Bibi-Khanym Mosque

Start with the colour. Above you, a dome of deep turquoise rises against the Samarkand sky. Below it, walls of pale, sun-baked brick are patterned with glazed tiles in cobalt, white and sea-green. On a warm day the bricks hold the heat like an oven. Somewhere nearby, voices from the bazaar drift across the street, and the smell of fresh bread carries on the air.

This is the Bibi-Khanym Mosque. It is one of the most ambitious buildings ever raised in Central Asia. The scale is the first thing that strikes most visitors. The entrance portal is not made for human proportions. It is made to make people feel small, and to make one man feel very large.

That man was Timur, known in the West as Tamerlane. In the late fourteenth century he built an empire that stretched from the edges of Anatolia to northern India. Samarkand was his capital. He brought craftsmen, artists and builders here from the cities he conquered. He wanted his capital to outshine every other city in the Islamic world.

The mosque followed one of his most famous campaigns. Timur returned from India with great wealth at the very end of the fourteenth century. Work on this mosque began around 1399. It was the city's main Friday mosque, the place where the whole community gathered for the weekly prayer. Court accounts describe elephants brought from India helping to move heavy stone. Builders worked at speed, because Timur was impatient to see it finished.

Here is the first surprise. That speed came at a cost. The mosque was so large, and built so quickly, that it began to suffer almost as soon as it was finished. Visitors in the following decades reported bricks falling from the vaults. The worshippers below had reason to look up nervously. Even before Timur's death in 1405, this great building showed signs of strain.

Over the centuries, time and the earth did the rest. Samarkand sits in a region of earthquakes. A powerful earthquake in the late nineteenth century brought down large parts of the structure. For generations, travellers saw the mosque as a romantic ruin. Its broken arches stood open to the sky, and its tiles lay scattered in the dust.

What you see today is largely the result of restoration. Work began in the Soviet period and continued after Uzbekistan became independent in 1991. Restorers rebuilt domes, portals and walls, often on a grand scale. Some historians argue the work went too far, and that new brick replaced too much of the old. Others see it as a rescue. As you walk around, try to notice where the brick looks older and more weathered, and where it looks crisp and new.

Now the name. Bibi-Khanym means, roughly, the senior lady or the elder queen. It is usually linked to Saray Mulk Khanum, Timur's chief wife, a princess descended from the line of Genghis Khan. Here history gives way to legend. Locals tell a story that she ordered the mosque built as a surprise for her husband while he was away at war.

The legend goes further. According to the popular tale, the architect fell in love with the queen. He refused to finish the building unless she allowed him a single kiss. She agreed, and the kiss left a mark on her cheek. When Timur returned, he saw the mark and understood. In some versions, the architect escaped by climbing a minaret and flying away. It is a story, not history. But you will hear it told often in Samarkand, and it shows how deeply this building lives in local memory.

Walk through the portal and into the courtyard. The space opens wide, and the noise of the street falls away. Directly ahead stands the main sanctuary, crowned by the great turquoise dome. To the left and right, two smaller domed halls face each other across the yard. Together they form a cross-shaped plan around the open centre, a layout common in the great mosques of Iran and Central Asia.

In the middle of the courtyard sits the second surprise — an enormous stand made of carved marble. It was built to hold a huge Quran, the holy book of Islam. The stand was once inside the sanctuary and was later moved outdoors. Local tradition says that women who wish to have children should crawl beneath it. You may see families pause here, and even today the custom is followed with a smile.

Look closely at the tilework, too. Timur's builders used several techniques. Some patterns are made from glazed bricks laid in geometric designs across large surfaces. Others use finer pieces of tile cut into shapes and set together like a puzzle. Bands of large script run across the walls. Seen from a distance, they read as pattern. Up close, they are words.

When you step back out, notice how close the mosque stands to daily life. The Siyob Bazaar is just next door, full of dried fruit, nuts, spices and stacks of round bread. Across the street sits a small domed mausoleum also linked to the name Bibi-Khanym. A pedestrian street runs from here toward the Registan, Samarkand's great public square. Merchants, students and families pass this portal every day, much as people have for six centuries.

Before you go, look up one more time at the dome. Let your eye follow the line of the blue against the brick, and the brick against the sky. This building was meant to last forever, and it nearly fell many times. It is still standing, partly rebuilt, partly original. As you walk toward the bazaar, listen for the change in sound — from the quiet of the courtyard back into the life of the city that built it.