Portrait of Shade

by Benjamin Ford

  She slowly opened her eyes again.

  Swirling multi-colours of light hurled themselves all around her like a light storm of pure radiant energy. It was like the firework display of kaleidoscopic pinprick flashes one gets when rubbing ones eyes too fiercely – only it was all around her, touching her yet avoiding her, snaking tendrils of light through her hair. The colours were bright then dim, the flashes everywhere… above, below, in front and behind, shifting patterns, altering configurations, changing constantly, predominantly red, and now blue, green, yellow, orange, white, black, pink, purple. There was no coordination, everything haphazard, spiralling circles, squares, and unformed patterns of even more colours than Eudora had known existed. They were not physical colours. She could not reach out to touch them, yet when they touched her she could see the rippling effects, though she felt nothing when the eddies caressed her skin, as she felt nothing beneath her feet. She glanced down… amazed to see the colours beneath her feet rippling too.

  It’s almost as if I’m stood in a pool of watered down paint, she thought, where all the colours are eddying together yet remaining separate, not mixing. It’s a rainbow of paint.

  She turned to look at the owner of the voice, and found herself face to face with the most handsome man she had ever set eyes on. He smiled at her confusion, but not in a malicious manner.

  ‘Hello, Theodora,’ he said gently. ‘Welcome to my prison.’

  As he spoke, the veil of forgotten memories lifted and revealed the truth that she had witnessed. She remembered everything, though understood little. ‘Spiridon?’ she whispered. Reassured when he nodded, she continued. ‘Why do you call me Theodora? My name is Eudora Donat.’

  Spiridon shook his head. ‘In your past, perhaps, but no longer will you use that name. Here you will be known as Theodora Dieudonné: lover to Dušan, concubine to Selim, mortal enemy of Diocletian.’

  She noticed he was wearing the brown monk’s robes from the painting and not the clothes – which had looked suspiciously like her father’s – that he had been wearing when…

  ‘My God,’ she gasped incredulously, ‘we’re inside the painting, aren’t we?’

  Solemnly, Spiridon nodded. ‘Yes, my dear. The painting is my prison.’

  ‘As it is now mine,’ Eudora snapped furiously. ‘By rescuing me from Nola’s father you have trapped me within your prison. Well, thanks a bunch. I’d have rather taken my chances with that man.’

  Spiridon held up a hand in an effort to halt Eudora’s tirade of anger. ‘Have no fear, Theodora. The painting is not your prison. It is merely a refuge for you, a safe haven from which you may come and go freely.’

  ‘I can?’ she gasped, wondering whether perhaps she should insist upon him using her real name. Was he telling the truth, or was he just trying to reassure her with deception?

  ‘Well, perhaps not quite as freely as you please, but close enough.’

  ‘Oh great,’ grumbled Eudora. ‘Like I said – I’m stuck in the painting!’

  ‘You cannot know how lonely it has been for me, trapped within my prison, alone for four centuries. And now I have a companion at last.’

  In her anguish at the thought of being trapped with no means of escape, Eudora had not paused to consider what it must have been like for Spiridon to be trapped here. ‘But the painting is of Constantine and Diocletian as well as you. Are they not here also?’

  Spiridon shook his head, floating away slightly, turning his head to one side in sorrow. ‘No. I am alone. When there is someone close by in the real world that is in danger, I have found myself able to leave the painting and offer assistance. In those brief snatches of freedom I am imbued with great strength.’

  ‘You tried to help Gaia… and then Izzy too! But how are you able to do this… and why?’

  Spiridon shrugged. ‘I was imprisoned by Diocletian, using the dark arts.’

  ‘Black magic? Oh… you’re a Saint, aren’t you?’ exclaimed Eudora, suddenly recalling the things she had recently read. ‘Of course, it makes sense. It’s the eternal fight of good against evil. Evil imprisoned you here, so you can be free to do good deeds since Saints are expected to do so!’

  ‘Perhaps that is the reason,’ Spiridon sighed. ‘In the case of your sister and cousin, I was ineffective. Diocletian had them killed in his eternal search for my soul.’

  ‘Hang on… if Diocletian wanted you dead, why didn’t he just destroy the painting after he imprisoned you?’

  ‘All shall become clear to you in time, my dear. It all revolves around the concept of time. My one regret is that I cannot return to rescue Isadora and Gaia again. I failed them!’

  Eudora reached out and touched his arm reassuringly. ‘I don’t think you failed them. We can all only ever try our best. Your name is Spiridon… you must also be Don Dusan, the mysterious man from Sotheby’s!’

  Spiridon smiled. ‘A necessary deception.’

  ‘So you are also Dušan in this time… and you said Theodora Dieudonné was his lover.’

  ‘Indeed yes, but not yet. There are things you must be made aware of, customs to learn… and a language to master… enough to get by, anyway. There are also things you must know about your future, and other things that I cannot reveal.’

  Eudora felt somewhat dizzy as Spiridon rattled off all the things she was required to do. Personally, she did not want to know anything about her future… but if Spiridon felt there were pertinent facts she should know then she was not about to argue. ‘But what if I should do something to alter history?’

  ‘Alter history?’

  ‘Well I am going back in time, am I not? To the time of Selim? To the time of Dion Taine, and Dušan? Constantinople isn’t it? Sixteenth Century?’

  ‘So you believe in all this then?’ asked Spiridon, waving his arm almost dismissively. ‘Is this madness more preferable to the other option?’

  ‘Insanity, you mean? I don’t know which I prefer to be honest!’

  Spiridon smiled at her. ‘Have no fear, my dear. You cannot change history. You are already a part of it. What you are to do has already happened, and what is recorded as history is what you are about to re-enact.’

  Eudora frowned. ‘So what you’re saying is that whatever I do will be right?’

  ‘That is correct. It cannot be wrong, because it has already happened.’

  It should have made perfect sense, yet gave Eudora a massive headache as she tried to get her head around it. She had not heard the name Theodora Dieudonné before. ‘Am I important to history?’

  Spiridon shook his head. ‘Only marginally so… to a few people in the local area.’

  ‘Local being Constantinople?’

  Spiridon nodded. ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘I have seen it all before, so I know you will do everything right.’

  ‘When, exactly?’

  ‘In 1568, just before my imprisonment.’

  * * *

  As he stepped from the cool refreshing scented water of the large square bath, Dion Taine allowed the two eunuchs to dry his body, and then once they had dressed him he absentmindedly dismissed the pair, his thoughts consumed with his most recent painting.

  He had named it Sangraal, a chalice drawn from memory. The Holy Grail, some men called it. Dion had no idea where the image came from, but it was definitely a memory rather than a figment of his imagination.

  It was just a simple cup, furnished from gold, standing in the foreground of a stained glass window depicting the Crucifixion. The shafts of light that burst through the window bathed the chalice with delicate multi-hued patterns, shifting the focus of its plain ordinariness, transforming it into something altogether more decorous and infinitely more beautiful than anything else Dion had thus far painted.

  I have seen the Cup of Christ, Dion thought in awe, but where… when? In another life perhaps, but certainly not in this!

  He had come to Constantinople twenty-six years ago, aged only twenty. His father had been an envoy for Francis I of France, who h
ad entered into an alliance with Sulaiman the Magnificent back in 1542. Dion had fallen in love with the city, remaining at the Sultan’s side as his friend and confidante when his parents had eventually returned to France.

  He had taught himself how to paint, and with each portrait, each still life and landscape, his talent grew. His portraits were delicate, painted with a finesse that made them intricately lifelike, so much so that people who viewed them almost felt the portraits might easily burst into life.

  Sulaiman had been a generous patron of the arts. He provided Dion with a permanent suite of rooms within the Seraglio in Constantinople, where the artist could live and continue with his painting. He also provided Dion with everything he needed, from paints and brushes to canvas and wood, on which he could deploy his artistry.

  Within the past decade, Dion had also taught himself to carve intricate designs in wood. Within the courtyard outside his rooms in the palace, he painted the beautiful pink rose in full bloom, and Sulaiman, captivated by the beauty of Dion’s new work of art, had requested the painting be framed so it could hang within his own bedchamber. Dion chose rosewood because it was hard and would wear well, and because its rich darkness contrasted with the vibrant colours of the painting. He carved roses, climbing and clambering all around the frame, accentuating the painting’s exquisite beauty, and was intoxicated by the gorgeous rose-like scent.

  Sulaiman rewarded Dion by presenting him with a young girl from his harem who, over time, became Dion’s wife. Ayesha stood only five feet tall, delicate in build and fragile in beauty. Her long black hair was the envy of most of the other concubines in the Seraglio. She possessed a small nose and full luscious lips, which when she smiled revealed perfect white teeth. Her eyes were huge blue baubles, which positively gleamed like glorious sapphires in the sunlight.

  Ayesha had been Dion’s personal rose, the absolute love of his life, and they had been immeasurably happy together before and after their wedding. Their marriage was cut tragically short when Ayesha died in childbirth, and three days later the baby girl, whom Dion had named Isra, died. Dion, who had never felt such desolation and heartbreak before, threw himself into his painting in an effort to overcome his grief. His first painting following Ayesha’s death was a portrait of her holding Isra in her arms, with Dion himself standing at their side; a portrait that evoked great sadness within the faces of the two adult subjects. The sadness was palpable, and did little to salve the terrible aching in Dion’s heart.

  Over the next few years, he painted some of his darkest work, and some of his best portraits. Most were still-life’s like Crucible – a night lamp that cast dark and disturbing shadows in the background of the picture, and Majolica – a dark study of an ornately decorated black pottery urn whose oxidized figures seemed almost to dance in the flames that enveloped the urn. Five years ago, Dion had persuaded Sulaiman to sit for his own personal portrait. The result had been Khan, which hung beside Rose of Seraglio in the Sultan’s bedchamber.

  During the reign of Sulaiman the Magnificent, Dion had been afforded many privileges, but that had all changed upon his death. Two years of purgatory had subsequently ensued, during which time his son and heir, Selim, had spoken to Dion not one pleasant word of kindness or friendship. It was clear that the new Sultan had no respect for his father’s friends, who only stayed loyal and true to Selim because of their love and respect for Sulaiman’s memory.

  Because Dion had been such a devoted friend to Sulaiman, and because he had married Ayesha, the girl Selim himself had always lusted after, Selim despised the Frenchman. He realised, however, that the man could be a vital link to any future invasion of Europe, and so he confined his hatred to verbal assaults.

  Selim’s dislike for the artist was a well-known fact within the walls of Constantinople. Dion was tolerated only because he had his uses. There was no denying he was an exceptional woodcarver and a brilliant artist, and Selim had set him to work on several glorious paintings. Selim also had a perverse voyeuristic penchant for watching couples copulating, and on several occasions, he had forced Dion into sexual liaisons with both eunuchs and girls from his personal harem, whilst he watched through ornately carved fretwork from the seclusion of an adjoining room.

  Selim had no desire to have his father’s image looking down upon him from almost every wall in every room, which was why he ordered that all portraits of Sulaiman be destroyed. Dion managed to save Khan, which he hid behind Crucible, and which he then sent back to his family home in France.

  The new Sultan prohibited Dion from painting any further people, and ordered that he be confined to his rooms and the courtyard. Dion was used to freedom, and felt constricted by this enforced captivity. He abided by Selim’s order, however, to be ultimately rewarded with the return of his freedom, which was when he met Sibylla.

  Sibylla had called the new Sultan Selim the Drunkard, and her tongue had been ripped out for her transgression, but unlike many such victims, she had survived, thanks in part to the mysterious Shaman who had been visiting the city at the time. Sibylla might have survived, but Dion was never the same after that. His hatred towards Selim escalated, but he could do nothing about the situation. Selim ruled over the entire Ottoman Empire, and should anyone step out of line then they could quite easily be found dead one morning – and that went for Dion Taine too.

  Sibylla’s torture at Selim’s hand for speaking out of turn was enough to make Dion want to leave with her, but what kind of life would they have in a country he had not seen in twenty-six years, and what kind of reception would they be given by a family he had not seen in almost as long?

  Selim would not be sorry to see them go, of that Dion was certain. Christian beliefs were not tolerated here, and over the years Dion had suppressed his personal religious beliefs, but as his thoughts drifted to his most recent painting, Sangraal, and all that it signified and stood for, he realised his religious beliefs were struggling for their own freedom.

  Once the pair of eunuchs had finished bathing him and dried him, Dion dressed in an off-white jubbah and left his bedchamber. He stood in the light airy room where he did all of his painting, and stared at the wooden easel on which was propped a new, untouched canvas. Though forbidden to do so, Dion felt a sudden almost violent urge to paint a person.

  And not just any person.

  For the past two weeks, images of Ayesha filled his mind, holding Isra in her arms, smiling at him, beckoning him to join them.

  He decided it was a prophecy of his doom. He was going to die, as surely as he had witnessed the deaths of those dear to him, Ayesha, Isra and Sulaiman amongst them. Since Selim had come to power two years ago, many more people he cared about had died at the Sultan’s behest. They all had been accused of treachery and conspiracy, and now he too was considering mutiny. Mutiny against Selim was punishable by death – so the prophecy would come true.

  Dion ran a hand through his long blond hair, which was so clean it itched, and then he fingered the long scar, which ran down the right side of his face from above the eye to the jaw line – a testament to the one and only time Selim had physically attacked him, soon after he had become Sultan.

  The empty canvas stared back at Dion solicitously, inviting him to his doom.

  But what if he broke his imagined prophecy, resisted his urge to paint Ayesha and Isra? Would that somehow prevent his death?

  He doubted it. His demise was foretold, and prophecies could not be undone. They always came true eventually, though not necessarily in this lifetime. Like so many people, Dion had always been devoutly sceptical to the possibility of life after death, but recently he had begun to doubt his strongly held belief that once you lived your life and died, then that was it. The ancient Egyptians had believed in reincarnation, and so had Sulaiman, which was why he had instructed that his remains should be entombed in the catacombs deep beneath the Seraglio. It was believed that somewhere within those pitch black labyrinthine catacombs dwelled a creature with miraculous powers, capable
of initiating reincarnation. No one claimed to have ever seen the creature, and there was no documentary evidence to prove its existence, yet many people thereabouts believed it to be real.

  Naturally, Selim had not carried out his father’s request, probably, Dion mused, because he too believed in the stories, and had no desire to have the reincarnated spirit of his father breathing constantly down his neck, watching everything he did, listening to everything he said and following his every movement.

  Dion felt he was not yet ready to die, and had no desire to allow the prophecy to come true. If it became reality in another lifetime then fine, if it came true in his current lifetime, then Dion decided he wanted to be able to come back again in someone else’s body, with all his own experiences and memories intact. History could not repeat itself. The prophecy could not be fulfilled more than once.

  As far as Dion could see, there was only one course of action to take: he would have to somehow find his way down into the darkened depths of the catacombs and confront whatever dwelled there in order to make a pact that would secure his resurrection.

  ‘Abbas, Jabir, come here,’ he called, walking to his bedchamber, where he came to rest before the ornately carved fretwork window that looked out onto the courtyard. Across the way, he saw Selim with a striking young man whom he recognised as Konstantin, Selim’s companion, much the same as he himself had been Sulaiman’s constant companion.

  It had taken Konstantin little time to worm his way into Selim’s household. There was certainly no denying the pale skinned, fair-haired stranger from Eastern Europe possessed charm, but charm could hide an inner danger that would remain unseen until its revelation.

  Dion mistrusted Konstantin. He knew little about the enigmatic stranger, and even less about his reclusive younger brother, Dušan, whom he had seen only once from a great distance in the three months that the pair had been in Constantinople. Somehow, he felt they would bring about the downfall of the Sultan, and although he disliked Selim, this was not a good thing in his eyes.