Daggers with decorated blades
Kurdish khanjar, Turkey, 19th century
Kard, Persia, 17th-18th century
Kard, Persia, late 19th century
Kindjal, Caucasus, late 19th century
Qama, Caucasus, late 19th century
Hunting knife, Persia, late 19th century
Yatagan, Turkey, 1818
Quaddara, Persia, about 1880
Quaddara, Persia, about 1880
Pesh kabz, Persia, 19th century
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Collection of antique Ottoman empire Yatagans\scimitars sword
Buy antique ⚔️Collection of Ottoman empire Yatagansscimitars sword for gifts 🎁 and collectibles for Europe and USA
Collection of 8 Yatagans-scimitars sword located at Chicago USA
Hi to all. I want to show you an interesting collection of antique scimitars (Yatagans) for sale to collectors of antique weapons.
The scimitars have a good appearance and are also marked: they have a brand:
This marked on YatagansScimitars translated as: it is written work done by order of Khalil Agha.
This marked on YatagansScimitars translated as: done by the lowest peasant Ebrahim.
This marked on YatagansScimitars translated as: Work of Ibrahim ibn Mohammad. The Arabic number shows the year it was built, 1280 in the Islamic calendar, which is 1901-2 in the Gregorian calendar.
Historical information about Yatagans-Scimitars:
Yatagan is an original type of weapon, both its blade and hilt are peculiar. In most scimitars, the blade has a double bend, first from the handle up, then, approximately from the middle, down. The cutting part of the blade is not externally curved. And the inner one is concave.
The Greco-Macedonian sword-cleaver makhaira (6th to 1st century BC) had such a blade; the new Spanish name for this form is "d'espada falcata" - "scythe-shaped sword".
The exact origin of this type of weapon has not been clarified. He is associated with both the Etruscan world and the Greek. and with the Hellenistic. He is known in Italy, and in Spain, and in the Balkans. Such a blade can be applied both cutting and chopping and stabbing. The cutting concave part of the blade is characteristic of both South India and Nepal.
The second feature of the scimitar is the shape of the handle - the presence of widely spaced sharply protruding "ears". The earliest such form is found in the bronze swords and daggers of Luristaia (Iran), dating back to 3-1 millennia BC. e. Similar ears are present on straight Levantine (Mediterranean) knives of the 15th-16th centuries. The unusual shape of such "ears" is associated with the shape of the tibia of a large animal; perhaps it had some symbolic meaning.
Ottoman empire Yatagans sword Image:
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Yatagan (Caron)
Some years ago, I earned my daily bread behind the circulation desk of a midsized urban library. Beset by social strife, our workplace felt at times like the Wild West. To face down the daily parade of crooks, crazies and town characters required narrowed eyes, a mouth set like stone, and cojones of tempered steel. Soft hearts could not find purchase in this place. I learned that to my own cost.
Still, one could occasionally find oases of calm and reason amid the general chaos. I discovered one embodied in a natty little man with a taste for high-end periodicals. Fiftyish, slender, forever sporting a cashmere scarf and wool beret, he'd stroll in every day like clockwork to peruse the newly-arrived magazines. He possessed a certain erudite sophistication that hinted at time spent in bigger fishbowls--- New York, London, Paris. (And he never brown-bagged Aqua Velva to drink in the library like some patrons did, so color me impressed.)
Every day, I looked forward to exchanging pleasantries with "my gentleman" over the latest issue of Art in America or the London Review of Books. And then I'd return to the desk (to check in books splashed with tomato sauce, cooking oil, or gasoline) and my coworkers would whisper, "Jesus Christ, he smells."
This was true. In fact, he reeked. And I loved it.
His was a very distinctive odor, like nothing I'd ever experienced before-- a urinous mixture of juniper berries and pine needles that came like a punch to the solar plexus. Was this some interesting hygiene custom he picked up on the Continent, or did he have a bona fide medical condition? It was impossible to tell. But as repulsive as his odor seemed to me at first, eventually I grew used to it and even came to regard it as a harbinger of good conversation. Since I could smell him before I saw him, I knew from one whiff that my gentleman was in the house and might share some lively insights about art and literature with me. I began to associate his odor with our ongoing exchange of thought, and ceased to find anything remotely unpleasant about it.
One day, I was shelving some books when I noticed him seated right in front of me. I hadn't even seen him come in. More to the point: I hadn't smelled him. Several more visits confirmed that we'd sniffed the last of my gentleman's signature scent. Apparently, he'd changed brands for something more socially conventional. Now he smelled like everyone else-- like nothing.
My coworkers breathed a deep sigh of relief, but I felt disoriented, even vaguely let down. It wasn't that my gentleman and I would cease to share our thoughts about life and culture and the world beyond our Wild West town. But for me, something was missing from the experience-- and it was the very thing everyone else rejoiced to be rid of.
Recently I received a decant of a scent I'd never sampled before. I was sure it would be a novel experience, but as soon as I put it on, I recognized it in a flash. And though I haven't seen nor heard from him in years, I now know my gentleman's secret-- he'd been wearing Caron's Yatagan.
Yatagan smells like a pickled lemon. No-- a pickled lemon is too juicy, too wet; start again. Yatagan is what you'd get if you made a old-fashioned pomander out of a lemon instead of an orange. Take the greenest, hardest, sourest, most unripe lemon you can find (forget limes; limes are too sweet) and instead of cloves, stick it full of evergreen needles-- pine, fir, rosemary. It'll take thousands of them, and months for you to finish. Now bury it in the Salton Sea for, oh, twenty or thirty years. When you're certain it's completely mummified, exhume it. The finished product will smell exactly like Yatagan: biting, forceful, bristling with sharp points, and unrelated to any other scent convention in existence.
Yatagan is so sour that when I applied it to my wrists, I actually tasted it on my tongue a minute later. (Universal solvent, anyone?) It tasted like a Sour Patch candy caked in citric acid, or a fresh juniper berry dipped in salt. If such a thing existed as a limoncello-gin-aquavit margarita, it would boast a flavor like this. You could dab it on your pulse points while drinking it, if you were so inclined.
In Perfumes: The A-Z Guide, Luca Turin describes horrified Parisians doing double-takes in the Caron boutique, responding to Yatagan with something very near outrage. It does strike me as a scent that might be worn by a person who hankers for distinction, even of the negative variety. Other people will certainly not overlook you when you're wearing it, but they might very well leave you the hell alone.
And still, there's something civilized about Yatagan -- something not quite for barbarians or berserkers, but rather for the lawfully wild, like Clint Eastwood's serape-swathed Man With No Name. Turin characterized its tone as that of a snake's hiss, but I find it to be more like the sssssssshhhkk! of a steel blade leaving its scabbard-- appropriate, as Yatagan was named after a type of Turkish longsword. And like a real yatagan, you strap this fragrance on to feel a sense of recklessness and machismo that no other scent will give you.
In short, Yatagan is for badasses.... including the quiet library kind.
Scent Elements: Petitgrain, lavender, geranium leaf, pine, fennel, basil, artemisia, oakmoss, musk, patchouli, castoreum, labdanum, styrax
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