‘There must be some kind of historical library in Istanbul. Somewhere that would have books about the Fatih Mosque, Constantine’s mausoleum and so on. Someone must have done some archaeological work on it in the last five hundred years.’
‘Are you a historian?’
‘I’m a lawyer. You get pretty good digging through a mountain of old documents looking for evidence. And as far as Dragović knows, I’m supposed to be looking for ways to sneak in underneath the mosque. Maybe I’ll even find something.’
Mark tapped away at the screen of his phone. Abby wondered if it substituted for thought.
‘OK.’
The palace stood at the eastern end of the peninsula, bordered by nothing but the sea. Not a palace in the monolithic western style, like Blenheim or Versailles – solid monuments to power. This was an eastern palace: a complex organism that grew and sprawled over centuries, a place of shady courtyards and quiet corners where lovers and plotters could listen and conspire.
Most of the site was a park: broad paths winding between oaks and elms, with the sea sparkling through the trees. Abby let herself in through a gate, trying to ignore the Connie-shaped shadow that followed twenty yards back. She walked past Hagia Eirene – the Church of Holy Peace, one of the oldest in Istanbul – and around to the one courtyard where classical columns and porticoes still held their own against the surrounding minarets and domes. Somehow, after two thousand years, there was still nothing that said ‘museum’ quite like Graeco-Roman architecture.
She’d called ahead. The receptionist showed her through to the library at the back of the building, a long room whose high windows looked out across the grounds to the pointed towers of the main palace gate. The librarian had perfect English and a perfect smile: in no time, a small pile of books and journals had appeared on the oak table beside her. Abby started reading.
From the Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, she learned that the first construction on the mosque site had been a circular mausoleum built by Constantine for himself. His son Constantius had added a cruciform church; emperors had been buried there until 1028, when they ran out of room.
The article listed references for further reading, including a contemporary description of the mausoleum by the Bishop Eusebius, Constantine’s biographer.
The building stood impossibly high, every inch glinting with gemstones of every colour. The roof was gilded, reflecting back the sun’s rays to dazzle watchers for miles around.
It sounded like the sort of place you might keep your most valuable treasure. Abby read on through later, less evocative historians, skimming through pages of argument and counter-argument, speculation and guesswork. It seemed that no one had managed to add much definite about Constantine’s mausoleum since Eusebius – and with the mosque now planted on top of it, no one was likely to either.
At the bottom of the pile was a dog-eared archaeology journal. It mentioned an excavation done in the 1940s, which had found traces of Byzantine stonework, and a colonnaded cistern under the mosque courtyard. It observed that the mihrab inside the mosque – the holy niche that directed worshippers towards Mecca – wasn’t centred on the mosque walls. Anomalies and asymmetries in architecture often happened if a new building was built on old foundations, the authors said: by looking at what didn’t line up, you could infer what lay underneath.
That jogged something in Abby’s mind, an uneasy asymmetry in her own thoughts. It niggled, but she couldn’t place it. She read on.
‘During the excavations in the 1950s, the Director of Tombs reported the discovery of a Byzantine chamber under the mihrab of the modern mosque, accessible via a tunnel from the cellar of Mehmet the Conqueror’s mausoleum.’
She stared: her head spun. She felt herself trembling as she read the final sentence of the conclusion.
‘Perhaps the original Roman structure, last resting place of the emperor Constantine, has at last been found.’
She went over to the librarian and flashed her most beguiling smile.
‘Is there still a Director of Tombs in Istanbul?’
He nodded. ‘This office is part of the General Directorate of Monuments and Museums.’
‘Where can I find him?’
He looked surprised. ‘Here in this building. The office is upstairs. I can call for you if you want.’ Abby hesitated, then nodded. The librarian picked up the phone and spoke briefly. ‘One moment.’
A minute later, Abby heard high heels clacking on the wooden floor. The door opened and in walked a tall, strikingly beautiful woman with long black hair and an elegant dark dress. Her lips, her nails and her shoes were all bright red; her eyes were shadowed a shimmering aquamarine. Abby had rarely felt so drab – a disgrace to every ideal of femininity.
‘Dr Yasemin Ipek,’ the woman introduced herself. And then, seeing the doubt in Abby’s face, ‘I am the Director of Tombs.’
It was hard to imagine her scrambling around in dank, ancient holes underground.
‘I understand you are interested in the tomb of Constantine the Great?’ She smiled. ‘I have many tombs in my directorate. Sadly, his has been lost for centuries.’
Abby pointed to the article and quoted the last line. ‘It says here there’s a Byzantine chamber right underneath the holiest point of the mosque.’
Dr Ipek nodded. ‘I have read about this excavation. One of the directors of this museum, Professor Firatli, conducted it after the war. In fact, if you go into the crypt underneath Mehmet’s mausoleum, you can still see the wooden boards they put up to close the passage.’
‘Have you ever opened it?’
‘Never.’
‘How about in the 1940s? Do you know if they found anything down there? Any kind of relic or artefact?’
Dr Ipek narrowed her eyes. ‘There is nothing in the records.’
‘Is it possible to open the chamber?’
Abby could see the warmth fading from Dr Ipek’s face; a discreet glance at the silver wristwatch.
‘It is closed for structural reasons. The chamber is directly under the wall of the mosque, and we have many earthquakes here. You would have to apply for a permit from the minister directly.’
She saw Abby’s disappointment and relented a little. ‘You were thinking perhaps you will find Constantine’s lost sarcophagus under there?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Sometimes I wonder the same. But Professor Firatli was a scholar. If he had discovered something, he would have reported it.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Poor Constantine. He should have kept to his original plan and been buried in Rome. Then his tomb would have survived, and today he would be safe in the Vatican Museum.’
Abby blinked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Constantine did not always intend to be buried in Constantinople, not until very late in his life. He built a mausoleum in Rome, which still stands at Tor Pignattara. When he changed his plan, he had his mother, the Dowager Empress Helena, buried there instead. You can still see her sarcophagus in the Vatican Museum.’
She carried on speaking, but Abby didn’t hear it. Her mind was racing, trying to compute all the names and dates she’d heard in the last few days.
CONSTANTINUS INVICTUS IMP AUG XXI.
XXI. Twenty-one probably means the twenty-first year of Constantine’s reign, which would date the poem to 326 or 327. For what that’s worth.
‘When did Constantine change his mind about where he wanted to be buried?’ she asked.
‘His mother died in 328. So far as we can tell, he did not start building the mausoleum in Constantinople until near his death. Nine years later.’
Abby’s mouth was dry. She knew she had to get this right.
‘So if someone was writing about Constantine’s tomb in the year 326 …’