He was going to have to bind his colours with egg tempera. He had decided that even before boarding the Blessed Ingacia. He preferred working with oil to bind now, not tempera, but the simple truth was that it took too long to dry, required the subject to sit more often and for longer (Mara Citrani had been happy to do so), and he couldn’t risk that in Asharias. Egg tempera it was. The freshest eggs the palace servants could find.
He couldn’t glaze properly working with this, or achieve the same effects as with oil, but there were advantages to using the older egg-based paint. One was that he was deeply uneasy here and would be happy to be done quickly, to have done well, and to go home. If he did do well, if they let him go.
He’d been lying in his bed thinking all of this. He hadn’t slept much. It was almost dawn, the day after he’d seen the temple that had once been the sanctuary, and had walked in the ruins of the Hippodrome.
The servant they’d assigned him arrived, bringing his breakfast, and he laid out Pero’s clothing. His first session of work. The servants would have been told.
There had been, unsurprisingly, considerable jealousy among the artists in the School of Miniatures, none of whom (not one, it seemed) had ever been inside the Palace of Silence where Villani—the infidel, the Seressini—was inexplicably being permitted entrance.
Pero had been assigned a room among the miniaturists at first. It hadn’t lasted. Two of his prepared canvases had been found slashed, and though he’d said nothing—he wasn’t going to need them, given that he was using tempera—he had been moved the next day to his present room among the enamel-workers. The enamel-workers didn’t appear to hate him as much.
The officials of the grand vizier, a Kindath named Yosef, evidently monitored all events in the palace compound, even the smallest.
—
YOSEF BEN HANANON was aware of certain things that had elevated him to his position as the much-feared vizier to the grand khalif, and of some others that had kept him in that position for an almost unprecedented period of time.
Viziers—indeed, most high-ranking officials in Asharias—tended to be eunuchs. Sometimes, instead, they were Kindath, followers of a marginal, often-derided faith. The principle was the same: members of neither group could have any hope of achieving something dynastic. They would owe everything, including their continued existence, to the khalif’s mercy and grace.
Beyond this, competence had been the essence of Yosef’s survival. He knew what the khalif and the empire needed from him and he was pleased to be able to provide these things. He enjoyed good food, and bodily comfort and the opportunity to converse with intelligent men. For these rewards (and a few others) he offered diligent service. He was not averse to ordering men killed although, to be just, he didn’t take pleasure in it, unlike some of his predecessors.
The detailed report on the belongings and companions of the Seressini artist, one Villani (younger than expected, but it didn’t appear to amount to a slighting of the court), had been presented to him.
One of the other Seressinis, a merchant, had died only days from Asharias. A matter worth noting—and it had been noted. It appeared to be a traveller’s mischance, or possibly a feud among the Jaddites, greed leading to deadly consequence. That was not a matter for the court, nor was it unusual.
The artist’s supplies had been (of course) examined. They appeared to be in order, according to the report. One paint pot was missing in the case that carried these, a space for it was empty. But paint pots were fragile and breakage to be expected. The other pots contained what they were said to contain. That is: paints, already prepared or to be mixed, of diverse hues.
The vizier remained uncertain as to precisely why the khalif wished his image rendered in the western fashion, but Gurçu had never been in the habit of explaining himself, and his vizier saw no reason not to have this portrait happen.
The artist would be in some danger from others in the palace grounds. Yosef ben Hananon felt a mild curiosity regarding this.
The westerner’s servant was of some concern. He was only a manservant, it appeared, not someone trained to work with an artist—which one might have expected.
He had been denied access to the palace. Yosef approved of this. Having their own people attend upon the artist gave them more control over him. The manservant, Agosta, attempted to find a position with the Dubravae trader first but had not been accepted and he was across the strait in the Seressini colony.
He wasn’t of great interest, but a man had been assigned to follow him and report. Drink and women, thus far. He sang when intoxicated. Jaddites, on the whole, tended to be lacking in self-restraint.
The vizier, deeply versed in self-restraint, was endlessly aware that his life—which contained luxuries unimaginable to him a decade ago—could end with a word from the throne. It would, of course, be a quiet word, but would never be indecisive, or reversed. His gratitude was extreme nonetheless, and his loyalty unswerving. Eunuchs and Kindath: the best people to be given power. He proceeded that way himself in making appointments.
It was the same principle employed with the djannis in the army, from the ranks of which each of the khalifs chose his own guards. The Jaddite-born djannis also owed loyalty only to the throne. They could be, it was true, dangerous when peacetime extended too long (when there were no rewards to be claimed, east or west), or when there was a change of power in the palace—or even a rumour of change.
This was, in part, why the Osmanli empire was usually at war. It was certainly why a new khalif always had his siblings and any strong-willed family members strangled. There were reasons for traditions.
With Gurçu, that had all happened years before Yosef had become a member of the Courtyard of Silence, let alone grand vizier. Gurçu the Destroyer had ruled for thirty years now. He showed few signs of weakness and his two surviving sons (who hated each other for the obvious reasons and a few more) were both infinitely careful—most of the time.
—
IT WAS THE VIZIER HIMSELF who stood waiting to greet him at the gold-and-silver gate to the inner courtyard. He was clad in black with a crimson belt and hat. Pero had bowed, then did so again, as instructed—even to a Kindath.
When he straightened, he glimpsed a garden beyond the man and the gated wall. The vizier was thin, long-bearded, a man of gravity, close-set eyes and a close gaze. He wasn’t old, the beard was dark. Pero had thought that this was a face he’d like to draw or paint. He’d wondered if it would be a transgression to do so in his sketching books.
His palms had been sweating. He’d dried them on his tunic, hoped the other man wouldn’t notice, then decided that of course he would.
“You understand how you are honoured?” the vizier had said in Trakesian, without any greeting. His voice was deep, sonorous. There were three other officials with him and four djannis guarding the gate.
Pero nodded. “I do, my lord.” His voice seemed to be all right.
And as if that thought had been read, the vizier said, “You also understand that you speak no words at all past this gate.” He smiled without amusement. “There is a reason it is called the Courtyard of Silence.”
Pero had been awaiting this moment, had lain awake dreading it in the nights.
“That is not possible,” he said firmly.
There was a stir. One of the guards slowly turned his head to stare at Pero. A blond man with pale, murderous eyes, very tall.
The vizier had remained expressionless. He touched his beard briefly. He said, “I fear you may not have understood. This is not subject to amendment in any way. The khalif, blessed forever, permits no speech in these gardens or rooms.”
A deep breath. “Then I cannot paint his portrait in these gardens or rooms,” said Pero Villani of Seressa. “Unless you wish me to gesture without explanation how he should sit, or move, or hold his head. Or use my hands to position his body, which I woul
d not do.”
“You would die if you did that, yes,” said the vizier. “Or even made to approach more nearly than where you will be instructed to stand.”
Pero shook his head. He was very much afraid. There were, he thought, so many ways a man could die. At home, far away, known or obscure, young or old, quietly, violently.
He said, “That, too, makes this impossible, my lord. I must decide myself where I stand, and consider with him where the khalif will be.”
The vizier could, after all, look disconcerted. No more than a lifting of the head, but it was there. Artists could be observant too, Pero thought. And were famously difficult. He was remembering the Council of Twelve at night: he had been reckless there as well. What was it that happened to him in situations such as this?
The officials were glaring openly now. The guards seemed willing, anxious you might even say, to use their weapons on the Jaddite right here, end this folly.
Unfortunately for this desire on their part, the folly—though it could never be named so—was that of Grand Khalif Gurçu. Who had made his wishes known and had sent for an artist to achieve them.
Pero said, “Either a portrait is done in our manner, as requested, or it cannot be done. I am content to convey my great respect to the khalif, through you, and return home. The journey has been interesting. But I will not do less than my best work here, it would shame me. And my best work requires that certain things be as they are for all portraits.”
“And these would be?” The vizier’s voice was measured.
“I must be able to assess the light and furnishings in the chosen room, and adjust or add to these elements—window coverings, wall hangings, a chair, a throne perhaps. I must be able to request that my subject take different positions so that we can, together, decide what is most appropriate for the work.”
“You would decide something with the khalif?”
“With him, yes. Some artists are arrogant and they decide alone. But for me, the subject’s wishes remain paramount. I must know what these wishes are, and advise as a painter what can and cannot be done to gratify them.” He looked at the vizier, at the hooded eyes. “I will do exactly the same things with the Duke of Seressa when I paint his portrait on my return, for the council chamber of the palace. This is, my lord vizier, what we do, to satisfy our subjects and honour our craft. No one is ever compelled to have their portrait painted. Unless, perhaps, a child made subject to a parent’s will.”
There was a silence. The sun was rising, it was early morning.
“You will wait here,” said the grand vizier.
He turned. A guard unlocked and opened the gate, the vizier went through. The gate was closed and locked. It was magnificent. Silver and gold intertwining, with stars.
Pero waited among men who—he entirely understood—would joyfully see him dead.
He was quite calm now.
—
A EUNUCH WOULD BE PROVIDED. An older man, of long service, evidently privileged—he had to be, since he was permitted to speak.
Pero would whisper—only when absolutely necessary, and as delicately as possible—into the ear of this man, who would cross the room and whisper the same words (one hoped) to the grand khalif of the Osmanli people.
In this way might the khalif’s form or visage be caused to turn slightly to the left or right, his illustrious head be lifted a little higher to catch the light differently.
“This must be acceptable,” the vizier said. He actually looked uneasy, as if he needed agreement.
“It is acceptable,” said Pero.
After a moment, the vizier nodded to the guards. The same man opened the gate again.
Pero followed the vizier into the Garden of Silence and then, past peacocks and orange trees and three small, splashing fountains, into a large ground-level room in a building on the other side, with windows opening onto the garden.
It had been then that the flat of a sword struck him on the back of the knees and he fell forward to the tiled floor. He was still like that, hands outstretched, awaiting the khalif of the Asharites in the Palace of Silence.
A further passage of time ensued. Unearthly long, in the circumstances. Pero was sweating. He heard men breathing above him but no one spoke. Of course no one spoke. He sought an image within that might calm him, anchor him, and what came was Leonora Valeri’s face.
He had told her that he loved her. And seeing her now in the eye of his mind he understood this was true, and would remain so. There might be sorrow in the end, he thought (if he even lived), but there was someone in the world whose existence eased his own. He didn’t believe she understood this. He did, however, and his breathing slowed.
A door opened.
Pero lay motionless. The door closed. A footfall, another behind it. A shadow cast in front of him on the floor, sunlight through a window, falling across a man. He did not dare look up. He had no idea how he would know when he could, or should. Would someone kick him? Was that what they did? Moments passed. The breathing of frightened men. He was one of those.
“You had better rise,” said a grave voice, in Trakesian, a voice even deeper than that of the vizier. “You can’t very well paint my portrait while lying on the floor.”
Someone gasped. Would that sound have the man killed, Pero wondered. He did as he was told. He pushed himself to his knees, and he looked up into the eyes of Gurçu the Destroyer.
CHAPTER XXIII
“You also have permission to speak,” the khalif continued.
Pero gaped, his heart thudding. He swallowed, he hoped not noisily. He saw that the others in the room—including a handsome, younger man who had entered with Gurçu—looked shaken.
The khalif glanced around. He said, “I weary of empty words, unnecessary ones. I come here to escape this. But if I wish to learn things about your western art, and I do, I cannot do so with a silent painter. You will speak with me when we have these sittings. You will answer all questions I ask. It is understood?”
Pero swallowed again, managed to nod.
“You told my vizier we would decide together how the work is to be done. Very well. Let us commence.”
Pero opened his mouth. He had no idea what he should say. His mind was blank as a linen canvas. Gurçu held up a quick, imperious hand. Long fingers, three rings, a blue gem, a red, a silver band.
“Wait. Hold. First, everyone else will go.”
The vizier startled in dismay. He gestured at his own chest, for permission to speak.
The khalif shook his head. “Lakash will remain as a guard against this obviously dangerous artist. Everyone else leaves. When the painter is to be escorted back, Lakash will summon men to do so. You,” he pointed to Pero, “remain where you are, on your feet. I assume we begin today? What are you using to mix your paints? No. No. Wait until they are gone. And prepare thoughts on why rulers in the west desire their portraits done.”
He looked around again. A pale face, long nose, eyes almost black, a thin body, that deep voice. It was, Pero thought, as if thunder had swept and rumbled through the room, a godlike storm, shaking all the mortals here.
Someone else spoke. It actually shocked him.
“Father, lord, might I entreat that you permit me to stay? For your protection and my own knowledge?”
Gurçu looked at the speaker, the handsome man who had entered behind him.
“No,” he said. “There will be no one at these sittings but myself and my mute and this artist who—for reasons I will learn—was selected by the Council of Twelve for this task.”
“Lord, is it not permitted to be as curious about such matters as the khalif?”
“It is. But in your own chambers, with your own readings and visitors to teach you. Cemal, I said no. You will rejoin me when the sitting is done each morning. Wait in the garden.”
The handsome man pressed his h
ands together and bowed. He was an elegant figure, with his father’s eyes and nose, and the name identified him. This was the older prince, the favoured son of the two who had been permitted to live.
Beyet, the younger, was alive as a kind of bloodline insurance, Marin Djivo had said, over wine and grilled lamb. Pero had understood: the younger prince was a surety against accident, illness, death in this one. Of course he could also cause accident, illness, death. He was, Marin had added, a check on premature ambition as well.
Premature ambition would hardly be unknown among the Osmanlis, any more than it was anywhere else, and this khalif had reigned many years now. His sons would have spent a long time waiting.
He had been instructed to stand. He did so, cautiously. It would be ill-advised, he thought, to move quickly here. The looks he was receiving from the guards and court officials were poisonous—and they also revealed fear. Survival, advancement would be shaped by access, and he—a miserable infidel artist—was now to be alone with the khalif every morning, speaking to him, teaching him, by request, in a place where no one spoke aloud or they died.
Well, it had always been possible he’d be killed here. It seemed rather more likely at this moment. The son, he noted, as the sleek figure glanced at him, didn’t look murderous. Prince Cemal looked . . . Pero couldn’t find the word. But it wasn’t violent or fearful. Something else.
Not his concern. What would he be using to mix the paint? That was what Gurçu the Destroyer wanted to know? Oh, and why Pero Villani had been chosen to come to him.
A more delicate matter, that. He made a decision, standing there, trying to hold his head high without meeting the eyes of the guards, large men who gave every sign of wishing to use weapons on him.
He decided that he would answer with the truth—whenever he could—any and all questions of this hawk-faced man who wielded more power than anyone he’d ever known. More power than anyone alive, in truth.
Men were leaving the room. The vizier turned in the doorway and fixed Pero with a final glance. There was meaning in it, but Pero Villani had no idea what that meaning was. He was too far out of his element. His element was the tannery district of Seressa, or a bookshop across several arched bridges from there. Neither prepared you particularly well for the Palace of Silence in Asharias.
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