The Architect's Apprentice Part 13

'Oh, indeed. There are those who wors.h.i.+p him and those who loathe him. Even G.o.d doesn't know which side outnumbers which.'

Leon said Il Divino already had plenty of rivals when he took over, unwillingly, the construction of San Pietro. Since then his admirers and adversaries had doubled. Although he had utilized much of Bramante's plan, he openly disparaged his predecessor, which had not helped to endear him to his enemies. 'He said Sangallo's design was badly done, poor in light. He said it'd make a good meadow.'

'Meadow?' Jahan asked.

'For grazing. He said Sangallo's design was for dumb oxen and sheep who knew nothing about art. That didn't go down well with those who were fond of Sangallo.'

Jahan sighed. Here, too, his master differed. For the life of him he could not imagine Sinan pouring scorn on another architect, dead or alive. He said, cautiously, 'We heard the Pope backs Michelangelo.'

'Well, true. If it weren't for His Holiness, the artist would be torn to pieces,' Leon remarked, s.h.i.+fting in his chair and, momentarily, blocking the candlelight. Just as his face sank into shadow, he said, 'Your master must have enemies, too.'

Davud and Jahan looked at each other. It was a strange thing to say, yet so true.

'He does,' Davud said, giving the smallest of nods.

Leon told them that at the head of Michelangelo's foes was a man named Nanni di Baccio Bigio architect and sculptor. 'Strange, isn't it? The more like kindred a man seems, the more likely he is to become your enemy.' No sooner had Leon uttered this than his face crumpled, as though he realized he had said too much. He squirmed in his chair.

Watching him, Jahan said, 'We've tired you. We'd better leave.'

'I'd have liked to put you up, but ...' Leon said, drawing in a breath.

There was a curfew in the Jewish quarter, he explained. Once the gates were locked, no one could go in. If they had visitors, they would have to inform the authorities. Having no intention of burdening the old man with their presence, they asked him to recommend somewhere where they could stay. Leon called his servant boy, who seemed to be about eight years old, and instructed him to take the Ottomans to a guest house, where, he said, they would be among fellow artists.

Thus they were on the streets again, pulling their horses by the reins as they trod behind the lad. They pa.s.sed by wealthy houses with gla.s.s on the windows. They crossed markets where they saw pigs roasting on spits. Jahan had a suspicion the boy was not taking any shortcuts. Not because he wanted to show the city to them, but because he wanted to show them to the city. They were so obvious in their garments. Once, as Jahan turned back to talk to Davud, something, an intuition more than a concrete sight, stopped him cold. He feared they were being followed. He glanced left and right, unsure. Finally they arrived at a two-storey house that reeked of sausage and sweat. Their room and their p.i.s.spot they shared with three others a painter, an anatomy student and a gambler.

The first thing next morning, they went to Il Divino's house. Finding its location was easy. Even children knew where the great man lived. Getting through his door, however, was beyond the bounds of possibility. They introduced themselves to his a.s.sistant, explaining they had been sent by the Ottoman Chief Royal Architect. In return, they were told, politely but firmly, that Michelangelo did not wish to see anyone.

'Who does he think he is?' Davud bellowed once they were out of earshot. 'He's belittling us.'

'You heard what everyone said; the man doesn't even see his own Pope.'

Davud clucked his tongue. 'I tell you, these infidels need a lesson. They can't treat us like this.'

In the ensuing days, they visited churches, as Sinan had asked them to do. The lime in Rome was of a warm shade, albeit inferior in nature. The locals mixed it with a brownish substance called pozzolana to produce mortar. When dry it turned fine and powdery, and they used it profusely in their building works; but over time it became covered by an ugly mould. Jahan and Davud took notes, sketched the buildings. Many times they became lost in a maze of alleyways, only to find themselves staring in wonder at a basilica. But it was the construction of San Pietro that impressed them beyond anything. A circular shrine in the cold morning light, elusive and enticing like the remains of a dream slipping away. It was far from being finished, but, having studied every model they could lay their hands on, they were able to fathom how ma.s.sive and majestic it would be the base, the drum, the dome and the cupola. Its smell of stone, sand and newly sawn wood would cling to their robes and stay with them.

Jahan thought that there were two main types of temple built by humankind: those that aspired to reach out to the skies and those that wished to bring the skies closer down to the ground. On occasion, there was a third: those that did both. Such was San Pietro. As he stood there watching, completing the structure in his mind's eye, he had the strange sense that here, too, was the centre of the universe.

The labourers were waiting for a delivery that had been delayed due to bad weather in the south. This was fortunate for Sinan's apprentices, because it enabled them to walk around without being seen by too many. Positioning themselves on a hill, they completed dozens of drawings. The lower choir walls, the giant pilasters, the crossing piers, each an ode to perfection.

Every day without exception they went to see Michelangelo, only to be stopped before they crossed the threshold of his house. The same apprentice a painter and a n.o.bleman of some kind stood sentinel by the entrance, bent on not allowing anyone in. His name was Ascanio. Jahan had never met an apprentice so protective of his master.

'Il Divino is not a man of this world,' Ascanio said, staring at them intently. He explained how his master spurned his meals, surviving on pieces of bread. 'Even if you poured upon his head all the scudi in Rome, he'd still be living in penury.'

'Why live poorly in the midst of riches?' Davud said.

'Simple. He's not interested in earthly trinkets.'

Davud seemed determined to rub Ascanio up the wrong way. 'Is it true that he sleeps in his boots and never takes a bath?'

A flush of crimson crept over Ascanio's cheeks. 'Don't believe everything you hear. This city is cruel.' He said Michelangelo's friends in Florence had called him back, but, out of his love for his art and because he was a man of his word, he had not abandoned Rome. 'Do they appreciate it? Not even a crumb of grat.i.tude! The more you give them the more they ask. You know what my master says?'

'What?' Jahan duly asked.

'Greed puts grat.i.tude to sleep.'

What Ascanio didn't say was how the townsmen fretted that Michelangelo would die before he finished San Pietro. In old age his spirit was low, his body frail, though his mind was sharp as a blade. He suffered from sundry other ailments trapped wind, a pain in the abdomen and kidney stones so severe he could barely take a p.i.s.s sometimes. Jahan wondered if his master, too, feared death. A diligent and dedicated craftsman such as Sinan might have a hard time accepting his mortality. He raised buildings that would remain, while his own transience loomed more heavily in his heart each pa.s.sing day. It was a thought that came and went. He would remember it again, years later.

One afternoon, after another failed attempt to see Il Divino, they entered an eatery that smelled to high heaven of smoke and grease. They ordered eel pie, roasted quail and some sweet called torrone. That was when Jahan noticed a stranger watching them: his cap pulled down to his nose, his face half hidden.

'Don't look. Somebody is following us.'

'Who?' said Davud, instantly turning around.

The man sprang to his feet, pushed away his table and darted outside as if possessed. Sinan's apprentices exchanged a puzzled glance. Davud said with a shrug, 'He must have been a pilferer. He knows we are foreigners probably wanted to nick our money.'

On the tenth day, they visited Michelangelo for the last time. Ascanio had left on an errand and not yet returned. Another apprentice had taken his place, someone younger and, seemingly, kinder. They introduced themselves as if this were the first time and asked the apprentice to inform his master of their presence. To their surprise he nodded amiably and went inside. In a little while he came back and said that Michelangelo had agreed to see them. Trying not to show their astonishment, they followed him. It dawned on Jahan that Ascanio might have never asked Michelangelo whether he would like to see them, certain that Il Divino did not want to be disturbed. Apprentices who regarded their masters like their fathers tended to be overprotective, he decided.

They were ushered into a large room. A clutter of paints, canisters, chisels, hammers, scrolls, books and clothes was scattered about. Most windows were covered with heavy, bright-hued curtains to block the noise from the street, giving the entire place an aura of unearthliness. In the midst of the jumble stood an elderly man, stiff and slender, working on a sculpture a male head and torso by the light spilling from candles made of goat's tallow. He had another burning candle strapped to the metal band on his head. He was neither tall nor solidly built, except for his shoulders, which were broad, and his arms, which were muscular. Small and dark were his eyes, solemn and sallow his countenance. His nose was flat, and, as for his beard, black bristles streaked with white, Jahan did not find it impressive. It was his hands that he was drawn to long, bony fingers, pale at the tips; chipped and chewed fingernails covered in dust and dirt.

'Thank you for seeing us,' Jahan said, bowing.

Without turning around, Il Divino said, 'I once got a letter from your Sultan.'

'That must have been the late Sultan Bayezid,' Davud ventured.

Ignoring the remark, Michelangelo said, 'You don't make sculptures. How you can call it idolatry, I'll never understand. But your Sultan was generous. I was keen to come. It would have been my grandissima vergogna.* It wasn't meant to be.'

Gruff and throaty, like a man used to living inside his mind, he spoke so fast that Davud and Jahan had trouble following him with their limited Italian. He asked, 'How is your master?'

Only now remembering why they had come here in the first place, they presented the letter Sinan had entrusted to them. Wiping his palms on an ap.r.o.n dirtier than his hands, Il Divino broke the seal. When he finished reading, there was something in his eyes that wasn't there a moment ago a kind of restlessness.

Davud told him they would be happy to carry any message he might wish to send to Sinan. Nodding, the artist strode to a table piled with oddments of all sorts. Shoving things on to the floor he cleared a s.p.a.ce for himself and sat down to compose a letter, his forehead furrowed in thought.

Not knowing what to do meanwhile and not having been asked to sit, Jahan and Davud inspected their surroundings. On a workbench stood two models, both of San Pietro one wooden, one clay. They noticed Michelangelo had redesigned the facade and got rid of the portico. He had also changed the shape of the main piers bearing the dome. The small windows were gone, replaced by fewer but larger windows that invited more light.

A crash pulled them out of their trance. Michelangelo, having finished his letter, was searching for his wax. Frustrated, he had pushed aside a couple of scrolls, breaking a flask.

They looked under books, in drawers, over boxes. At long last the lost item was found under a cus.h.i.+on, half crushed from being stepped on. Michelangelo melted the wax, put his seal on it, tied a ribbon round the letter. He must have seen their interest in the San Pietro models, for he said, 'Sangallo took years to complete his design. I've done mine in fifteen days.'

Jahan was surprised to hear the anger in his voice. He, the most revered artist in Rome, was competing with a ghost. It occurred to Jahan that perhaps sculpture suited Michelangelo's temperament more than architecture. He didn't say this. Instead, having seen an exquisite drawing of a horse he remarked, 'You like animals.'

'I study them.' Michelangelo explained that he dissected corpses and goitrous animals to see the muscles, the nerves, the bones.

'I've a white elephant,' Jahan said proudly. 'We work on construction sites.'

'Your master employs an elephant? Maybe I should have one, too.'

He asked them about the Suleimaniye Mosque, commending Sinan on his work. Where did Michelangelo's knowledge come from, Jahan wondered. He was searching for some delicate way to inquire when the artist lifted his hand and said, 'Altro non mi achade.'*

They left quietly.

That same week they set off for Istanbul, making the journey on two stallions. Fond as he was of his mount, Jahan missed Chota. He could not help but worry that the tamer who had replaced him had not done his job properly or, even if he had, the animal had refused to eat, as elephants sometimes did, when they felt lonely or forlorn. But the closer they got to Istanbul the more distraught he felt. In Rome he had managed not to think about Mihrimah but now the memory of her came back with a vengeance, like rapids smas.h.i.+ng the barrier that had trapped them.

When they stopped to rest and relieve themselves, Jahan noticed that Davud looked pensive. As he knew his companion was an orphan and had been raised by his grandfather, he asked him about his childhood. 'What is there to tell?' said Davud gently. He had been a lost, angry boy until Master Sinan had found him, educated him and changed his destiny.

Afterwards they made their way to Adrianople wordlessly, each drawing into his own thoughts. Darkness descended; they galloped. Only when their backs could take no more and the horses were foaming at the mouth did they slow down. There was an inn nearby and that was where they decided to spend the night.

Inside, it was teeming. The dining hall was ample, though with ceilings so low that unless you sat you had to stoop. In one corner, in a fireplace hollowed out of stone, a cauldron blackened with soot simmered. At the long, wide wooden tables customers were perched men of every age and religion.

The instant Jahan and Davud entered every head turned in their direction, and the noise slackened. n.o.body welcomed them. Spotting an empty place at the end of one table, they squeezed in. Jahan glanced around. To his left sat a gaunt and greying man, perhaps a scribe, since his fingers were stained with ink. Across from them was a Frank with hair the colour of straw, warming his hands over a steaming bowl. He doffed his hat towards them as though in salute.

'Do you know him?' Jahan asked Davud.

'How could I know anyone in this hole?'

A dwarf pa.s.sed by carrying a tray of drinks. As he purposefully made his way, somebody tripped him. He fell down, the cups rolling along the floor. Peals of laughter erupted. The dwarf stood up, blushed but calm; the customers went back to their food, as if it had been someone else howling a moment ago.

They ate in silence. After supper Davud went upstairs for the evening prayer. Jahan decided to stay a bit longer. A kind of tranquillity such as he had never encountered before came over him. He was lonely as an abandoned lighthouse, yet in that moment he felt in company, though of what or whom he could not tell. For the first time the aching over Mihrimah's wedding stopped.

'Your friend's gone?'

Lifting his head, Jahan saw the man with the straw-coloured hair gazing at him.

'May I sit?' he asked, and without waiting for an answer did so. With a flick of his fingers he signalled to the dwarf. A minute later they had a jug on the table between them.

'Let's drink!' the stranger said.

The wine tasted of tree bark and roses left to dry. The traveller, whose name was Tommaso, struck Jahan as an intelligent man. An Italian, he said he was going east, as he was dying to see the Hagia Sophia. Gla.s.ses were renewed. Then the jug. They talked amicably, though afterwards Jahan would not remember half of what was said.

'Our master sent us to Rome,' said Jahan. Tipsy as he was he was careful not to mention the letter they were carrying. 'He wanted us to expand our knowledge.'

Like a man who had not spoken for a few days, Jahan talked about the things he was bent on achieving. Words dripping with wine. Since he had heard of Mihrimah's marriage, something in him longed to climb up fast.

Tommaso regarded him over the brim of his cup and said, very slowly, 'Does what we do in life matter so much? Or is it what we don't do that carries weight?'

'What do you mean?' asked Jahan after he knocked back his drink.

'Say you are pa.s.sing through the woods and you see this woman. All alone. You could have her there, but you don't. That shows what kind of a man you are. A man swears at you. You could land a punch on his nose. If you don't, that is who you are.'

Jahan said, 'So not doing something is a feat, then?'

'True,' Tommaso said with a smile. 'You build with wood, stone, iron. You also build with absence. Your master knows this well.'

Jahan got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. 'How do you know him?'

'Everybody knows your master,' said Tommaso as he stood up and threw the dwarf a coin. 'Need to go, my friend.'

Secretly, Jahan was glad that Tommaso had paid. He would have felt guilty if he had had to spend his master's money on wine.

Tommaso said, 'If you want to thrive, that's fine. G.o.d bless you either way. Just don't become one of those wretched souls.'

Upstairs, Jahan found Davud sleeping among a dozen travellers. He tottered over to a window and opened it. A cricket chirruped outside. An owl hooted. It was an enchanting evening, the moon a golden sickle. Stretching out before him like a fan was a garden lined with stone-edged beds, wafting a smell so delicious he could have gobbled it up. As he was inhaling that sweet smell he remembered. Only then. Those words came to him. He had read them before. They were from Dante. Inferno. Don't be one of those wretched souls who live without blame or without praise.

The next morning, when Jahan and Davud woke up, they discovered they had been robbed. Their boots, the coins left in their purses, the silver pin, the crystal ball and the sack where they kept their drawings all had vanished. So had Jahan's leather-bound diary and the ring he had hidden inside. Every sketch they had meticulously made throughout the journey had been carried off. Gone, too, was Michelangelo's letter.

'What kind of bandits would steal architectural drawings?' Jahan protested.

'They must have mistaken them for valuables,' Davud said sadly.

Oddly, nothing had been stolen from the other travellers. The thief, whoever he was, had targeted only Sinan's apprentices. They sobbed and wailed like children. They searched again and again. It was no use. Worried, mortified and broken, they left the inn. Each was accusing himself: Jahan for drinking the night before and Davud for falling asleep so early and so heavily.

They would never get to know what Il Divino had written to their master. The correspondence between the Chief Architect of Rome and the Chief Royal Architect of Istanbul was severed, and not for the first time. The apprentices arrived at the house of Sinan with nothing to offer him. It was as though nothing remained from their long journey, except the ache in their limbs and the memories of San Pietro, already withering away.

Captain Gareth arrived, an acrid smell of salt, sweat and liquor clinging to him. He seemed to pa.s.s through the palace walls as easily as a ghost. n.o.body liked him, but n.o.body dared to upset him either. As a result, everyone gave him a wide berth exactly what he wanted.

Jahan noticed the man didn't look well. His skin, which usually was a shade of bright pink not found among Ottoman men, had turned sallow. His lips were chapped, his cheeks sunken. Jahan suspected he might have contracted a disease on one of his voyages. Either that or treason had finally started to poison his soul.

'Well, well. It's been a long while. The other day I said to myself, I should go to visit the fake mahout and give him a piece of my mind. I get here and what do I hear? Oh, no, they say, he's in Rome! Rome? What a lucky lad you are. So how was it in the brothels? Would love to have a taste myself. Alas! n.o.body sends me to Rome! Where's my compensation? Tell me, what did you bring for an old friend?'

'We have been robbed on our way back to Istanbul,' Jahan said.

'Oh, yeah? I love trumped-up stories.'

To shut him up, Jahan gave him the sapphire rosary he had stolen at the opening of the Suleimaniye Mosque. He had planned to sell it and buy a present for Mihrimah. What a dolt he had been.

One glance at the booty and the man's face fell. 'Is this all, you sluggard?'

It wasn't. Buried deep under the same tree, Jahan had another box: silver cutlery from the imperial kitchens, a pearl that had fallen off from the hem of Mihrimah's gown, a gold-nibbed pen, a jar of honey from the royal pantry and a hairpin that belonged to Hesna Khatun. The nursemaid had been giving him another roasting when she'd had an asthma attack and had bent forward so close to Jahan's fingertips it would have been a sin not to snitch the hairpin. Jahan hadn't intended to hand any of these things to Captain Crazyhead. He had wanted to keep them to himself in case something went wrong and he needed to take flight.

But the Captain was no fool. 'I'm losing patience. Pity, you're still young. When they learn what kind of lies you've been telling, they'll skin you alive.'

Jahan shuddered at the thought, but he was also aware that the man had neither given him a drubbing nor pulled a dagger on him. Something was making him hesitate.

'Your Princess is miserable, they say. Poor thing. She has all the riches in the world but no love to cuddle her.'

'I haven't seen her in a while,' Jahan said uncomfortably.

'Oh, you will, I'm sure. Since she dotes on the white elephant ...'

Jahan understood. Captain Gareth had heard that Princess Mihrimah was unhappy in her marriage. He had learned, just as the entire city had, that she spent many afternoons crying on her own in her beautiful, lonely house. Knowing that she was fond of Chota, and perhaps of the mahout, too, the Captain had guessed that it wouldn't take her too long to reappear in the menagerie. Jahan was the goose that would lay golden eggs for him. He didn't wish to butcher him too soon.

Suddenly Jahan felt heartened. With a grin he said, 'You should go now. The Chief White Eunuch might come by at any moment. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes if he finds you here.'

Captain Gareth's bottom lip sagged, unsure what to say. Jahan added hastily, 'Go! When I have something to show you, I'll send word.'

Although the man gave him an icy stare, he didn't object. For the first time he took his leave without uttering threats. And thus Jahan discovered something about wretches like him that, as scary as they were, they thrived upon other people's weaknesses. If Jahan was determined to survive in the seraglio, he decided, he had to build an internal harem and put under lock and key every fear, worry, secret and heartbreak that had marred his soul. He would be both the Sultan and the eunuch of that harem. He would not allow anyone to take a peek inside. Including his master.