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 Selim the
gifts that Shah Tahmasp’s Persian ambassadors； who also presented this book；
brought with them twenty…five years ago…”
He swiftly located the Chronicle of Sultan Selim and placed it in front of me。
Paired with the vibrantly colored page that showed the ambassadors
presenting the Book of Kings along with the other gifts to Sultan Selim； my eyes
found； among the gifts which were listed one by one； what I’d long ago read
but had forgotten because it was so incredible：
The turquoise…and…mother…of…pearl…handled golden plume needle which the
Venerated Talent of Herat； Master of Master Illuminators Bihzad； used in the act of
blinding his exalted self。
I asked the dwarf where he found the Chronicle of Sultan Selim。 I followed
him through the dusty darkness of the Treasury； meandering between chests；
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piles of cloth and carpet； cabis and beneath stairways。 I noticed how our
shadows； now shrinking； now enlarging； slipped over shields； elephant tusks
and tiger skins。 In one of the adjoining rooms； this one also suffused with the
same strange redness of cloth and velvet； beside the iron chest whence
emerged the Book of Kings； amid other volumes； cloth sheets embroidered with
silver and gold wire； raw and unpolished Ceylon stone； and ruby…studded
daggers； I saw some of the other gifts that Shah Tahmasp had sent： silk carpets
from Isfahan； an ivory chess set and an object that immediately caught my
attention—a pen case decorated with Chinese dragons and branches with a
mother…of…pearl…inlaid rosette obviously from the time of Tamerlane。 I opened
the case and out came the subtle scent of burned paper and rosewater； within
rested the turquoise…and mother…of…pearl…handled golden needle used to
fasten plumes to turbans。 I took up the needle and returned to my spot like a
specter。
Alone again； I placed the needle that Master Bihzad had used to blind
himself upon the open page of the Book of Kings and gazed at it。 It wasn’t the
needle he’d blinded himself with that made me shudder； but seeing an object
he’d taken into his miraculous hands。
Why did Shah Tahmasp send this terrifying needle with the book he’d
presented to Sultan Selim？ Was it because this Shah； who as a child was a
student of Bihzad’s and a patron of artists in his youth； had changed in his old
age； distancing poets and artists from his inner circle and giving himself over
entirely to faith and worship？ Was this the reason he was willing to relinquish
this exquisite book； which the greatest of masters had labored over for ten
years？ Had he sent this needle so all would know that the great artist was
blinded of his own volition or； as was rumored for a time； to make the
statement that whosoever beheld the pages of this book even once would no
longer wish to see anything else in this world？ In any event； this volume was
no longer considered a masterpiece by the Shah； who felt poignant regret；
afraid that he’d mitted a sacrilege through his youthful love of illustrating；
as happened with many rulers in their old age。
I was reminded of stories told by spiteful illuminators who’d grown old to
find their dreams unfulfilled： As the armies of the Blacksheep ruler； Jihan
Shah； were poised to enter Shiraz； Ibn Hüsam； the city’s legendary Head
Illuminator； declared； “I refuse to paint in any other way；” and had his
apprentice blind him with a hot iron。 Among the miniaturists that the armies
of Sultan Selim the Grim brought back to Istanbul after the defeat of Shah
Ismail； the capture of Tabriz and the plunder of the Seven Heavens Palace was
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an old Persian master who it was rumored blinded himself with medicines
because he believed he could never bring himself to paint in the Ottoman
style—not as the result of an illness he’d had on the road as some claimed。 To
set an example for them； I used to tell my illuminators in their moments of
frustration how Bihzad had blinded himself。
Was there no other recourse？ If a master miniaturist made use of the new
methods here and there in out…of…the…way places； couldn’t he then； if only a
little； save the entire workshop and the styles of the old masters？
There was a dark stain on the extremely sharp point of the elegantly tapered
plume needle； yet my weary eyes couldn’t determine whether it was blood or
not。 Lowering the magnifying lens； as if beholding a melancholy depiction of
love with a matching sense of melancholy； I looked at the needle for a long
time。 I tried to imagine how Bihzad could’ve done it。 I’d heard that one
doesn’t go blind immediately； the velvety darkness descends slowly； sometimes
after days； sometimes after months； as with old men who go blind naturally。
I’d caught sight