Shah-i-Zinda

Start with the feel of the stone under your feet. The steps here are worn smooth, polished by centuries of pilgrims and visitors climbing the same slope. Ahead, a narrow lane opens between walls of blue. Turquoise, cobalt, deep green, and a pale sandy brick. On a sunny morning the tiles throw colour onto the ground, and the air feels cooler between the tall facades. This is Shah-i-Zinda, a street of tombs on the edge of Samarkand.

The name means "The Living King." It comes from one man, and from one remarkable story. Qusam ibn Abbas was a cousin of the Prophet Muhammad. Tradition holds that he came to this region in the seventh century to spread Islam. What happened next moves from history into legend. Locals say he was attacked while at prayer and beheaded. According to the tale, he did not die. He picked up his head and walked into a deep well, or into a hidden garden, depending on who tells it.

There, the legend says, he lives still, waiting for the moment he is needed again. That is why this place is called the shrine of the Living King. Whatever you make of the story, its power is real. For more than a thousand years, people have come here to be near him. And many wanted to be buried close to his resting place. So, slowly, a whole street of mausoleums grew up the hillside.

Notice what lies just beyond the walls. This slope is the edge of Afrasiyab, the site of ancient Samarkand. For centuries a great city stood there, on the high ground to your north. In 1220 the Mongol armies of Genghis Khan destroyed it. The old city was never rebuilt on that spot. Samarkand moved south, to where the modern centre stands. But the shrine of Qusam ibn Abbas survived, and people kept coming back to it.

The great flowering of this necropolis came later — in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. This was the age of Timur, the conqueror the West often calls Tamerlane, and of his grandson Ulugh Beg. Timur made Samarkand his capital and filled it with blue domes. Many of the tombs you see were built for members of his family, his generals, and the noble women of his court. A burial here was an honour, and a statement.

As you walk, you will see that each tomb is a small, separate building. Most have a tall entrance arch, called a portal, and a room behind it, often topped with a dome. The builders packed them close together, door beside door. The effect is like a street in a city of the dead. Some facades face each other across the lane, almost touching. It is one of the few places where you can see so many Timurid buildings side by side.

Look closely at the surfaces, because here is a detail many visitors miss. Not all the decoration is flat painted tile. Some panels are carved terracotta — fired clay, cut into deep patterns, then glazed. Run your eye along the edges and you will see the shadows inside the carving. Other panels use mosaic, made of tiny shaped pieces fitted together. Still others are painted tiles. Several techniques sit within a few steps of each other, like a catalogue of the craft.

Two of the most admired tombs belong to women of Timur's family. One is linked to his sister, Shirin Bika Aka. Another is linked to his niece, Shadi Mulk Aka. Their interiors and facades carry some of the richest tilework on the street. Notice the inscriptions running around the arches. Calligraphy was a central art in the Islamic world, and these bands of writing were meant to be read, not only admired. Words from the Quran, and words of mourning, frame the doors.

Near the lower part of the complex stands a larger tomb with twin domes. It is usually named after Qazi Zada Rumi, an astronomer and teacher who worked with Ulugh Beg. Ulugh Beg was a ruler, but he was also a serious scientist. He built an observatory on a hill not far from here. Scholars still discuss exactly who lies in this tomb. But the building is a reminder that Samarkand was once a centre of science as well as power.

Now, the staircase. Locals sometimes call it the Stairs of Heaven. There is a popular tradition attached to it. You count the steps as you climb up, and count them again as you come down. If both numbers match, the story goes, your sins are forgiven. Many visitors find their numbers differ — and laugh, and try again. It is a small, human ritual, and it slows people down on a slope that rewards slowing down.

At the far end of the lane is the oldest and holiest part of the complex — the shrine of Qusam ibn Abbas himself. The buildings around it were rebuilt and extended over many centuries. Here the mood changes. You may see people praying quietly, or an elder reciting verses while a small group listens with open palms. This is still a living place of pilgrimage. Speak softly, and dress modestly, with shoulders and knees covered.

It is worth knowing that Shah-i-Zinda has been heavily restored. In the early 2000s, large sections were repaired and some tiles were replaced. Some experts criticised the work as too much rebuilding. So when a facade looks almost new, it may well be. Look for contrast instead. In places, faded original tiles sit beside fresh ones, and the old glaze has a softer, uneven shine. Together, the street forms part of Samarkand's listing as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Before you leave, stand still for a moment in the middle of the lane. Look up at the narrow strip of sky between the domes. Listen to the footsteps on the stone, the low voices, perhaps a prayer from the far end. As you walk back down the steps, glance at the active cemetery on the hillside nearby. People are still buried close to the Living King. The story that began here more than a thousand years ago is not finished yet.