Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [208]
It was not to be. Attended humbly by Brother Orazio, Father Ludovico took his place in the small cortège wearing a marginally fancier version of his usual caped hood and cassock, with his crucifix clanking in front and an ancient Gospel held in both hands. The two Venetian envoys and Rosso were however in Persian attire, and so were Julius and Nicholas, behind them. It pleased Nicholas to note, in his present state of rebellious nausea, that Julius found the long tunic and trousers encumbering, and had not discovered the knack of knotting his head-linen under one ear. It was fine, seven-ducat stuff, and generally looked best (although Nicholas didn’t suggest it) when worn with one earring. He himself had chosen a simple one of plain gold.
This time, Julius couldn’t complain of discrimination. Musicians escorted them into the heart of the domain, where Nicholas himself had never yet penetrated, so that they glimpsed, bowered in green, the outlying buildings — the summer kiosks, the stables, the workshops, the library. The cupolas of the pavilions and the baths; the immense one-storey complex of the harem. The high decorated walls of a garden and, between marble arcades, the pink and white volutes of birds, swans and flamingos, mirrored in water. Then they began to pass through the different courtyards, so that they were plunged from heat to coolness, darkness to light. The morning sun stippled soaring towers of basket-weave brick, and glowed on surfaces where brick and faience were mingled together, paste-red and lustrous turquoise and ultramarine, forming geometric patterns, or flowers, or sacred words sprawling upwards in ecstasy, their shape cut by angels in spectacles. Some walls were set wholly with tiles and shone as if a gondola, passing, had rinsed them.
The vaults they walked under were tiled, or worked in faceted stucco such as they had in Granada, although Nicholas had seen only replicas, far from Spain, and ill-kept and dusty at that. Fashioned like honeycombs, they cascaded over his head in stone and plaster and wood. Carved stucco and tiles lined the anterooms and chambers and passages which led, ultimately, to the great central hall, its dadoes enamelled and gilded; its round silk carpet perfectly fitted to its circular floor and, high above, a painted ceiling so fresh that it glistened.
It showed Persian victories. It pictured, in gold and silver and blue, the splendour of subservient Ottoman embassies (their outcome enscripted); the magnificence of the prince’s hunting expeditions and the wonders of his menagerie. There was a water-horse.
Nicholas gazed up at it, forgetting Uzum Hasan on his canopied dais. The Palace of the Eight Heavens: Hesht Behesht. The Muslim cosmos allowed for seven superimposed heavens: above these was only God on his throne. Allah-u Akbar. He said, half aloud, ‘Who painted that?’
Josaphat Barbaro murmured. ‘They claim someone from the court atelier at Herat — even Bihzad himself. I don’t believe it. If you can paint a beautiful miniature, you can do the same on a wall. Tamerlane used Tabrizi artists in Samarkand.’
The Venetian knew a lot about Persia. He was the only one of them to be invited to stay: they knew that for certain by now. Contarini, threatening to indulge in a last, foolish protest, had been sternly advised to refrain — with patience by Barbaro, and with grating scorn by the envoy of Duke Charles of Burgundy, still gripping his Gospel. Now, majestic in his stiff robe of state and plumed cap with its diadem band, the prince Uzum Hasan confirmed the edict. They were to return to their virtuous masters, and affirm to them that he was about to go to war with the Ottoman. Letters would be prepared. The Shah added the appropriate felicities, commending each man, and sending his greetings through them to the exalted, respected, honoured and esteemed princes of Christendom, upholders of the religion