Taq-e Bostan

Listen first. Water moves somewhere close by. It runs out from the foot of the mountain, gathers in a wide, still pool, and slips away under the trees. The air near the rock is cooler than the city behind you. Look across the water. There, cut into a cliff of pale grey stone, are two dark arches. Their reflections tremble on the surface of the pool. This is Taq-e Bostan, on the edge of Kermanshah in western Iran.

The name is usually translated as the Arch of the Garden. It fits. For a very long time, people have come here for the same simple reasons you can feel right now: fresh water, shade, and a sheer wall of rock that seems made for carving. The springs at the base of the mountain have drawn travellers, armies, and royal hunting parties for many centuries. The garden came first. The art came because the garden was here.

The carvings belong to the Sasanians. They were the last great Persian dynasty before the arrival of Islam. Their empire ruled from the third century to the seventh century, and it was a rival to Rome and later to Byzantium. Sasanian kings liked to put their power into stone. They carved rock reliefs across Iran. Taq-e Bostan holds some of the finest and latest of them. The work here is deeper, more detailed, and more confident than most earlier examples.

Start with the panel that stands in the open air, beside the arches. It shows a royal investiture... that is, a ceremony where a king receives the right to rule from the divine. The king is usually identified as Ardashir the Second, who reigned in the fourth century. Look closely at the figure behind him. He stands on a lotus flower, and rays of light circle his head. Scholars identify him as Mithra, an ancient Iranian god connected with light, contracts, and loyalty.

Now look down, at the feet of the figures. A man lies flat on the ground — defeated, trampled. Many historians identify him as the Roman emperor Julian, who died during a failed campaign against the Sasanians in the fourth century. Not every scholar agrees. But the message is clear either way. Here is a Persian king, blessed by the gods, standing on the body of his enemy. It was political propaganda, cut into rock so that it would last.

Next, the smaller arch. It is a shallow vault carved straight into the cliff. On its back wall, two crowned figures stand side by side. Inscriptions in Middle Persian, the language of the Sasanian court, name them as Shapur the Second and his son, Shapur the Third. This is one of the reasons the site matters so much to historians. Here, the stone tells you who these men are. Many ancient reliefs leave that question open.

Then comes the great arch. Step back and take in its full shape. It is a deep vault, framed by carved pillars covered in leafy, flowing ornament. Above the opening, on each side, a winged figure holds out a ring. These figures look surprisingly Roman. They resemble the winged Victories found on Roman triumphal arches. It is a small reminder that these two empires fought each other for centuries — and also watched and borrowed from each other.

Inside the great arch, the back wall is divided into two levels. On the upper level, a king stands between two figures. One is usually identified as Ahura Mazda, the supreme god of the Zoroastrian faith. The other is thought to be Anahita, a goddess linked with water. It is fitting to find a water goddess here, beside the spring. Most scholars identify this king as Khosrow the Second, who ruled near the very end of the Sasanian age.

Below him is the image many visitors remember longest. It is a horseman in full armour, carved almost in the round. His face is covered by mail. He holds a lance, and his horse is armoured too. This is a heavy cavalryman, the kind of warrior that made the Sasanian army feared. Local tradition calls the horse Shabdiz, the beloved steed of Khosrow the Second. According to legend, the king loved this horse so much that no one dared tell him when it died.

Now turn to the side walls of the great arch. Here is the first real surprise. They are covered with hunting scenes, and they are full of life. On one wall, the king hunts wild boar in a marsh. He stands in a boat, his bow drawn. Elephants with riders push through the reeds and drive the animals forward. Other boats carry women playing harps. The scene is crowded and noisy, even in stone. You can almost hear the shouting and the splashing.

The opposite wall shows a deer hunt on dry land. Riders chase herds across an enclosed hunting ground. The king appears more than once, as if the wall shows a story unfolding in time. Spend a minute on the small figures at the edges. Some carry supplies. Others lead camels loaded with the day's catch. These are the people who made royal pleasure possible. They are rarely shown in the art of this period, but here they are.

The second surprise is in the clothing. Look at the king's garments in the great arch. They are covered with fine, carved patterns — roundels, birds, and imaginary creatures. Sasanian silk was famous and traded as far as Europe and China. Very little of it survives. Because these carvings record the patterns so carefully, textile historians study them closely. In a way, this wall is a stone record of a lost royal wardrobe.

Not everything you see is ancient. In the nineteenth century, during the Qajar period, a provincial ruler added his own relief to the rock. It sits among the Sasanian work, and you may notice how different it feels — a later hand, a later style, a different idea of royalty. It shows that the urge to leave a royal mark on this cliff did not end with the Sasanians. People kept returning to the same stone.

Before you go, walk back to the edge of the pool. Look at the arches once more, and at their reflection in the water. The light shifts across the rock as the day moves, and the carved figures change with it. Listen again to the water running from the mountain. It ran here before the first chisel touched this cliff, and it is still running now... long after the kings who stood here have gone.