eight thousand men in the field and two more thousand in Kandahar, while Romaszkiewicz stated that ʿAli-Mardān had twenty-five thousand soldiers). If the Polish informant was reliably conveying the Safavid information, it could explain why the Iranian army proceeded slowly, collecting troops along the way, since the Safavids expected to meet a larger force—especially, given that the Mughal troops on their way, as the Persians knew from the intercepted information.
Kambu does not state explicitly that this should happen after the arrival of Qelich, but rather that it should happen after Saʿid returned from Kandahar (presumably after Qelich’s arrival) (idem, II, 233).
Similarly, a Polish Ottoman-centric account would be less informed about events of the Safavid-Mughal border and therefore Romaszkiewicz based his information on a Safavid source—thus also presenting the Safavid viewpoint.
Lāhuri does not mention the bottle and chalices, but mentions instead (II, 93–94, 97, 99, 101, 103, 105) a number of gifts presented to the envoy, which included “trade goods of India (amtaʿa-ye Hendustān),” and even an elephant. Possibly, these “trade goods” included the bottles received by the shah.
This is not the case in every source, such as Shāmlu (242) and Eskandar Beyg (2003/1382, III, 970), among others.
I do not mean, however, that the subject has never been tackled before; the Central European—Safavid—Ottoman context has been the subject of research, evidenced by several studies (Bayani; Dávid; Flores; Fodor; Niederkorn; Rota; Tezcan), as well as most studies of Polish-Safavids relations (see n. 1), as these ties were by their very nature focused on building an anti-Ottoman coalition.