Kamil thought that wasn’t a very compelling reason to be wasting his time on finding the reliquary right now. Malik must have known that. It was probably why he hadn’t mentioned sooner that the box’s valuable contents were actually safe.
“What’s the second reason?” he asked.
Malik appraised Kamil silently, then said, “Someone else has worked out what it was. Perhaps they read the engraving and understood its significance. When I took the text home to study, I left the reliquary hidden in the storeroom at the mosque. I thought it was less conspicuous to carry the document in its sleeve. No one but Saba knew what I had found. I didn’t even tell my sister until it was stolen. Why would someone bother to steal a battered box and leave behind much more valuable items unless they knew what it was and thought it contained the Proof of God? It’s a powerful relic, Kamil. Although I know you don’t believe in such things, others do. I’m afraid if one person knows, then others will hear of it and be drawn to Istanbul like scavengers to blood. I’m afraid it’ll fall into the hands of men who will either destroy it or use it to incite hatred among the religions.”
Kamil was skeptical, but seeing Malik’s earnest face, he felt guilty at having doubted his friend’s sincerity. Clearly people believed deeply in the power of this object, enough to sustain a four-hundred-year-old sect. The doubts of one magistrate did nothing to tip the scale.
I’ll inquire about the reliquary,” he assured Malik. “And you make sure that document stays safe. I won’t tell anyone about our conversation tonight. Where’s the document now?”
“Hidden where no one will find it without my guidance. By now, whoever took the reliquary will have discovered it’s empty and they’ll be back. They’ll want the Proof of God from me, but they won’t get it.”
Was Malik saying he thought his life was in danger? Kamil wondered whether he should tell Malik that it was his nephew who had stolen the reliquary. He didn’t think Malik had much to fear from Amida. The young man must have learned of the Proof of God from Saba or perhaps overheard them talking about it and seen an opportunity. A man who sells his patrimony. What else was he capable of? Perhaps he had underestimated Amida. But if he told Malik about Amida’s involvement, he might decide to confront his nephew on his own and Kamil wanted to avoid that. Amida’s possible involvement in the murders and with Kubalou made the situation too sensitive.
Kamil decided that since the Proof of God was safe for now, the best thing to do would be to find out what Amida had done with the reliquary. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had sold it in the bazaar.
“I promise to look into it.”
“Thank you. You’re a good and kind man.” Malik placed his arm around Kamil’s shoulder. “If you come for breakfast tomorrow, I can show you the document. I’ll ask Saba to join us. I’ve wanted you to meet her for some time, but Amida’s arrival and translating the Proof has kept me busy for the past few months.” He looked at Kamil thoughtfully. “Things will become clearer to you then.”
Kamil was puzzled. What answers could Saba give that Malik could not? “I look forward to it.”
Malik got up from the chair. He reached into his sash and pulled out a sealed letter, which he handed to Kamil. Kamil saw it was addressed to Saba.
“I’m imposing further on our friendship, Kamil, but I need this additional favor from you. If anything should happen to me, would you please give this letter to my niece?”
“Are you ill?” Kamil asked with alarm.
“Age diminishes me year by year, but, thanks be to Allah, I am well enough.” He gripped Kamil’s forearm. “Will you do this?”
Touched, Kamil said simply, “I’d be honored. By the will of Allah, may this letter never need to be delivered.”
“Inshallah,” Malik repeated, releasing Kamil’s arm.
At the door, Malik paused and said, “Watch over her. She’ll need your help.” Malik left, his bearing lighter than when he had come.
Kamil watched him through the window and puzzled over his request. He was pleased at the prospect of seeing Saba again, but disturbed that he was somehow expected to take responsibility for her. He heard the gate close, and eventually the creak of a carriage from the lane above.
Kamil didn’t believe the reliquary had any miraculous properties. Reason was more likely to be duped by faith than by logic. The world was peopled with believers whose faith caused them to act against all reason, to steal, to wage war, to kill and maim their neighbors. If they believed the reliquary or its contents was sacred, then they could cause great harm. The icon stolen from the Patriarchate had already demonstrated that.
Kamil found the file and reread the description of the box. He had wondered why there was no drawing of it. Malik must have thought making a likeness was too risky. A niello engraving showing a turbaned man, an angel, and the figure of Jesus. A partial inscription that fit what Malik had told him. The surface pitted with age. Malik was right. Why would anyone think this was an antiquity worth stealing unless they knew what it was? And who would buy it from Amida unless they too knew of its importance? A bazaari might buy it as scrap. But it would be a big coup for a dealer who realized its value. He wondered if, after all, Malik’s reliquary would lead him to the mysterious dealer and the connection to Rettingate and Sons in London. No ordinary dealer would be able to handle the missing icon or the Proof of God.
15
The imam put down his lamp in the entryway, out of the rain, hefted the enormous key into the lock, and used both hands to turn it. Several times he had sent a petition to the Ministry of Pious Foundations requesting a modern door with a more manageable key, but he had never received a response. He supposed the ministry had more important things to worry about than the pockets of an elderly imam being ripped by the weight of a Byzantine key.
He took up his lamp and stepped across the stone threshold into the corridor that ran along the front of the Kariye Mosque. Directly before him was the archway leading to the prayer room. Starlight sifted through its windows, illuminating faint trails of dust in the air. He turned to the right and walked down the corridor toward the stairway that led up into the minaret, from which he would call the faithful to their first morning prayer. Mosaics gleamed in the arches above him, reflecting the lamplight.
He looked up and came face to face with an enormous mosaic of Jesus, whose eyes seemed to follow him as he walked. When the mosaics were revealed, the sultan’s heathen architects had been so enthralled, they had insisted on restoring them, over his objections and entirely heedless of the Muslim prohibition against the representation of the human form. The corridor, they claimed, was so dark that the restored images would disturb no one if they kept their eyes piously to the ground.
The imam was relieved that the reconstruction was limited to the public areas and not the smaller room that he used to entertain his friends in private, and where he kept the chalices, plates, reliquaries, and other objects he had found over the years secreted in the former church or its grounds. At the back of the mosque, behind the caretaker’s house, amid the ruins of a large building, the ground yielded interesting objects every spring, pushed upward by the frozen earth from where Byzantine hands had buried them on the night of the Conquest.
The caretaker should have swept the hall the night before, the imam noted, but the tile floor still looked dirty. There was also a stench in the air, perhaps a dead pigeon that had not been cleared away. Carelessness, thought the imam. When a man inherited his right to a job, why should he care to do it well? All in all, though, he had few complaints about Malik, except for a disquieting feeling that his caretaker was more learned than he. Still, the imam could recite all of the Quran in Arabic. Since this was the language Allah spoke through an angel to the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, it was much more important than any other languages the old caretaker might have acquired. The imam sometimes wondered where Malik could have gained so much learning since he came to the mosque as a young man to replace his father. It was true that Malik had always been curious. Right after his arrival, while exploring the Byzantine ruins behind the mosque, he had fallen into an abandoned cistern and broken his leg. His friend Omar had pulled him out, but the leg had healed badly.