everyone could see and take warning； but to that small slapdash house in the
sheltered seclusion of the Sultan’s Private Garden； which was preferred for
interrogation； torture and strangling。
A youth； who seemed too elegant and polite to be one of the mander’s
men； authoritatively placed three sheets of paper on a worktable。
Master Osman took out his magnifying lens and my heart began to pound。
Like an eagle gliding elegantly over a tract of land； his eye； which he
maintained at a constant distance from the lens； passed ever so slowly over the
three marvelous horse illustrations。 And like that eagle catching sight of the
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baby gazelle which would be its prey； he slowed over each of the horses’ noses
and focused on it intently and calmly。
“It’s not here；” he said coldly after a time。
“What isn’t here？” asked the mander。
I’d assumed the great master would work with deliberation； scrutinizing
every aspect of the horses from mane to hoof。
“The damned painter hasn’t left a single trace；” said Master Osman。 “We
won’t be able to determine who illustrated the chestnut horse from these
pictures。”
Taking up the magnifying lens he’d put aside； I looked at the horses’
nostrils： The master was correct； there was nothing in the three horses
resembling the peculiar nostrils of the chestnut horse drawn for my Enishte’s
manuscript。 Just then； my attention turned to the torturers waiting outside
with an implement whose purpose I couldn’t fathom。 As I was trying to
observe them through the half…opened door； I saw somebody scuttle quickly
backward as if possessed by a jinn； seeking shelter behind one of the mulberry
trees。
At that moment； like an ethereal light that illuminated the leaden morning；
His Excellency Our Sultan； the Foundation of the World； entered the room。
Master Osman confessed to Him that he hadn’t been able to determine
anything from the illustrations。 Nevertheless； he couldn’t refrain from drawing
Our Sultan’s attention to the horses in these magnificent paintings： the way
one reared； the delicate stance of the next and； in the third； a dignity and pride
matching the content of ancient books。 Meanwhile； he speculated about
which artist had made each picture； and the pageboy who’d gone door to
door to the artists’ houses confirmed what Master Osman said。
“My Sovereign； don’t be surprised that I know my painters like the back of
my hand；” said the master。 “What bewilders me is how one of these men；
whom I indeed know like the back of my hand； could make a pletely
unfamiliar mark。 For even the flaw of a master miniaturist has its origins。”
“You mean to say？” said Our Sultan。
“Your Excellency； Prosperous Sultan and Refuge of the World； in my
opinion； this concealed signature； evident here in the nostrils of this chestnut
horse； is not simply the meaningless and absurd mistake of a painter； but a
sign whose roots reach into the distant past to other pictures； other
techniques； other styles and perhaps even other horses。 If we were allowed to
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examine the marvelous pages of centuries…old books that You keep under lock
and key in the cellars； iron chests； and cabis of the Inner Treasury； we might
be able to identify as technique what we now see as mistake； then； we could
attribute it to the brush of one of the three miniaturists。”
“You wish to enter my Treasury？” said the Sultan in amazement。
“That is my wish；” said my master。
This was a request as brazen as asking to enter the harem。 Just then； I
understood that in as much as the harem and the Treasury occupied the two
prettiest spots in the courtyard of the Private Paradise of Our Sultan’s Palace；
they also occupied the two dearest spots in Our Sultan’s heart。
I was trying to read what would happen from Our Sultan’s beautiful face；
which I could now look upon without fear； but He suddenly vanished。 Had He
been incensed and offended？ Would we； or even the miniaturists as a whole；
be punished on account of my master’s impudence？
Looking at the three horses before me； I imagined that I would be killed
before seeing Shekure again； without ever sharing her bed。 Despite the
immediacy of all their beautiful attributes； these magnificent horses now
seemed to have emerged from a quite distant world。
I thoroughly realized during this horrifying silence that just as being taken
into the heart of the palace as a child； being raised here and living here meant
serving Our Sultan and perhaps dying for Him； so being a miniaturist meant
serving God and dying for the sake of His beauty。
Much later； when the Head Treasurer’s men brought us up toward the
Middle Gate； death occupied my mind； the silence of death。 But； as I passed
through the gate where countless pashas had been executed； the guards acted
as if they didn’t even see us。 The Divan Square； which yesterday had dazzled
me as if it were Heaven itself； the tower and the peacocks didn’t affect me in
the least； for I knew that we were being taken further inside； to the heart of
Our Sultan’s secret world； to the Private Quarters of the Enderun。
We passed through doors barred even to the Grand Viziers。 Like a child
who’d entered a fairy tale； I kept my eyes trained on the ground to avoid
ing face…to…face with the wonders and creatures that might confront me。 I
couldn’t even look at the chamber where the Sultan held audiences。 But my
gaze happened to fall momentarily on the walls of the harem near an ordinary
plane tree； one no different from other trees； and on a tall man in a caftan of
shimmering blue silk。 We passed among towering columns。 Finally； we
stopped before a portal； larger and more imposing than the rest； framed in
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ornate stalactite patterns。 At its threshold stood Treasury chiefs in glimmering
caftans； one of them was bending to open the lock。
Staring directly into our eyes； the Head Treasurer said： “You are truly blessed
by fortune； His Excellency Our Sultan has granted you permission to enter the
treasury of the Enderun。 There； you will examine books that no one else has
seen； you will gaze upon incredible pictures and pages of gold； and like
hunters； you will track the spoor of your prey； the murderer。 My Sultan bade
me remind you that good Master Osman has three days—one of which is now
over—until Thursday noon； in which to name the culprit in the miniaturists’
midst； failing that； the matter shall be turned over to the mander of the
Imperial Guard to be resolved by torture。”
First； they removed the cloth sheath around the padlock； sealed to ensure
no key entered the keyhole without permission。 The Doorkeeper of the
Treasury and the two chiefs confirmed the seal was intact； signaling with a
nod。 The seal was broken； and when the key was introduced； the lock opened
with a clatter that filled the pervasive silence。 Master Osman suddenly turned
an ashen gray。 When one wing of the heavy； embellished…wood double door
was opened； his face was struck by a dark radiance that seemed a remnant of
ancient days。
“My Sultan didn’t want the scribal chiefs and the secretaries who keep
inventory records to enter unnecessarily；” said the Head Treasurer。 “The Royal
Librarian has passed away and there’s no one to look after the books in his
stead。 For this reason； My Sultan has manded that Jezmi Agha alone
should acpany you within。”
Jezmi Agha was a dwarf with bright； shining eyes who appeared to be at
least seventy years old。 His headdress； which resembled a sail； was even more
peculiar than he。
“Jezmi Agha knows the interior of the treasury like his own house； he
knows the locations of books and all else better than anyone。”
The aging dwarf displayed no pride in this。 He was running an eye over the
silver…legged heating brazier； the chamber pot with a mother…of…pearl inlaid
handle； the oil lamp and the candlesticks that the palace pages were carrying。
The Head Treasurer announced that the door would again be locked behind
us and sealed with the seventy…year…old sig of Sultan Selim the Grim。 After
the evening prayers； at sunset； the seal would again be broken； before the
witness of the attendant crowd of Treasury chiefs。 Moreover； we should
exercise great caution that nothing whatsoever “mistakenly” found its way
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into our clothes； pockets or sashes： we would be searched down to our
undergarments upon exiting。
We entered； passing between chiefs standing at either side。 Inside； it was ice
cold。 When the door closed behind us； we were enveloped in blackness。 I
smelled a bination of mildew； dust and humidity that drove deep into my
nasal passages。 Everywhere the clutter of objects； chests and helmets
intermingled in a huge chaotic jumble。 I had the feeling that I was witness to a
great battle。
My eyes adjusted to the odd light that fell over the entire space； which
filtered through the thick bars of the high windows； through the balustrades
of the stairs along the high walls and the railing of the second…floor wooden
walkways。 This chamber was red； tinged with the color of the velvet cloth；
carpets and kilims hanging on the walls。 With due reverence； I considered how
the accumulation of all this wealth was the consequence of wars waged； blood
spilt and cities and treasuries plundered。
“Frightened？” asked the elderly dwarf； giving voice to my feelings。
“Everybody is frightened on their first visit。 At night the spirits of these objects
whisper to each other。”
What was frightening was the silence in which this abundance of incredible
objects was interred。 Behind us we he