Ultramarine

Because he was a slave and not a real person, Azul never thought of keeping the stone for himself. He could own nothing, not even his own sweating, sinewy body. But he held it for a moment, feeling its heft – too big to hold in one hand – and gazing at the flat edge exposed by his pick. Azul had never seen a more brilliant blue. As he turned the stone, tiny flecks of gold caught the light. It was like the night sky, frozen into rock. Azul presented it to his master, bowing his head low. Perhaps he would receive extra bread, or at least a day free from beating. The slave master presented the stone to his master, who saw it for what it was: lapis lazuli – a huge ultramarine of the finest colour. He too hefted it and gazed into its depths. Its destiny was clear. He would have it fashioned into a beautiful vessel, or a votive figure, to be presented to the Great Shah, in the expectation of certain favours, of course.

People said of the sculptor Shama that he could persuade cold stone into the softness of rose petals or women’s breasts. Shama himself always said that it was a matter of waiting for the stone to give birth, of assisting it to bring forth the form that had always been within. Now Shama gazed at the blue stone in his turn. Unlike the slave and his masters, the sculptor had seen the great Middle Sea on his travels, and he thought the lapis must be a solid fragment of that vast blueness, frozen in ancient times and buried in the mountains. As he meditated, the stone took shape in his mind as a chalice, a perfect vessel representing the heavens and the seas reflecting them – two perfect hemispheres of translucent blue flecked with gold. Between the two, linking them, would be the whole creation: mountains, trees, animals and two ideal human forms, male and female. No-one had ever attempted a project of such infinite delicacy; it would be his master work. Shama prepared his tools with special care, cleansed himself and made a fitting sacrifice. Once he began, he knew, the work would steal from him his sleep, his meals and his whole mind until it was completed. Shama took up his chisel and felt the familiar trance descend upon him, so he knew the gods were present. But at the first, tentative blow, there was a terrible cracking sound and a deep ugly fissure split the rock. A web of tiny fractures spread across its face, like a gust of wind disturbing the water. The glorious ultramarine lay in a thousand fragments, golden specks glinting with cruel mockery in the early sunlight. Shama didn’t hesitate. His reputation and perhaps his very life lay shattered on the bench before him. He scooped the crumbs of stone into a sack, grabbed his tools, roused his horse and disappeared into the morning mist.

Lycidas the merchant knew he had made a fabulous deal. That poor sculptor had been desperate, and had had little idea of the value of the ultramarine he sold so hastily. Lycidas would sell it for at least a hundred times what he had paid, once he put the stone on the market back in Venice. He let some of the crumbs trickle through his fingers. Yes, this deep ocean blue, the rarest and most precious of pigments, more valuable than gold.

It was time. The Doge himself sat down on his carved golden throne, the signal for all to take their seats. Giovanni felt the sweat on his neck and forehead despite the cool white marble of the palace. He bowed low as he drew back the dark velvet curtain to reveal his work at last. And there she was, his Madonna. Her sweet, sad face; the joy of new motherhood shadowed by the knowledge of suffering to come. Her soft arms and breast offering comfort to the holy child and to the human sinner alike. And enveloping her like a cloud, like the grace of God, the shimmering blue cloak of ultramarine, an intimation of Heaven itself.