There was Tagi Khan, Master of Horse, in purple silk, his wicked, shriveled old face topped ludicrously by a coquettish turban in pale cerise, beard and finger nails dyed a bright crimson with henna; Koom Khan, the sipar salar—the commander-in-chief, who had left behind his silver-tipped staff of office and was holding in his bony, brown right hand a large cluster of those dark violet lilies which the Persians call First Born Buds, to put upon the grave; the Sheik-ul-Islam, in green silk from head to foot, a miniature Koran bound in red and silver Bokharan leather stuck in his waist shawl; Gulabian, the Armenian treasurer, in sober black, fur capped; Tugluk Khan, the court architect, thinking morosely that his last work—the mausoleum of olive-veined Yezd marble which would house the Ameer by the side of his ancestors—was done.
Came Nedjif Hassan Khan, governor of the eastern marches, whispering to his twin brother and worst enemy, the sheik Abderrahman Yahiah Khan, governor of the western marches; came pipe bearer and slipper bearer and fan bearer; the palace eunuchs, huge, paunchy, plum-colored Nubians, arrogant, sneering; the chief executioner in motley red and black; and many, many others, with bowed head and dragging feet, in token of mourning.
Too, envoys from the neighboring lands; from the East, the Ameer of the Afghans, until thirty years earlier the hereditary foes of the Tamerlanis, had sent his youngest brother, Nasrullah Nadir Khan el-Durani; Persia was fittingly represented by lisping, mincing Mirza Markar Khan, who ogled the women, old and young, veiled and unveiled, as the cortège
