—including Samarqand and the surrounding districts—until their power came to an end. He then built a bridge across the Jayḥūn (Oxus), a project at which kings and caliphs alike would have been powerless; it cost him two million dinars, and no other ruler ever matched the feat. In the field he commanded four hundred squadrons of fighting cavalry—an awe-inspiring and formidable force. Many other episodes occurred in his career, the details of which are too numerous to recount here.
Yet with all of this he remained the very model of piety and moral vigilance. He loathed sin and those who practiced it; he liked neither to witness it nor even to hear of it. No one in his realm dared display an open act of disobedience, drink wine, or similar vices. He detested amusements and their devotees, while he loved scholars and ḥadith specialists, honoring them, sitting with them, and treating them generously. He likewise showed affection for people of righteousness, religion, and integrity.
In jurisprudence he was at first a Ḥanafī, then became a Shāfiʿī through the influence of Abū Bakr al-Qaffāl al-Ṣaghīr, as related by Imām al-Ḥaramayn and others. In creed he inclined toward the Karrāmiyya, and among their number who attended his court was Muḥammad ibn al-Hayḍam. Ibn al-Hayḍam and Abū Bakr ibn Fūrak once engaged in a lengthy debate before Maḥmūd ibn Subuktikīn concerning the Divine Throne; Ibn al-Hayḍam later recorded the discussion in a book. The sultan sided with Ibn al-Hayḍam, took offense at Ibn Fūrak’s words, and ordered his expulsion because they accorded with the views of the Jahmiyya. In this he acted with upright justice.
A man once complained to him that the king’s nephew would repeatedly burst into his house, drive him out, and seclude himself with the man’s wife. Whenever he appealed to the authorities, none dared apply the legal penalty because they feared the king. When the king heard this he became exceedingly angry and said, “Woe to you! Whenever he comes, come straight to me and inform me. Let no one bar your way, even by night.” He instructed the chamberlains accordingly.
Within a night or two the young man again invaded the house and expelled its owner, who went weeping to the palace. “The king is asleep,” he was told. “But he commanded you to wake him,” the man replied. They roused the king, who set out with the complainant alone to the house, where he found the youth asleep with the woman in her husband’s bed, a lamp burning beside them. The king extinguished the light, knelt, and severed the youth’s head. Then he said, “Woe to you, bring me a drink of water.” After drinking he prepared to leave.
The man asked, “I adjure you by Allah, why did you put out the lamp?” He answered, “Woe to you! He was my sister’s son, and I hated to look at him while I struck him down.” The man then asked, “Why did you so quickly ask for water?” He replied, “From the moment you first informed me I swore an oath not to eat or drink until I had supported you and upheld your right; I have been parched these entire days until what you witnessed just now.” The man prayed for him, and the king returned to his palace without anyone knowing what had happened. May Allah have mercy on him.
His final illness was a derangement of his humors accompanied by chronic diarrhea that lasted two years. During that time he neither lay on a bed nor reclined on anything, such was his strength and the severity of the ailment. Instead he would lean on cushions placed for him, attend his court, and adjudicate people’s cases as usual, until death overtook him in that very state on Thursday, seven days before the end of Rabīʿ al-Ākhir of this year. He was sixty-three years old, having reigned for thirty-three of them, and he left behind an immense fortune, among which were: