khans and shahs who were fighting among themselves。 With his victorious Turkmen hordes； he passed through the whole of Persia into the East； finally； at Astarabad； he defeated Ibrahim； the grandson of Shah Ruh who was Tamerlane’s son； he then took Gorgan and sent his armies against the fortress of Herat。 According to the historian from Kirman； this devastation； not only to Persia； but to the heretofore undefeated power of the House of Tamerlane； which had ruled over half the world from Hindustan to Byzantium for half a century； caused such a tempest of destruction that pandemonium reigned over the men and women in the besieged fortress of Herat。 The historian Abu Said reminds the reader with perverse pleasure how Jihan Shah of the Blacksheep mercilessly killed everyone who was a descendant of Tamerlane in the fortresses he conquered； how he selectively culled women from the harems of shahs and princes and added them to his own harem； and how he pitilessly separated miniaturist from miniaturist and cruelly forced most of them to serve as apprentices to his own master illuminators。 At this point in his History； he turns his attentions from the shah and his warriors who tried to repel the enemy from the crenellated towers of the fortress； to the miniaturists among their pens and paints in the workshop awaiting the terrifying 415 culmination of the siege whose oute was long evident。 He lists the names of the artists； declaring one after another how they were world…renowned and would never be forgotten； and these illuminators； all of whom； like the women of the shah’s harem； have since been forgotten； embraced each other and wept； unable to do anything but recall their former days of bliss。 We too； like melancholy harem women； reminisced about the gifts of fur… lined caftans and purses full of money that the Sultan would present to us in reciprocation for the colorful decorated boxes； mirrors and plates； embellished ostrich eggs； cut…paper work； single…leaf pictures； amusing albums； playing cards and books we’d offer him on holidays。 Where were the hardworking； long…suffering； elderly artists of that day who were satisfied with so little？ They’d never sequester themselves at home and jealously hide their methods from others； dreading that their moonlighting would be found out； but would e to the workshop every day without fail。 Where were the old miniaturists who humbly devoted their entire lives to drawing intricate designs on castle walls； cypress leaves whose uniqueness was discernible only after close scrutiny and the seven…leaf steppe grasses used to fill empty spaces？ Where were the uninspired masters who never grew jealous； having accepted the wisdom and justice inherent in God’s bestowal of talent and ability upon some artists and patience and pious resignation upon others？ We recalled these fatherly masters； some of whom were hunched and perpetually smiling； others dreamy and drunk and still others intent upon foisting off a spinster daughter； and as we recollected； we attempted to resurrect the forgotten details of the workshop as it had been during our apprentice and early mastership years。 Do you remember the limner who stuck his tongue into his cheek when he ruled pages—to the left side if the line he drew headed right； and to the right side if the line went left； the small； thin artist who laughed to himself； chortling and mumbling “patience； patience； patience” when he dribbled paint； the septuagenarian master gilder who spent hour upon hour talking to the binder’s apprentices downstairs and claimed that red ink applied to the forehead stopped aging； the ornery master who relied on an unsuspecting apprentice or even randomly stopped anyone passing by to test the consistency of paint upon their fingernails after his own nails were pletely filled； and the portly artist who made us laugh as he caressed his beard with the furry rabbit’s foot used to collect the excess flecks of gold dust used in gilding？ Where were they all？ Where were the burnishing boards which were used so much they became a part of the apprentices’ bodies and then just tossed aside； and the long paper 416 scissors that the apprentices dulled by playing “swordsman”？ Where were the writing boards inscribed with the names of the great masters so they wouldn’t get mixed up； the aroma of China ink and the faint rattle of coffeepots aboil in the silence？ Where were the various brushes we made of hairs from the necks and inner ears of kittens born to our tabby cats each summer； and the great sheaves of Indian paper given to us so； in idle moments； we could practice our artistry the way calligraphers did？ Where was the ugly steel…handled penknife ission from the Head Illuminator； thus providing a deterrent to the entire workshop when we had to scrape away large mistakes； and what happened to the rituals that surrounded these mistakes？ We also agreed that it was wrong for the Sultan to allow the master miniaturists to work at home。 We recalled the marvelous warm halva that came to us from the palace kitchen on early winter evenings after we’d worked with aching eyes by the light of oil lamps and candles。 Laughing and with tears in our eyes； we remembered how the elderly and senile master gilder； who was stricken with chronic trembling and could take up neither pen nor paper； on his monthly workshop visits brought fried dough…balls in heavy syrup that his daughter had made for us apprentices。 We talked about the exquisite pages rendered by the dearly departed Black Memi； Head Illuminator before Master Osman； discovered in his room； which remained empty for days after his funeral； within the portfolio found beneath the light mattress he’d spread out and use for catnaps in