Eschatologia Iranica I: From Zoroastrian Cosmos to Abbasid Madīnat al-Salām: A Journey through Utopia and Heterotopia ^†

Abstract

The history of imperial dynasties in West Asia is replete with examples of remarkable urban foundations. Two notable instances are the Sasanian Ardašīr-xwarrah and the Abbasid Madīnat al-Salām, which can be classified as cosmic cities or heterotopias. This article examines the utopian foundations of these heterotopias. To this end, it analyzes four religious and imperial spaces: the representation of the earth and sky in the Zoroastrian cosmography, Yima’s Vara according to the Avestan texts, Ardašīr-xwarrah, and finally, Madīnat al-Salām. This investigation aims to ascertain the extent to which the spatial characteristics of each of these spaces have been utilized in the production of the subsequent architectural forms. Similarly, it examines the development of the cosmological and eschatological paradise in relation to the Achaemenian and Sasanian royal gardens. The theoretical framework of this study is based on Michael Foucault’s notion of heterotopia, which has been further developed by Henri Lefebvre’s theory of space. The conceptual metaphor theory offers a cognitive linguistic foundation for elucidating the projections of utopias and heterotopias onto one another. To this end, the article focuses on the conceptual metaphor GOD IS A KING.

1. Theoretical Framework

The history of imperial dynasties in West Asia is replete with examples of remarkable urban foundations. Two such instances stand out: Ardašīr-xwarrah (Glory of Ardašīr) at the emergence of the Sasanian dynasty and Madīnat al-Salām (City of Peace) located in the urban complex of Baghdad at the advent of the Abbasid caliphate. In a recent publication, I endeavored to demonstrate the similarities and differences between these two cities beyond the mere form of their surrounding walls as a perfect circle. The comparison led to the conclusion that Madīnat al-Salām imitates the principles of spatial representation established by Ardašīr-xwarrah, even where its spatial realizations differ from those of the Sasanian capital.

This paper will attempt to provide an answer to the question of why these two emperors invested so much in founding such excellent cities. One can simply discern the answer in the demonstration of royal power or proclamation of the political program, as the scholarship currently assumes.1 I suppose that there is more than just a political dimension in the spatial order of these cities. By emphasizing their religious aspects, I seek to promote consideration of whether Madīnat al-Salām has directly emulated Ardašīr-xwarrah or, alternatively, whether both cities represent or, more accurately, instantiate a transcendent space. The answer to this question will lead us to the Zoroastrian cosmology and another Iranian ideal space, Yima’s Vara.

The theoretical framework of my investigation is threefold. The first component is Michel Foucault’s notion of heterotopia. In order to differentiate such spaces from simple real spaces, Foucault (1984) divides the spaces that are both connected and contradictory to real places into two groups. On the one hand, there are utopias:

“Utopias are sites with no real place. They are sites that have a general relation of direct or inverted analogy with the real space of Society. They present society itself in a perfected form, or else society turned upside down, but in any case these utopias are fundamentally unreal spaces”

(Foucault 1986, p. 24).

In contrast to utopias, Foucault posits the concept of heterotopias, which he defines as follows:

“[…] real places—places that do exist and that are formed in the very founding of society—which are something like counter-sites, a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted. Places of this kind are outside of all places, even though it may be possible to indicate their location in reality”

(Foucault 1986, p. 24).

Foucault postulates the existence of heterotopias in nearly all cultures, albeit in varying forms. As examples of heterotopias, Foucault cites locations for menstruating women, retirement homes, psychiatric institutions, prisons, brothels, and oriental gardens.

Foucault’s binary code of real/unreal, which differentiates between ordinary spaces and utopias, is problematic. It can be argued that utopias are as much a part of the socio-cultural realities as are ordinary spaces. This is even more urgent when dealing with the religious field, in which a distinction between the real and the unreal cannot be made on the meta-linguistic level. For Foucault, the distinction between the two types of space hinges on whether human beings are able to perceive them. However, the (social) existence of a space and, thus, its reality is independent of human perception. The aforementioned issue necessitates the replacement of this code within Foucault’s theory, which, in turn, leads us to the second component of my theoretical framework: Lefebvre’s theory of space. In his La production de l’espace, Henri Lefebvre (1974), a French philosopher and sociologist, attempts to construct a theoretical unity between three fields: physical, mental, and social (Lefebvre 1991, p. 11). He shifts the object of interest from “things in space to the actual production of space” (Lefebvre 1991, pp. 36f., 90). He emphasizes the process of production with the axiom “(Social) space is a (social) product” (Lefebvre 1991, p. 26). From these considerations, Lefebvre (1991, pp. 33, 38–40) arrives at a conceptual and analytical spatial triad:

• Spatial practice (physical): It especially includes places, as well as spatial relations, which are characteristic of any social formation. As a perceived space, it connects the places of everyday life, private life, work, and leisure.
• Representations of space (mental): They are linked to the order and knowledge, and to signs and codes. As conceived space or conceptualized space, it is the province of scientists, spatial planners, and technocrats. It constitutes the dominant space in any given society.
• Representational space (social): They are linked to the hidden side of social life and embody complex symbolism. As a space directly lived through its associated images and symbols, it is of direct relevance to users and inhabitants. It overlaps with physical space and uses its objects symbolically.

Lefebvre maintains that the perceived, the conceived, and the lived spaces are in a dialectical relationship and that this triadic relationship cannot be reduced to a dyadic one. The components of this triad—spatial practice, representations of space, and representational spaces—correspond to the components of the triad physical, mental, and social, respectively. The socially constituted meaning is ascribed to the first two forms of spaces in the representational space. In other words, this latter space constitutes the semantic space. Thus, space is not merely produced by spatial practice or architectural design but also by the semantics ascribed to it.

The triadic space proposed by Lefebvre offers a potential replacement for the binary code real/unreal as posited by Foucault in his concept of heterotopia. Rather than considering the dichotomy of real/unreal or realized/unrealized space, it is more fruitful to ascertain whether spatial practice, the physical field, is involved in the production of the space in question. In other words, it is necessary to determine whether the produced space is perceptible or not. The distinction between utopian and ordinary spaces thus shifts from the dichotomy of real/unreal to that of perceptible/not perceptible.

In his text on heterotopia, Foucault presents some classifications of these spaces, which are not pertinent to the present discussion and will not be addressed here. Instead, I propose a further binary classification for heterotopias that is useful for the treatment of suggested Iranian and Islamic spaces. Heterotopias can be divided into two groups according to their relationship to the utopia they imitate and to the perceived space from which they diverge: (a) utopian spaces that have been made perceptible and (b) perceived spaces that have been utopianized. The heterotopias of the first group attempt to instantiate a utopia as a perceived space. In contrast, the heterotopic spaces of the second group idealize an existent perceived space until it can no longer be considered a usual space. If we understand heterotopias as spaces situated between utopias and the ordinary perceived spaces, then these two groups differ in the departure point of their production: the utopia imitated in the heterotopia or the physical space idealized into a heterotopia.2 By this consideration, we reflect not only on the produced space but also on its historical process of production. This process is inscribed into the produced space, as Lefebvre asserts:

“The historical and its consequences, the ‘diachronic’, the ‘etymology’ of locations in the sense of what happened at a particular spot or place and thereby changed it—all of this becomes inscribed in space. The past leaves its traces; time has its own script. Yet this space is always, now and formerly, a present space, given as an immediate whole, complete with its associations and connections in their actuality. Thus production process and product present themselves as two inseparable aspects, not as two separable ideas”

(Lefebvre 1991, p. 37).

Accordingly, the two types of heterotopias may result from the chronological process of space production, whether an ideal image, a utopia, exists first and then a heterotopia emerges based on this image, or whether a perceived space that is considered a heterotopia exists and then a utopia is produced that is based on this space. In the concept of celestial paradise, these two types of heterotopias are inextricably intertwined (see below).

The interconnection between celestial and terrestrial paradises, and between their owners, god and king, provides the foundation for the third and final component of my theoretical framework: the conceptual metaphor theory. Initially proposed by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson (1980) and refined and extended by numerous cognitive linguists, including Zoltán Kövecses (2004, 2005, 2010, 2020) and Gerard Steen (2007), the theory posits that our conceptual system is largely metaphorical, and metaphor is pervasive not only in language but also in thought and action (Lakoff and Johnson 1980, p. 3). This theory defines conceptual metaphor as the process of construing or conceiving a more abstract (non-familiar) concept (target domain) in terms of a more concrete (more familiar, more physical) one (source domain). The first example provided by Lakoff and Johnson is the conceptual metaphor argument is war, accompanied by a number of linguistic expressions in everyday language that exemplify it. “argument is partially structured, understood, performed, and talked about in terms of war” (Lakoff and Johnson 1980, p. 5). Thus, conceptual metaphors should be distinguished from the metaphorical expressions that make them explicit in language, which are referred to as linguistic metaphors. Construing or structuring the target domain through a source domain is accomplished through a set of mappings, i.e., systematic correspondences between the constituent conceptual elements of both domains. Linguistic metaphors that manifest a conceptual metaphor conform to these mappings. While some conceptual metaphors may be perceived as universal, others are culture-specific (Lakoff and Johnson 1980, pp. 3–5; Kövecses 2010, pp. 3–14).

The specific conceptual metaphor that will be the focus of this discussion is god is a king. This implies that the more abstract concept of god is partially construed and structured in terms of the more concrete and familiar concept of king. This leads to the conception of god as a ruler and, for example, the expectation of believers’ obedience to him. In the domain of Iranian languages, there are several prominent manifestations of this conceptual metaphor: The metaphorical use of “lord” (xwadāy) for god in Middle Persian, as in many other languages, resulted in its lexicalization in New Persian as “god”.3 The following set of mappings may be considered between these two domains:

Source: king		Target: god
kingly political structure	⇒	divine organization (pantheon)
king’s minister	⇒	subordinate deities
king’s relation to his subjects	⇒	god’s relation to his believers
the dress of king	⇒	the dress of god
the residence of king	⇒	the abode of god
king’s production	⇒	god’s creation

Conceptual metaphors are unidirectional. This means that the mappings typically proceed from the elements of the more concrete concept to the more abstract one. This is also frequently observed in linguistic metaphors. Words and expressions from the source domain in verbal and non-verbal language serve to denote the target domain. Once a conceptual metaphor is established, we may encounter linguistic expressions that denote the source domain through the target domain. Early Sasanian kings referred to themselves as bay “god” and claimed a divine nature or origin for themselves (čihr az yazdān “whose nature/origin is from gods”). In this manner, the source domain king is partially restructured in terms of the target domain god.

The final two mappings of the conceptual metaphor god is a king will be discussed in this section. These mappings demonstrate correspondences between the king’s spatial production and god’s creation. To this end, I will discuss four ideal spaces: two utopias and two heterotopias. The initial space to be considered is the representation of the earth and the entire world in Zoroastrian cosmology, as presented in the Avestan sources and partly in the Pahlavi literature. I will proceed to the second utopia, Yima’s Vara, a mythical shelter conceived on the border between heaven and earth. I will then advance to a heterotopia, Ardašīr-xwarrah, the magnificent Sasanian capital, which was founded by Ardašīr, the founder of the dynasty, in the third century. Madīnat al-Salām, the glorious Abbasid capital built by al-Manṣūr in the eighth century, shortly after the founding of the Abbasid caliphate, constitutes the last heterotopia. For each space, I will demonstrate the similarities between it and the preceding spaces and how it is depicted as a paradisiac space through its architectural characteristics or how it is denoted as such in textual sources.

2. Earth and Sky in the Antique Zoroastrian Cosmography

The Iranian antiquity has not transmitted to us any cosmological text. In order to study the ancient Zoroastrian cosmology, we are limited to the allusions to it in the Avestan corpus. Although the Avestan texts do not explicitly attest to the form of the earth, we have passages at our disposal that evince the conception of the earth as a flat, broad, and circular surface in the Zoroastrian worldview.4 The circular form of the earth is also attested in Yt 19.43, where an analogy is drawn between heaven and earth on the one hand and chariot and wheel on the other. According to Yt 19.43, Kǝrǝsāspa states: “I am a minor, not yet of full age. When I come of age I will make the earth into my wheel, I will make the sky into my chariot!” (Hintze 1994, p. 24). This image may indicate that the Zoroastrians imagined the earth to be round, analogous to the wheel of a chariot.5

The Old Iranians seem to have imagined the round plane of the earth, similar to their Old Indian counterparts, as encompassed by a body of water called Raŋhā, parallel to Old Indic Rasā. Although this circumstance is not explicitly stated in the Avestan texts, it can be inferred from a few passages (Rezania 2017, pp. 184–87). The Avestan sources do not provide enough information about the position of the mountains on the earth in the Avestan cosmography. It is only possible to speculate as to whether this included a central mountain, as Meru in the Old Indian tradition, and/or an encircling mountain chain, as Yt 19.16 suggests (Rezania 2017, pp. 176–80). In contrast, the Pahlavi literature portrays a high mountain at the center of the earth and a mountain chain encircling its border.

Another noteworthy characteristic of the earth in the Zoroastrian cosmography is its triadic division, which is attested in Y 11.7.7 The precise form of this division, however, is not explicitly specified in the texts. One might infer this form from Yima’s triadic extension of the earth.8 It is reasonable to assume that Yima retained the earth’s geometrical form in each of his extensions. One could tentatively conclude that the entire circle of the earth comprises a central circle, the original earth before its extension by Yima, and three concentric rings surrounding it (see Figure 1).

Avestan cosmological speculations, similar to those of Old Indian tradition, include the so-called egg cosmology, which represents the cosmos as an egg. The Avestan cosmography seems to depict the sky as a stony dome over the earth.9 This results in a representation of the earth and the sky similar to a semi-ellipsoid (Rezania 2017, pp. 160–62).

Before progressing from Yima’s extension of the earth to his construction of Vara, it is worth noting that the cosmographic picture of the earth is a dialectical production, utilizing representations of space and representational space (semantic space). The spatial practice is merely included in this production. The Zoroastrian cosmological earth is, therefore, in the words of Lefebvre, much more a conceived space than a perceived one. Consequently, it is reasonable to consider this a utopia. Its geometric form is indicative of its conceived perfection.

3. Yima’s Vara

The second chapter of the Wīdēwdād (the Anti-Demonic Law) recounts a myth about Yima, ascribing to him a paradisiac kingdom and the construction of an escape space called Vara. Before examining these two utopian spaces, it is inevitable to distinguish between the two historical periods, antiquity and late antiquity, in regard to Yima’s figure in Iranian mythology. As scholarship has unambiguously shown, Yima constitutes the first king and the first mortal in the Indo-Iranian mythical tradition.10 The representation of this prototypical king in Zoroastrianism seems to have undergone some substantial reworkings depending on its relationship with the kingship, changing from supportive kings in the Achaemenid (and Sasanian) period to the often hostile caliphs of the early Islamic time.11 It is, therefore, imperative to differentiate between Yima’s more negative portrayals in the later Zoroastrian literature, specifically in the ninth- and tenth-century Pahlavi books, and his ambivalent representation in the Avestan texts.12 Bruce Lincoln (2012b = 2021, pp. 17–33) aptly shows that positive characterization of Yima goes in line with Achaemenid imperial program to represent the king as a savior, who has to re-implement the prototypic paradisiac state in the immanent empire, a “schema in which an original state of perfect unity is lost, after which a leader is divinely chosen to restore as much unity as possible” (Lincoln 2012b, p. 25; 2021, p. 27). He posits that the negative representation of Yima in the Zoroastrian tradition, in both the Avestan and Pahlavi literature, reflects the tension between the two ideologies of whether divinely chosen kings or priests are responsible for restoring the original perfection.13 The articulation of Yima’s myth, which was presumably (re)compiled in the Achaemenid period, is likely the result of considering him to be the prototypical king. His rejection of the responsibility towards daēnā, i.e., rejecting the prophetical role14 and becoming a prototypical king, and also his subsequent actions as depicted in his myth, represent him as a prototypical king who instantiates a sample of the perfect, transcendent world on the immanent earth.15 These include the following:

• His multiplication and promotion of the creatures in his kingdom, which led to a situation in which there was no longer sufficient room for the creatures on the earth, and thus, he had to expand the earth three times. An ideal Achaemenid king did this for his territory as well. This territorial expansion provides a potential explanation for the placement of Yima’s myth after the first chapter of the Wīdēwdād, which offers a mytho-historio-geographical depiction of Iranian regions.
• His selection of the best samples of each species.
• His construction of Vara to temporarily overcome the hard troubles of the immanent world.

While Yima’s initial action fosters multiplicity, both of his subsequent acts contribute to unity, re-exemplifying the original paradisal state ruled by unity. The rest of this section will focus on Yima’s final action.

At the end of Yima’s golden age, Ahura Mazdā informs him that a severe winter is imminent, which will result in disastrous destruction, rendering the living beings extinct in the following spring. In order to provide shelter for the creatures, Yima was commanded to construct a Vara to house flora, fauna, and humans. In my book on the Zoroastrian spatial conception, I discussed the architecture and spatial order of Vara, its function, place, form, and size in detail. I will summarize the results here.16 A circle with a radius of 1.4 km forms the base area of the Vara, surrounded by a body of water. In accordance with Ahura Mazdā’s instructions, Yima divides his Vara into a central circle and a periphery encompassing three concentric rings. Furthermore, Yima constructs a series of “passages” (pǝrǝtu-) in each concentric ring: nine in the outer ring, six in the middle, and three in the inner one. This results in an almost radial-concentric division of the base area, although the exact configuration of the radial alleys is uncertain (see Figure 2). Yima populates each alley in the outer ring area with 1000 individuals, each in the middle with 600, and each in the inner ring with 300. This results in a population density, which shrinks from the outer to the inner ring, thereby establishing a hierarchical social structure. Consequently, it can be postulated that there is a discernible increase in social status from the outermost zone to the center. Moreover, it can be assumed that the central circle of Vara remains unpopulated or reserved for a limited group of individuals. The Zoroastrian Vara, similar to its ancient Indian counterpart, was likely conceived as a mountain cave situated at the summit of Hukairiia, marking the border between the terrestrial and celestial realms (Rezania 2017, pp. 212–15). A rock, therefore, forms the roof of Vara’s surface. Consequently, the entire three-dimensional Vara can be represented as a semi-ellipsoid. Accordingly, the architectural similarities between Yima’s Vara and the earth and sky created by Ahura Mazdā can be observed as follows:

• The circular outline of the surface;
• The division into center and periphery;
• The triadic division of the periphery;
• The surrounding body of water;
• The stony dome over the surface;
• The semi-ellipsoid-like three dimensional space.

These similarities allow us to compare Yima’s construction of Vara and Ahura Mazdā’s creation of earth and sky. Not only Yima’s re-instantiation of Ahura Madā’s creation but also its placement at the summit of Hukairiia at the border of the earth and the sky represent Vara as an idyllic space. Its position and its reproduction of the cosmic space result in a partial fractal, whereby the spatial pattern of the cosmos can be found on a smaller scale within itself. The self-similarity of the cosmos implies a similarity between Ahura Mazdā and his creature, Yima. Yima’s creation, thus, cannot be anything other than an ideal space, similar to Ahura Mazdā’s creation. The Avestan texts are not reticent in portraying the beatific state of Yima’s kingdom and his Vara in vivid terms, such as a kingdom devoid of cold or heat, illness or destruction, old age or death, aridity or desiccated vegetation, thirst or hunger, and any sign of Evil Spirit.17 They, moreover, highlight the richness of life in these two spaces and claim the most beautiful life for their inhabitants, along with an extensive perception of the temporal duration.18 Of significance is Yima’s role as the king of the world of the dead in Old Indian tradition, a role that is partly reflected in his Avestan attribute xšaēta- “shining, brilliant”.19 Yima’s movement at noon and toward the lights (V 2.10) and, thus, towards the south is consistent with the association of paradise with this direction (Boyce 1968, p. 204; Tzatourian 2012, p. 210). In this context, the narration alludes to green meadows (V 2.26, 34), a significant element of earthly and heavenly paradises (Güntert 1923, pp. 317, 370–72). Most significantly, the paradisiac state of Yima’s Vara is represented by a triadic joy of seeing, smelling, and tasting, where the beauty of inhabitants and animals, the fragrance of the plants,20 and the good taste of the foods are all celebrated (V 2.27f., 35f.). Descriptions like these parallel the depiction of the free soul’s encounter with the vision-soul in the Hādōxt Nask. Such representations of Yima’s kingdom persist in the Pahlavi literature.21 With its three hierarchical ring zones around the most prestigious center, Vara resembles the four-storied paradisiac space of Zoroastrianism, which is reached by free-soul’s four steps: good thoughts, good words, good deeds, and finally, beginningless/endless lights (HN 2.15).22 Of particular interest is the simile employed in Dk 7.1.24, which compares Yima’s realm with Ohrmazd’s abode: kard gēhān pad xwašīh ciyōn garōdmān “He made the world like the heaven in its pleasure”. We can thus assert that Yima’s Vara constitutes a utopia conceived through spatial representations and imbued with semantics through representational space.

4. Ardašīr-xwarrah

The archaeological excavations have yielded valuable insights into the architectural characteristics of Ardašīr-xwarrah (see Figure 3), allowing for a direct comparison with the two utopias described above. Ardašīr-xwarrah shares the first four common characteristics, listed in the previous section, with the other two spaces. Moreover, Ardašīr’s and Yima’s constructions have the following features in common:

• The radial-concentric division of the periphery;
• An uninhabited center;
• The hierarchization of the ring zones with descending social status from the center to the periphery;
• A surrounding enclosure.

If we assume that Zoroastrian cosmography in the third century CE included a high mountain in the center of the earth (Hukar) and a mountain chain encircling it (Harburz), two other spatial features can be added to the list of shared characteristics between the structure of the earth and the architecture of Ardašīr-xwarrah.

Among the treatises in historical geography from the Islamic period, Ibn al-Balkhī (1921, p. 138), the author of a local history and geography of Persis in the first decades of the 12th century, expresses the perfection of the circle of Ardašīr-xwarrah’s surrounding wall “as drawn with compasses”. Given the high costs of producing a perfect circular wall,23 it is reasonable to assume that the circular wall served an aesthetic and/or symbolic function. Another architectural feature of Ardašīr-xwarrah is the presence of multiple surrounding walls. The Avestan equivalent of Old Persian paradai̯dā- is attested as a hapax legomenon in V. 3.18, where it is used in the instruction for the discrimination of corpse keepers’ places. Provided there is no textual contamination in this regard, the declension of the word pairi.daēza- in the plural indicates that the selected plot should be encircled at least three times since Avestan declension has three numbers: singular, dual, and plural. The demarcation of Ardašīr-xwarrah from its surrounding area through a triple enclosure, two enclosing the entire city and one encircling the city center, seems to have been conducted in accordance with the Zoroastrian rules of demarcation (Rezania 2017, pp. 62–69). It is not my intention to place undue emphasis on this single piece of evidence. It is, however, striking that both Ardašīr-xwarrah and Madīnat al-Salām (see below) exhibit three surrounding walls. Ardašīr-xwarrah also incorporates an additional thin polygonal wall, situated about four kilometers away from the city center, which encompasses the gardens surrounding the city proper.

The most significant spatial characteristic of Ardašīr-xwarrah that renders it a heterotopia is its specific radial-concentric division. The peripheral ring zone surrounding the city center was divided into 20 radial sectors. Consequently, the polygon of the outermost wall was twenty-angled. The central circle beside the 20 radial sectors, or the center of the twenty-angled polygon beside its angles, yields 21 areas or points in the city. The construction of an aqueduct wall outside the polygonal wall, oriented precisely towards the center, resulted in 21 radii outside the polygonal wall. The increased number of radii to 21 outside the polygonal area indicates a conscious use of the number 21 in the layout of the city. This figure represents one form of the Zoroastrian perfect divisions, represented as the number of the words in the prayer Ahunawar, the most praised Zoroastrian prayer, as the number of books in the Sasanian Avesta to come and as the number of the names attributed to Ahura Mazdā in Yt 1.7f., in addition to his proper name. Correspondingly, the architecture of the city represents the structure of the Zoroastrian sacred text. According to V 19.9, the most sublime Zoroastrian prayer, presumably the Ahunawar, was created for the timeless time or eternity. The prayer’s existence prior to Ahura Mazda’s creation is explicitly expressed in its Young Avestan commentary. In Y 19.1f., Zarathustra inquires which prayer was already existent before the creation of the six archetypes. The Ahunawar is the answer according to Y 19.3. This prayer, thus, is presented as timeless, eternal, and transcendent. By its architecture, Ardašīr-xwarrah, hence, instantiates a transcendent form in the immanent world, spatializing an ideal state, a utopia, in the perceived space and, in doing so, producing a heterotopia.

We are allowed to compare the programmatic goals of the prototypical king of Iranians, Yima, and the founder of the Sasanian Empire because the kings of this latter dynasty followed the Achaemenians and attempted to re-install their kingship on the earth. Yima seems to have represented the ideal king for the Achaemenid kings (see above). An anecdote in the Middle Persian text Kārnāmag ī ardašīr ī pābagān (“The Ardašīr’s Chronicle”) evinces a relationship between the Zoroastrian prototypical king, Yima, and the first Sasanian king. The text recounts that Ardašīr, while fleeing with the Parthian king’s favorite maid and riding on a horse, had been observed being followed by a large and agile ram. Upon hearing this, Ardawān, who was in pursuit of Ardašīr, asked his religious advisor to provide an interpretation of the scene. The ram was understood to represent the xwarrah of sovereignty (xwarrah ī xwadāyīh), according to the consultant. On the following day, the ram is said to have sat on the back of Ardašīr’s horse. Ardawān’s advisor interpreted this as an indication that the royal xwarrah (xwarrah ī kayān) had reached Ardašīr. Carlo Cereti reasonably alludes to Yima’s xwarrah in this context: “The important role played by xwarrah also fits well in the Zoroastrian context. The Kar-nāmag [sic!] represents the xwarrah, which in Yima’s legend […] is depicted as a falcon, in the form of a ram (warrag)” (Cereti 2011). Ardašīr is granted the kingship upon the arrival of the xwarrah, analogous to his prototype, Yima, who holds his kingship as long as the xwarrah stays with him. The name of Ardašīr’s city also serves to highlight the significance of the xwarrah for his kingship and the capital of his kingdom. It is, thus, not far-fetched to consider Ardašīr-xwarrah a re-exemplification of Yima’s utopia. As Yima’s reproduction of the cosmic space in his Vara results in a partial fractal, Ardašīr’s reproduction of earth’s spatial order in his capital, i.e., the center of the world, yields the same geometric pattern. To this end, Ardašīr-xwarrah not only resembles god’s earth and Yima’s Vara but also reproduces their relationship in the immanent space.

Dietrich Huff (2008, 2014) made the case that Ardašīr demonstrates his centralist agenda for the Sasanian dynasty to come in its capital. In light of Lincoln’s assertion that the Iranian king bears the responsibility for re-establishing the original perfection, Huff’s hypothesis could be extended that Ardašīr-xwarrah was also a reproduction of an original perfect realm, which restores the original unity in the form of concentric circles, distinguished from the mundane world by multiple walls and, thus, a paradise on the earth. By founding Ardašīr-xwarrah as a perfect city, the first Sasanian ruler presented himself to his subjects as an ideal king and his kingdom, characterized by its capital, as the re-establishment of the original divine abode on the earth.

Four cardinal streets divide Ardašīr-xwarrah into four areas. This may allude to the founder’s status as the king of the four corners of the world.24 In earlier scholarship, the four corners of the kingdom were considered to be parallel to the four rivers of the Biblical paradise, crossing at its central mountain.25 This aligns with the aforementioned conceptual metaphor god is a king, which includes, among others, the following mapping: the structure of god’s abode corresponds to the structure of the king’s capital or empire. It is, thus, important to consider the possibility of a correspondence between the four rivers of paradise and Ardašīr-xwarrah. The Ardašīr’s Chronicle, previously referenced, mentions four streams in the construction of the capital following Ardasīr’s victory against Ardawān:26 “He made a city, called Ardašīr-xwarrah, dug a big lake, brought water via four streams from it, and founded a fire”.27 The quadripartite division of earthly gardens in the Iranian tradition extends to the medieval Islamic period.28 The quadripartite division of Ardašīr-xwarrah, its four cardinal streets and four streams, may thus allude to four corners of the world and the four rivers of the paradise. In this way, Ardašīr’s capital may re-instantiate a Four Garden.

In the absence of a foundation charter for Ardašīr-xwarrah, which could provide us evidence for the king’s construction aims, I am compelled to resort to the inscriptions of the Achaemenians, who served as a model for the Sasanian kings. Lincoln and Canepa aptly point out the cosmological significance of the term fraša- in the Susa foundation inscription. Darius asserts that by constructing the palace, he made a wonder (frašam kṛtam), “an ontological and material foretaste of the wonders of the earth after the ‘Wonder Making’ of the Renovation (Av. frašō.kərəti-). […] the Persian palaces are literally and figuratively a ‘paradise’ on earth” (Canepa 2018, p. 306). It would not be far-fetched to ascribe a similar ideology to Ardašīr in his implementation of Ardašīr-xwarrah, the (re-)instantiation of god’s or prototypic king’s utopia in his heterotopia.

5. Madīnat al-Salām

In the aforementioned forthcoming publication, which examines the architectural relationship between Madīnat al-Salām (see Figure 4) and Ardašīr-xwarrah (Rezania forthcoming), I identify some twenty common features in the architecture of both capitals. Considering their architectural differences, the article demonstrates that in the majority of cases, Madīnat al-Salām has reused the spatial representational principles of the Ardašīr-xwarrah. These similarities encompass the shared features among the Zoroastrian cosmos, Yima’s Vara, and Ardašīr-xwarrah, as outlined in the previous section, with the exception of the triadic division of the periphery (the third item in the list). The division of Madīnat al-Salām’s periphery is radial-concentric, but it only has two concentric rings. It can be argued that the stony dome over the surface (feature number 5 in the list of the section on Vara above) is represented by the dome of the caliph’s palace at the center of the city (see below). In this manner, the architectural design of Madīnat al-Salām alludes to the Iranian cosmos, specifically the earth, through its circular outline, moat, surrounding walls, central tower, and turquoise dome, which parallel the earth plain, Raŋhā, Harburz, Hukar, and the stony sky. The Islamic tradition has incorporated some of these Iranian components into its cosmology. Harburz, the world-encircling mountains, is represented in the Islamic cosmography as Mount Qāf.29 The material and color associated with Qāf, chrysolite or emerald and turquoise, tie it to the sky (Wendell 1971, pp. 120–22).

Similar to Ardašīr-xwarrah, the layout of the religious sacred text was represented in Madīnat al-Salām’s architecture. Instead of the 20 radial divisions beside the center, a total of 21 sections in Ardašīr-xwarrah, 113 towers were presumably erected on the enclosure wall of Madīnat al-Salām. The 113 towers of Madīnat al-Salām’s wall beside its central tower may have symbolized the 114 Suras of the Qur’an. In doing so, Madīnat al-Salām projects the structure of the Islamic heavenly book on the earth in a manner similar to how Ardašīr-xwarrah does it with the Zoroastrian sacred prayer. In this worldview, the structure of beatific spaces resembles the heavenly structure of the sacred text.

Analogous to Ardašīr-xwarrah, the triple surrounding walls of Madīnat al-Salām produced a paradisiac space. It can be argued that the outer wall of the round city was probably not intended for defense, given that the inner wall was crenelated, higher, and stronger (al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī 1985, p. 73). If this assumption holds true, it implies that the outer wall served a more symbolic purpose than a protective one. Due to the lack of sources, however, this remains speculative. In light of the city’s pronounced symbolic nature, it is plausible to propose that the total number of its walls symbolizes the concept of paradise.

In the previous section, it was argued that Ardašīr-xwarrah did not only spatialize the sociopolitical plan of its founder but also instantiated a utopia. Consequently, it can hardly be accepted that al-Manṣūr constructed his remarkable round city by merely emulating the design of military camps.30 A significant degree of ideological speculation may have played a prominent role in its design. The historical geographers of the period do not hesitate to apply their narratological devices to depict Madīnat al-Salām (represented by its urban context, Baghdad) as a perfect city. In his Kitāb al-buldān, al-Yaʿqūbī (1892, 233f.) begins his geographical exploration with Baghdad, justifying this as follows:

“I am starting with Iraq since Iraq is the center of the world and the navel of the earth and I am mentioning Baghdad since it is located in the center of Iraq and it is a unique city in the East and the West regarding its expanse, greatness, buildings, prosperity, amplitude of water and weather”.31

al-Yaʿqūbī (1892, p. 234) and Yāqūt (1866–1873, 1:p. 686) laud Baghdad’s climate, the uniqueness of its place, and its location at the center of the world, deduced from mathematical calculations (!).32 Yāqūt (1866–1873, 1:pp. 684–93) dedicates more than half of his extensive entry for the lemma baghdād to the extolling its virtues, in both verse and prose. He refers to Baghdad as “mother of the world and mistress over the countries” (Yāqūt 1866–1873, 1:p. 677; Bayānī 1377, pp. 121–24). According to al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Abū ʿUthmān ʿAmr b. Baḥr al-Jāḥiẓ has expressed Baghdad’s greatness as follows:

“I have seen the great cities, including those noted for their durable construction. I have seen such cities in the districts of Syria, in Byzantine territory, and in other provinces, but I have never seen a city of greater height, more perfect circularity, more endowed with superior merits or possessing more spacious gates, or more perfect faṣīls than az-Zawrāʾ, that is to say, the city of Abū Jaʿfar al-Manṣūr”33.

Similarly, al-Yaʿqūbī (1892, p. 238) accentuates the singularity of Madīnat al-Salām as the only round city in the entire world, and al-Maqdisī (1877, p. 119) identifies it as the most outstanding city globally.

Another strategy employed to portray Baghdad as a magnificent city was to link its architectural components to the glorious or remote past. According to the historical narratives, al-Manṣūr consulted with Khālid b. Barmak regarding the use of spolia from Ctesiphon for the purpose of constructing his new capital in Baghdad (for references, see Rezania, forthcoming). It is irrelevant whether or not Baghdad’s engineers reused spolia from Ctesiphon. What is significant is that the narration glorifies Baghdad by linking it to a glorious past. al-Ṭabarī (1879–1901, p. 321), moreover, states that al-Manṣūr permitted the transportation of five gates from Wasit, constructed by al-Hajjāj b. Yusuf, to Madīnat al-Salām. Four of these gates were installed on the inner wall of the city, while the final gate was utilized as the outer entrance to the central palace. These gates, however, had a longer mythical history. They are narrated to date from Solomon’s time, when he built the city al-Zandaward and “the shayṭâns at Solomon’s command made five gates of iron for it, ‘such that no man living today could fabricate their like’” (Wendell 1971, p. 113).

Historical narrations associate Baghdad with the concept of eternity, the transcendent time, by various means. According to the ex post constructed horoscope of the city, an astrologer predicted that no caliph would die a natural death in Baghdad.34 Furthermore, Islamic historiographers do not merely reiterate this prophecy; they also attempt to verify it by listing the places of death of various caliphs following al-Manṣūr outside of Baghdad (Eisenstein 1985).

The paradisiac state of al-Manṣūr’s capital is indicated above all by calling it “paradise”. The city was variously referred to as Jannat al-ard, “Paradise of the earth”, and Madīnat as-salām,35 “City of Peace”, both of which refer to the Qurʾanic terms for paradise, Jannat,36 “Garden”, and Dār as-salām,37 “House of Peace”. A poet from the time of caliph al-Maʾmūn calls it “paradise on earth” in his praise of Baghdad (al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī 1985, p. 68). Al-Manṣūr also called his second palace with a spacious garden outside the city “paradise”. It bore the title al-Khuld (al-Ṭabarī 1879–1901, pp. 274, 379) “eternity”, with the following exemplary rationale: “The palace of al-Mansūr was named al-Khuld because of its likeness to Jannal al-khuld “the Garden of Eternity”, and because it commanded remarkable view and revealed superior planning and magnificent architectural construction” (al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī 1985, p. 75; Lassner 1970, p. 55). As this narration states, the term khuld is reminiscent of the Quranic terms Jannat al-khuld (25:15) and Dār al-khuld (41:28) and, thus, ties al-Mansūr’s construction to paradise.38 Another palace on the banks of the Tigris in the southern part of Baghdad and a palace of al-Muʿtazid (pp. 279–89/892–902) were called al-Firdaus, another Qurʾanic name for paradise39 with an Iranian origin (see n. 51 below).

The palace of Al-Manṣūr, situated at the center of the round city, was distinguished by a magnificent dome, whose apex stood at a height of ca. 40 m above the earth. This architectural feature led to the palace being known as al-Qubbat al-khaḍrāʾ (Ibn Rustih 1890, p. 108). As the sky is referred to as al-khaḍrāʾ due to its color (Ibn Manẓūr 1300–1307, vol. 4, p. 1183), this name alludes to the sky. The green/turquoise color, moreover, links Madīnat al-Salām’s center and, by extension, the entire round city to paradise. According to the Qurʾan (18:31), the inhabitants of paradise will be wearing “green garments” (thiyūb khuḍr).40 This color is of particular significance in Islamic tradition, so much so that Muʿāwiya’s I Dome in Damascus, al-Hajjāj’s Dome in Wasit, and the Dome of Madīnat al-Salām were referred to as qubbat al-islām “the Dome of Islam”.

Another element of the paradisiac representation of both Ardašīr-xwarrah and Madīnat al-Salām in the Islamic accounts is the accentuation of the beauty of their surrounding gardens and especially their perfumes. al-Iṣṭakhrī (1870, p. 124) asserts that at each gate of Madīnat al-Salām, there are gardens one parasang long. Moreover, he (al-Iṣṭakhrī 1870, 152f.) lists different perfumes of Gūr, i.e., Ardašīr-xwarrah (Schwarz 1896–1936, p. 58). al-Maqdisī (1877, p. 442) lauds the gardens, perfumes, and beauty of Baghdad. Perfumes, moreover, serve as a conduit between the two cities. For a considerable period following the Sasanian era, traders transported the renowned rose water of Ardašīr-xwarrah to Baghdad. By highlighting the themes of gardens and perfumes, these texts subtly allude to the sensory pleasures of heaven. As already expressed in the Avestan text Hādōxt Nask, they include three senses in the Iranian tradition: fragrant smell, good taste, and beautiful look.41

Historical treatises attempt to suggest that the appearance of Madīnat al-Salām as an extraordinary city was predicted for a long time before its construction. Ibn al-Faqīh (1885, 162f.) presents the city’s glory by recounting an event from the Sasanian period that foretold the city’s construction near Ctesiphon:

“[…] long before the fall of the Sasanian Empire, a mysterious light used to hover over the site, but disappeared when approached. It was reported to Kisra, who passed on the problem to his seers (kahana) and sages (ulamāʾ). Their verdict was: ‘A town shall be built on this site, whose people shall bring about the destruction of the Persians’”

(Wendell 1971, p. 109).

The construction of a paradisiac city was thus inscribed in the celestial sphere and could be read from the stars. The depicted time for the foundation of Madīnat al-Salām was, therefore, a deliberate point in time, which the most competent court astrologers, Naubakht and Mashallah, calculated Rabīʿ al-awwal of 141 (al-Yaʿqūbī 1892, p. 238). It is irrelevant whether or not astrologers had determined the time point of the construction of the palatial city. Significant is the textual representation of its foundation as a predefined divine act. Al-Ṭabarī provides another prophetic narration related to the foundation of the city:

“On the way for searching a comfortable settlement, one of caliph’s commanders needed medical treatment. In their conversation the physician responds: ‘In one of our books we find it written that a man named Miqlāṣ will build a city called al-Zawrā’.42 As Caliph hears the physician’s statement says: ‘By God, I’m that very man! I was called Miqlāṣ as a lad but then the name for me fell into disuse’”43.

As Lassner (1965, 138f.) points out, this narration should be considered a literary motif, “which Muslim authors used to glorify the building programs of the Caliph”, as it is similarly reported for other buildings as well.44 Such a prediction, however, represents the construction of the caliph as the realization of a divine plan in the mundane space.

In the aforementioned publication on the relationship between Madīnat al-Salām’s and Ardašīr-xwarrah’s architecture (Rezania, forthcoming), I discussed some ties between Madīnat al-Salām and its Iranian background. It is certain that the Islamic authors were reluctant to depict any link between the capital of the Islamic caliphate and the “pagan” Iran. Numerous passages, however, attest to this link. One such example is the name of the metropolis, baghdād. It is well-known that the name is much older than al-Manṣūr’s capital45 and was given to a city in Mesopotamia with a group of Aramaic-speaking Nabateans as its most populous inhabitants. The etymology of the name is uncertain. One hypothesis suggests that it is derived from the Old Persian term baga-dāta-, meaning “set/founded by God” (Kennedy 1988). As Christopher Beckwith (1984, p. 152, n. 4) aptly expresses, “whatever the age, original form, and original meaning of the name, the only relevant factor is that the Arabs—and no doubt the local inhabitants before them—considered it to be Persian, and so explained it”. Of importance for my discussion is thus its folk-etymology, how some Islamic authors46 understood it to consist of bagh, meaning “idol” (Ar. ṣanam) or “god”, and dād, as a personal name or in the sense of “given; gift”. They compare it with baghistān, which they translate “house of idols”. Among these sources, the Mafātīḥ al-ʿulūm of Abī ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b. Aḥmad Khwārazmī, composed shortly after 977 (Bosworth 2010), provides a significant piece of evidence on the etymology of baghdād. It is, therefore, worthy of quotation in its entirety:

“Baghistān is the house of idols and bagh is the idol, and that is how Baghdad is called, i.e., “the gift of the idol”, according to al-Aʾṣmaʿī. The reason is that they call king bagh. They are leader and lord, and king of China is thus called bagh-pūr, i.e., the son of the king”.

In his book Taṣḥ īḥ al-faṣīḥ, Ibn Durustawaih states that al-Aʾṣmaʿī erred in what he mentioned about the etymology of baghdād because the Persians were not idol-worshippers, but it is bāgh-dād, bāgh is the orchard, and dād, a person name.

This is an erroneous invention of Ibn Durustawaih and a blatant mistake, as bagh means, according to Persians, “the god; the lord; the king”, and they used to worship idols and be blessed by them. They call the idol bagh and the house of idols baghistān. I believe that the Persians used to worship them and depict them in the images of kings and leaders. Baghdad, supposedly, means “the king’s gift” (Khwārazmī 1895, p. 115f.).

This excerpt firstly demonstrates that the name of Baghdad and the city itself were intimately connected to the Iranian past, at least in the minds of Islamic scholars. Secondly, the quotation entails a few manifestations of the conceptual metaphor god is a king. Considering the designation of kings as bay (<OP baga-) in the early Sasanian Middle Persian inscriptions and as theós in the Greek ones, Khwārazmī is not wrong in giving the meaning “the god; the lord; the king” for bagh. From his perspective, the border between a creation by a god and a foundation by a king blurs in Baghdad. It is equally a gift from god and a gift from the king.

None of the abovementioned pieces of evidence substantiate the perception or representation of Madīnat al-Salām/Baghdad as an earthly paradise by itself alone. When considered collectively, they demonstrate how the Muslim authors attempted to highlight its magnificence and heavenly character, portraying it as a paradise on earth; in other words, a heterotopia, which makes god’s paradise perceptible in the immanent world. Wendell (1971, p. 122) elucidates this symbolic function of Baghdad in ample words:

“As ruler of the colossal ʿAbbasid Empire, al-Manṣur re-enacted the role of the ancient kings before him, and in fact the role of the original Creator who had set the paradigm for all ages to come, when he founded his new city to symbolize not only the change of dynasty, but a divinely decreed sovereignty over the world. The plan of Baghdad is really nothing less than an Islamic mandala worked out on the huge scale of urban architecture. It is certainly a schematic representation of the world—essentially that of the Sasanian monarchs—in purely formal, aniconic terms”.

6. Ardašīr-xwarrah as a Representational Space in Textual Sources

Archaeological investigations attest to the existence of two monumental buildings in the central area of Ardašīr-xwarrah: a high tower with a square layout at the center of the city circle as the symbol of sovereignty and a fire-temple in the form of four-Ivan-chamber. Historical sources from the Islamic period, however, identify the four-Ivan-chamber in the central court of Ardasīr-xwarrah’s as Ardasīr’s palace.47 As these authors were likely aware of the Sasanian–Islamic principle that closely linked architectural design for government and religious buildings, they expected to find both types of structures in close proximity within the central court of Ardašīr-xwarrah. The central court of Madīnat al-Salām encompassed representatives of both sovereignty and religion alike. Similar to Ardašīr-xwarrah, a high building with a square layout was located at the center of Madīnat al-Salām, but this domed structure served as al-Manṣūr’s palace. A mosque constructed in accordance with the architectural principles of the prophet’s mosque in Medina bordered the caliph’s palace. Consequently, these historical authors postulated the existence of a fire on the apex of the high tower of the city. It is uncertain whether the functions of the tower and the Ivan-chamber building were correctly known or whether they were already conflated at the time of Madīnat al-Salām’s foundation. Additionally, the extent to which the architecture of this palatial city and the use of Ivan-chamber construction as a prominent Sasanian palace architecture contributed to the confusion among historical geographers remains unclear.

The historical relationship and/or structural similarity of both cities has been reflected in the historical geographers’ descriptions of Ardašīr-xwarrah. Interestingly, they represent the two constructions of Ardašīr-xwarrah, the monumental tower and the fire-temple, as one and the same building, blending their architectural characteristics. In some instances, they portray Ardašīr-xwarrah’s tower as a domed structure.48 Archaeological investigations, however, indicate that a dome was lacking from the tower. Its description as a tower with a dome resembles the central high building of the caliph’s palace, which was known for its elaborate dome. Therefore, it can be assumed that the historical geographers looked back at Ardašīr-xwarrah with the architecture of Madīnat al-Salām in mind. This post-Baghdadian historical projection of Madīnat al-Salām onto Ardašīr-xwarrah re-spatializes the Sasanian heterotopia on the basis of the Islamic one and strengthens its utopian character by allowing it to more closely resemble Madīnat al-Salām.

7. God’s Creation and King’s Foundation, King’s Garden and God’s Paradise

The resemblance of extraordinary places to the cosmos is a well-known phenomenon with roots in antiquity. Herodotus’ description of the Median royal city of Ecbatana evokes the concept of a cosmic city. He reports of a city with seven circuit walls, increasing in height from the outer to the inner rings. They were covered in different colors, the two innermost ones in silver and gold, reminiscent of the moon and the sun. Hans Peter l’Orange compiled numerous examples of cosmic cities in his seminal work, Iconography of Cosmic Kingship. Despite the necessity for a re-evaluation of the data used in his survey conducted 70 years ago, his concept of the cosmic city (l’Orange 1953, pp. 9–14) remains as useful as before. The phenomenology of religion also emphasized the importance of cosmic cities. Mircea Eliade posits that sacred places recreate an image of the cosmos (imago mundi); territories, cities, and temples reconstruct celestial archetypes.49 However, this phenomenological view on political and religious spaces requires a revision.

Rather than representing the transcendent and immanent spaces in a unidirectional dependency, I propose that they conceptually stand in a reciprocal mirroring relation. It is not only the earthly space that mirrors the heavenly one; rather, the transcendent space is produced by mirroring an immanent magnificent space. In line with Eliade, Lincoln aptly demonstrates that the glorious palaces of Susa and Persepolis were designed to embody a utopian vision of a united, peaceful, and pleasing space known only from divine creation. In this context, Lincoln refers to Achaemenid paradai̭dā as “a space separated from mundane reality by encircling walls. Plants and animals of every species flourished there”.50 Lincoln notes that paradises “were sites where the condition God originally intended for all humanity had been recovered and put on display”.51 The Old Persian term paradai̭dā- and its equivalents in different languages52 denote “a state—and place, regularly identified as a garden—of absolute harmony, perfect satisfaction, and eternal peace”.53 Lincoln is correct in his assertion that such royal spaces exemplify the cosmos and god’s creation. With regard to the concept of paradise, however, Lincoln’s assumption regarding the Achaemenid palaces is more applicable to the Sasanian and Abbasid heterotopias. The relationship between Achaemenid gardens and god’s paradise was inverse, as Jan Bremmer astutely depicts: beginning from the earthly royal gardens of the Achaemenid Empire, developed in different stages, and finally projected on god’s garden by the Greek translation of the Hebrew Gan Eden in paradeisos.54 Kingly gardens, thus, are not a secondary instantiation of god’s paradise55 but rather that god’s paradise is a secondary reproduction of royal gardens. In this manner, the divine utopia is conceptually conceived on the basis of the perceived aristocratic gardens.56 One feature of the royal gardens is their exclusive accessibility to a limited group of individuals, namely the members of the royal family. Similarly, a restricted group of individuals, delineated according to religious tenets, gain access to god’s garden as an eschatological realm. The inaccessibility of royal gardens may thus have been a significant factor in their subsequent representation as a divine paradise.57

We can assume that these gardens provided sensory satisfactions that the Zoroastrian eschatological narrations promised in the hereafter (see above): tasteful products of their plants and trees58 and fragrant smell and visual beauty of their luxurious flowers. The precise date and location at which paradai̭dā acquired a cosmological connotation is uncertain. According to Wolfgang Fauth (1979, p. 6), this occurred as early as the era of Cyrus, the Great, as evidenced by the fact that his tomb was located in a paradai̭dā, Pasargadae.

In the first millennium CE, the relationships that Lincoln addresses for the Achaemenid era prevail. As his Achaemenid predecessors, Ardašīr reproduces the transcendent cosmological space, which exists only as a conceived and semantic representational space, as a perceived space in the immanent world. As his Sasanian forerunner, al-Manṣūr re-instantiates divine creation in Madīnat al-Salām. Both emperors exhibited the divine plan in their cities, as represented in their sacred texts. The mapping between god’s abode and the king’s pleasant space is evidently present in the Sasanian and Abbasid periods (Fauth 1979, p. 8). A Parthian Manichaean text narrates Mani’s encounter with a Sasanian ruler, Mihršāh, presumably Šābuhr’s I. brother: “He had a garden, very fine and wonderfully spacious, the like of which no other man had ever possessed”. As Mani approached Mihršāh, who was enjoying his meal in his garden, Mihršāh asks him: “In the paradise of which you speak, is there a garden such as mine?”.59 This passage directly compares god’s paradise (wahišt) with the ruler’s garden (bōδēstān). Furthermore, it appears to contrast the function of kings and prophets. It states: “In wondrous power (varž) he [Mani] showed him the Paradise of Light with all gods, deities and the immortal Air of Life, and a garden with all kinds (of things) and other desirable sights there”. While the king is responsible for bringing the god’s paradise down to earth through the construction of a paradisiacal garden, the prophet is tasked with showing (nimūdan) the earthly people god’s paradise and leading them up there. The king presents the god’s utopian paradise through a heterotopia, while the prophet presents it through a paradisiacal vision. The Iranian tradition values the communicational means of both the king and the prophet; Manichaeism, however, depreciates the king and his function.

David Stronach (1990b, p. 178) presents a comparable perspective on the historical evolution of the eight gardens of paradise. He acknowledges that the Abbasid palatial gardens likely drew their inspiration from the Quranic conception of eight gardens of paradise. He, however, poses the immediate question about the origin of the Quʾranic concept and highlights the existence of doubled fourfold gardens in Sasanian Iran. The evidence for this last hypothesis is admittedly slight, and a definitive assessment is not possible. If the archaeological evidence supports the existence of such octopartite gardens in pre-Islamic Iran, it is difficult to resist Stronach’s compelling argument that the image of the Sasanian royal garden initiated the Quranic concept. This process again implies the production of a transcendent utopia based on a perceptible immanent space, which is then elevated to a heterotopia in a second step.

In his fifth-century work, the Greek lexicographer Hesychius of Alexandria provides the following definition of the term οὐρανóς: “The Persians (called) ‘heavens’ the royal palaces and the halls, of which the coverings were made round” (Panaino 2004a, p. 572, also pp. 563–72; l’Orange 1953, p. 22). This lexicographic definition evinces the metaphorical mapping between the king’s palace and the god’s heaven, and it is evident that the circular form was regarded as the ideal form of kingly and heavenly spaces. As l’Orange (1953, p. 13) aptly puts it, this cosmic ideology represents the king as the sun amongst other heavenly bodies in a manner that places him at the center of his vassals and satraps. This reflection suggests that the king should be situated at the center of the city, as was the case in Ecbatana, according to Herodotus, and in Madīnat al-Salām. In contrast, we know from Sasanian cities that the king’s palace was located outside the city. This fact seems, at first glance, to contradict the spatial order of the cosmic city. Scholars justify this placement by referring to security reasons. Without disclaiming this important point, I would like to emphasize the religious dimension of the absence of the king in his city. This phenomenon can be understood through the conceptual metaphor god is a king. As god is transcendent and not (always) present to his immanent subjects, the king represents himself as to some extent transcendent, represented in the city by a replacement, a royal tower in Ardašīr-xwarrah or a royal column in Weh-Šabuhr.

8. Conclusions

The preceding discussion elucidated the interrelationship between four extraordinary spaces: the Zoroastrian cosmos and Yima’s Vara as utopia and Ardašīr-xwarrah and Madīnat al-Salām as heterotopia. The Zoroastrian cosmology presents a perfect picture of the cosmos. It is not possible to ascertain the origin of this utopian production. In other words, it is impossible to determine which terrestrial spaces have been used as models for the creation of this utopia. As the creation of Ahura Mazdā, this utopia served, directly or indirectly, as a model for the three kingly productions. As a prototypical king, Yima reproduces Ahura Mazdā’s utopia in the center of his Vara. This implies that the structure of the cosmos has been replicated within itself and results in a partial fractal structure for the cosmos. Ardašīr seems to have taken Ahura Mazdā’s creation as a model, analogous to Yima. His magnificent capital, Ardašīr-xwarrah, instantiates both Ahura Mazdā’s cosmos and Yima’s Vara. As a legitimate king, he repeats the actions of the prototypic king of his tradition and simultaneously exemplifies the actions of his superior god. Ardašīr produces a perceived space based on utopias, which were produced through representations of space and representational space. In doing so, he produces a heterotopia that makes a utopia perceptible. Madīnat al-Salām seems to strictly follow the spatial rules of Ardašīr-xwarrah. As a reproduction of a heterotopia, it does not merely reproduce a perceived space; it also re-instantiates the Zoroastrian utopias. In a manner analogous to Ardašīr-xwarrah, Madīnat al-Salām is thus not merely a capital for a new dynasty; it is the exemplification of god’s perfect abode in a perfect city. The time of Ardašīr-xwarrah as a perceived space was limited. At a certain point in history, the city ceased to be a heterotopia and became a utopia. Since this moment, the historical sources have reproduced the utopian Ardašīr-xwarrah by resorting to the known Madīnat al-Salām and projecting some of its spatial aspects onto Ardašīr-xwarrah (see Figure 5). The transitions between these four utopias and heterotopias are comparable to those between the celestial paradise and the terrestrial royal paradises. The latter paradises were initially tangible, perceived spaces, which kings and aristocrats have aesthetically idealized. They thus became utopianized perceived spaces. These gardens served as a model for god’s garden, both in terms of spatial representations and naming. Since the advent of this utopia, the terrestrial paradises became heterotopias once again, albeit in the form of utopian spaces that were perceived (see Figure 6).