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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