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masterpieces in his workshop in the style of the ancients； having even ensured
that this workshop had its own style； a great master who knows； whenever his
patron lord loses his last battle； that new lords will e in the wake of the
plundering enemy； disband the workshop； tear apart bound volumes leaving
the pages in disarray and belittle and destroy what remains； including the fine
details that he long believed in； that were of his own discovery and that he
loved like his own children。 But I needed to explain this to Black differently。
“This illustration is of the great Poet Abdullah Hatifi；” I said。 “Hatifi was
such a great poet that he simply stayed home while everybody else rushed out
and toadied up to Shah Ismail after the king took Herat。 In response； Shah
Ismail personally went all the way to his house on the outskirts of the city to
see him。 We know this is Hatifi； not from Bihzad’s rendering of Hatifi’s face；
but from the writing beneath the illustration； don’t we？”
Black looked at me； indicating “yes” with his pretty eyes。 “When we look at
the face of the poet in the painting；” I said； “we see that it could be a face like
any other face。 If Abdullah Hatifi were here； God rest his soul； we could never
hope to recognize him from the face in this picture。 However； we could do so
relying on the illustration in its entirety： There’s something in the manner of
the position； in Hatifi’s pose； in the colors； the gilding and the stunning
hand rendered by Master Bihzad that at once indicates the picture is of a poet。
Meaning precedes form in the world of our art。 As we begin to paint in
imitation of the Frankish and Veian masters； as in the book that Our Sultan
had missioned from your Enishte； the domain of meaning ends and the
domain of form begins。 However； with the Veian methods…”
“My Enishte； may he rest in eternal peace； was murdered；” Black said
rudely。
I caressed Black’s hand； which rested within my own； as if respectfully
stroking the tiny hand of a young apprentice who might one day indeed
illustrate masterpieces。 Quietly and reverently we looked at Bihzad’s
masterpiece for a time。 Later； Black withdrew his hand from mine。
“We passed quickly over the chestnut horses on the previous page without
examining their noses；” he said。
“There’s nothing to them；” I said； and turned back to the previous page so
he might see for himself： There was nothing extraordinary about the nostrils of
the horses。
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“When shall we find the horses with peculiar noses？” Black asked like a
child。
But； in the middle of the night； toward morning； when we found Shah
Tahmasp’s legendary Book of Kings in an iron chest beneath piles of various
shades of green watered silk and drew it forth； Black was curled up fast asleep
on a red Ushak carpet； with his well…formed head lying on a velvet pillow
embroidered with pearls。 Meanwhile； as soon as I laid eyes upon the legendary
tome again after so many years； I quickly understood that the day had only
just begun for me。
The legendary volume I’d seen only from afar twenty…five years ago was so
large and heavy that Jezmi Agha and I had difficulty lifting and carrying it。
When I touched the binding； I knew there was wood within the leather。
Twenty…five years ago； upon the death of Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent；
Shah Tahmasp was so elated to be finally rid of this sultan who’d occupied
Tabriz three times； that along with the gift…laden camels he sent to Süleyman’s
successor； Sultan Selim； he included a spectacular Koran and this volume； the
most beautiful of the books in his treasury。 First； a Persian ambassadorial
delegation three hundred strong took the tome to Edirne where the new
sultan spent the winter hunting； after it arrived here in Istanbul along with
the other presents carried on camels and mules； Head Illuminator Black Memi
and we three young masters went to see the book before it was locked up in
the Treasury。 Just like the Istanbulites who would rush to see an elephant
brought from Hindustan or a giraffe from Africa； we hurried to the palace
where I learned from Master Black Memi that the great Master Bihzad； who’d
left Herat for Tabriz in his old age； hadn’t contributed to this book because
he’d gone blind。
For Ottoman miniaturists like us who were astonished by ordinary books
with seven or eight illustrations； looking through this volume； which
contained 250 large illustrations； was like roaming through an exquisite palace
while its inhabitants slept。 We stared at the incredibly rich pages with a quiet
pious reverence as if beholding the Gardens of Paradise that had appeared
miraculously for a fleeting moment。 And for the following twenty…five years we
discussed this book which remained locked in the Treasury。
I silently opened the thick cover of the Book of Kings as if opening a huge
palace door。 As I turned the pages； each of which made a pleasant rustle； I was
overe by melancholy more than awe。
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1。 Mindful of the stories suggesting that all the master miniaturists of
Istanbul had stolen images from the pages of this book； I couldn’t give my full
attention to the pictures。
2。 Thinking that I might chance upon a hand drawn by Bihzad in some
corner； I couldn’t devote myself wholeheartedly to the masterpieces that
appeared in one of every five or six pictures （how decisively and with what
grace did Tahmuras lower his mace upon the heads of the demons and giants；
who later； in a time of peace； would teach him the alphabet； Greek and various
other languages！）。
3。 The noses of horses and the presence of Black and the dwarf prevented
me from surrendering myself to what I saw。
Naturally； I was disappointed to find myself observing more with my mind
than with my heart； despite the great luck of having Allah； in His munificence；
grant me the chance to have my fill of this legendary book before the velvet
curtain of darkness descended over my eyes—the divine grace bestowed upon
all great miniaturists。 By the time the light of dawn reached the Treasury；
which had gradually begun to resemble an icy tomb； I’d gazed upon each of
the 259 pictures in this superlative book。 Since I looked with my mind； allow
me once more to categorize； as if I were an Arab scholar interested only in
reasoning：
1。 Nowhere could I locate a horse with nostrils that resembled what the
wretched murderer had drawn： Not among the variously colored horses that
Rüstem encountered while pursuing horse thieves in Turan； not among
Feridun Shah’s extraordinary horses which swam the Tigris after the Arab
Sultan had denied him permission to do so； not among the gray horses
sorrowfully watching Tur’s treachery in beheading his younger brother Iraj； of
whom he was jealous because their father； while doling out his territory； gave
the best country； Persia； and far away China to Iraj； while leaving only the
western lands to Tur； not among the horses of the heroic armies of Alexander
that included Khazars； Egyptians； Berbers and Arabs； all equipped with armor；
iron shields； indestructible swords and glimmering helmets； not the fabled
horse that killed Shah Yazdgird—whose nose bled perpetually as a result of the
divine punishment for rebelling against God’s fate—by trampling him on the
shores of the green lake whose restorative waters eased his affliction； and not
among the hundreds of mythical and perfect horses all drawn by six or seven
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miniaturists。 Yet； there was still more than one entire day ahead of me in
which to examine the other books in the Treasury。
2。 There’s a claim that has been a persistent topic of gossip among master
illuminators for the last twenty…five years： With the express permission of the
Sultan； an illustrator entered this forbidden Treasury； found this spectacular
book； opened it and by candlelight copied into his sketchbook examples of a
number of exquisite horses； trees； clouds； flowers； birds； gardens and scenes of
war and love for later use in his work…Whenever an artist created an amazing
and exceptional piece； jealousy prompted such gossip from the others； who
sought to belittle the picture as nothing but Persian work from Tabriz。 Back
then； Tabriz was not Ottoman territory。 When such slander was directed at
me； I felt justifiably angry； yet secretly proud； but when I heard the same
accusation about others； I believed it。 Now； I sadly realized that in some
strange way the four of us miniaturists who’d looked at this book once
twenty…five years ago ingrained its images into our memories； and since then；
we’ve recalled； transformed； altered and painted them into the books of Our
Sultan。 My spirits were dampened not by the mercilessness of overly
suspicious sultans who wouldn’t take such books out of their treasuries and
show them to us； but by the narrowness of our own world of painting。
Whether it be the great masters of Herat or the new masters of Tabriz； Persian
artists had made more extraordinary illustrations； more masterpieces； than we
Ottomans。
Like a lightning flash； it occurred to me how appropriate it’d be if two days
hence all my miniaturists and I were put to torture； using the point of my
penknife I ruthlessly scraped away the eyes beneath my hand in the picture
that lay open before me。 It was the account of the Persian scholar who learned
chess simply by looking at a chess set brought by the ambassador from
Hindustan； before defeating the Hindu master at his own game！ A Persian lie！
One by one； I scraped away the eyes of the chess players and of the shah and
his men who were watching them。 Flipping back through the pages； I also
pitilessly gouged out the eyes of the shahs who battled mercilessly； of the
soldiers of imposing armies bedecked in magnificent armor and of severed
heads lying on the ground。 After doing the same to three pages； I slid my
penknife back into my sash。
My hands trembled； but I didn’t feel so bad。 Did I now feel what so many
lunatics felt after mitting this strange act whose results I encountered
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frequently during my fifty…year tenure as a painter？ I wanted nothing more
than blood to flow onto the pages of this book from the eyes I had blinded。
3。 This brings me to the torment and consolation awaiting me at the end of
my life。 No part of this excellent book； which Shah Tahmasp had pleted by
spurring Persia’s most masterful artists for ten years； had seen the touch of
the great Bihzad’s pen； and his excellent rendering of hands was nowhere to be
found。 This fact confirmed that Bihzad was blind in the last years of his life；
when he fled from Herat—then a city out of favor—to Tabriz。 So； I once again
decided happily that after he attained the perfection of the old masters by
working his entire life； the great master blinded himself to avoid tainting his
painting with the desires of any other workshop or shah。
Just then； Black and the dwarf opened a thick volume they were carrying
and placed it before me。
“No； this isn’t it；” I said without being contrary。 “This is a Mongol Book of
Kings： The iron horses of Alexander’s iron cavalry were filled with naphtha and
set aflame like lamps； before being set against the enemy with flames shooting
from their nostrils。”
We stared at the flaming army of iron copied from Chinese paintings。
“Jezmi Agha；” I said； “we later depicted in the Chronicle of Sultan S