One sunny afternoon Tamerlane lay resting in the shade of a lofty red and green silken pavilion in the middle of his twelve-in-one Bagh-I Bihisht gardens at Samarkand. At his feet, the trustworthy Nasreddin. In front of them a large fountain with fresh red apples dancing in bubbling cool water.
At this hour of counsel, the mighty Amir felt he could relax and have a pleasant choice – play chess by his own rules or bully the Hodja. He fancied doing the second.
“You have no choice said he, but to place on your head the helmet of courage, and put on the armour of determination, bind on the sword of resolution, and like an alligator dive at once into the river of blood.”
He paused for a long moment enjoying the breeze and the gentle playing of the red apples in the pool. Then he added, “...Or, to put on the looks of a fox like you worm, and pinch away the leftovers at the lion’s feast.”
Timur rested for another while and Hodja asked himself what dangerous turn of whim will follow. At last it came.
“You, dreamers and thinkers are no good. On your own you would survive less than one day here. Nobody has respect for you, nobody fears you. Why did I keep you alive so long?”
Nasreddin took an air of respectful terror and deep soul-searching. Then he advanced with audacity,
“Conqueror of the World, let me take exception with your censure. If needed, I exude as much authority and respect as your Highness, and I can prove it in your very presence even before the break of the next morning. The populace fears and awes me.”
He paused and the Amir mused what to expect. Then Hodja added,
“Let’s go out together this night, I wearing your mantle and sword. You will please to follow a few paces behind, disguised with a large cloak, as Haroon al Rasheed used to do. You will see that I am treated with the same respect as yourself. Cloth maketh the man.”
Tamerlane accepted the test.
The same evening they went to wander about Samarkand, The Mullah carrying the legendary scimitar of the Emir and his mantle, while Timur walked a few steps behind, cloaked with an ample black mantle revealing only his panther eyes.
They went along the straight alleys of the capital, entirely rebuilt from the spoils of Tamerlane’s wars and indeed, whenever Hodja stopped or turned his gaze towards them, the shopkeepers, soldiers and other passers-by concerned, looked at him, then looked around anxiously and suddenly threw themselves in the dust or bowed with excessive respect and fear. Certainly they did, when seeing Nasreddin clad with Tamerlane’s attributes and followed by the shadow of that too well known tall cloaked stature with evil piercing eyes.
“You can see Majesty, whispered Hodja after a while, they all fear me. The coat does make the man.”
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