when it became a mosque. Four hundred years later it changed its nature again, and became a museum. But its original function as a place of worship – the house of God, of Allah – still sanctifies it in the eyes of many.’
‘Its being a cathedral didn’t stop Dandolo from desecrating it,’ observed Graves.
‘Ah, the fury of those Crusaders!’
‘So why is there a memorial to him there?’
‘For many years it was thought to mark his tomb; but it is in fact an embellishment of the nineteenth century.’
They looked at the grey marble stone, set into the floor of one of the church’s galleries and virtually indistinguishable from its surrounding flagstones except for a simple carved border and the incised words: H ENRICUS D ANDOLO .
‘So where is the grave itself?’ asked Marlow, as he thought: And why is it so important? Why have the Turks involved their secret police in a missing persons enquiry?
‘Apparently a mystery,’ replied Haki. ‘Until your archaeologists made their discovery. It seems they were the first to find it. At any rate, there’s no record of anyone else having made the discovery, though there’s some evidence to suggest that German archaeologists were sniffing around the site early in the twentieth century.’ He swept his hand over the computer’s trackpad. ‘Here.’ He tapped the screen. ‘This is the Church of St Irina. It’s not far from Hagia Sofia, just a little to the north, but it’s much older, founded by the Emperor Constantine himself. This is one of the oldest Christian buildings in the world. There was a Roman temple there before. Constantine built a church on top to make a point.’
‘And Adkins and the others found the grave there,’ said Marlow.
‘Yes.’
‘How did they know where to look?’
The smile died on Haki’s face. ‘Nobody will know that precisely until we find them, but we do know that there were some papers in the city archives in Venice, and it certainly
looked
as if no one had seen them for centuries. Whatever the case, those documents must have contained a clue. It’s the only possible explanation. Dandolo made his mark for his city, and he was extremely old when he died, so there was bound to be
some
clue – the odd thing is that it wasn’t discovered long ago.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Who knows?’
‘What did they find?’
Haki shut the computer and leaned back in his chair. ‘I haven’t given you any tea yet,’ he said, ‘and you must be exhausted.’
‘Never mind. Tell us what you can.’
The Turkish agent spread his hands. ‘They were on to something, that’s for sure, but in view of what’s happened to them, it seems they weren’t the only ones to know about it, though they thought they were.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the desk again, but this time his hands made fists, which he clenched and unclenched, gently but insistently, as he spoke. ‘No one knows exactly how old Dandolo was when he died – but, as you know, he was at least ninety-five. A stupendous age for his time.’
‘A stupendous age for ours,’ said Graves.
‘He died here in Constantinople – I mean Istanbul – in 1205. He’d come to power late in life, he was already in his seventies, and he was hungry to use it. Maybe that hunger was what kept him going. As you probably know, he was also blind, or at the very least he had seriously impaired vision. No one knows why, possibly he had an accident or a disease of some kind, but it struck him when he was about sixty, thirty-odd years before the Fourth Crusade, and it seems to have struck him – here.’
‘In this city?’ asked Marlow.
‘In this city.’
‘What happened?’ asked Graves.
‘We don’t know. But a standard punishment for serious crime in the Byzantine empire was – blinding. They took a magnifying glass and burned out the eyes, using the light of the sun, just as a boy burns holes in paper.’
‘My God,’ said Graves.
‘As you say,’ replied Haki. ‘Perhaps
‘Its being a cathedral didn’t stop Dandolo from desecrating it,’ observed Graves.
‘Ah, the fury of those Crusaders!’
‘So why is there a memorial to him there?’
‘For many years it was thought to mark his tomb; but it is in fact an embellishment of the nineteenth century.’
They looked at the grey marble stone, set into the floor of one of the church’s galleries and virtually indistinguishable from its surrounding flagstones except for a simple carved border and the incised words: H ENRICUS D ANDOLO .
‘So where is the grave itself?’ asked Marlow, as he thought: And why is it so important? Why have the Turks involved their secret police in a missing persons enquiry?
‘Apparently a mystery,’ replied Haki. ‘Until your archaeologists made their discovery. It seems they were the first to find it. At any rate, there’s no record of anyone else having made the discovery, though there’s some evidence to suggest that German archaeologists were sniffing around the site early in the twentieth century.’ He swept his hand over the computer’s trackpad. ‘Here.’ He tapped the screen. ‘This is the Church of St Irina. It’s not far from Hagia Sofia, just a little to the north, but it’s much older, founded by the Emperor Constantine himself. This is one of the oldest Christian buildings in the world. There was a Roman temple there before. Constantine built a church on top to make a point.’
‘And Adkins and the others found the grave there,’ said Marlow.
‘Yes.’
‘How did they know where to look?’
The smile died on Haki’s face. ‘Nobody will know that precisely until we find them, but we do know that there were some papers in the city archives in Venice, and it certainly
looked
as if no one had seen them for centuries. Whatever the case, those documents must have contained a clue. It’s the only possible explanation. Dandolo made his mark for his city, and he was extremely old when he died, so there was bound to be
some
clue – the odd thing is that it wasn’t discovered long ago.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Who knows?’
‘What did they find?’
Haki shut the computer and leaned back in his chair. ‘I haven’t given you any tea yet,’ he said, ‘and you must be exhausted.’
‘Never mind. Tell us what you can.’
The Turkish agent spread his hands. ‘They were on to something, that’s for sure, but in view of what’s happened to them, it seems they weren’t the only ones to know about it, though they thought they were.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the desk again, but this time his hands made fists, which he clenched and unclenched, gently but insistently, as he spoke. ‘No one knows exactly how old Dandolo was when he died – but, as you know, he was at least ninety-five. A stupendous age for his time.’
‘A stupendous age for ours,’ said Graves.
‘He died here in Constantinople – I mean Istanbul – in 1205. He’d come to power late in life, he was already in his seventies, and he was hungry to use it. Maybe that hunger was what kept him going. As you probably know, he was also blind, or at the very least he had seriously impaired vision. No one knows why, possibly he had an accident or a disease of some kind, but it struck him when he was about sixty, thirty-odd years before the Fourth Crusade, and it seems to have struck him – here.’
‘In this city?’ asked Marlow.
‘In this city.’
‘What happened?’ asked Graves.
‘We don’t know. But a standard punishment for serious crime in the Byzantine empire was – blinding. They took a magnifying glass and burned out the eyes, using the light of the sun, just as a boy burns holes in paper.’
‘My God,’ said Graves.
‘As you say,’ replied Haki. ‘Perhaps
Similar Books
