by Giles Milton
While he had clearly spent a considerable amount of time researching his Travels in monastic libraries, however, I found that he hadn't always been quite so careful when he came to record his own impressions. Take his description of the city's famous imperial statue. He claims it stood in front of the church of Haghia Sophia, was gilded, and
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portrayed the Emperor Justinian seated on a horse. I felt sure that a remnant of such a famous monument would have survived, and indeed it has; although the statue has long since disappeared, the column still remains, towering over the new Sultanahmet train line. But it could in no way be described as being m front of Haghia Sophia—it is more than half a mile away. What's more, if Sir John really had seen the monument, he would have known that the column was adorned with an effigy not of Justinian but of Constantine.
There was even worse to come. I found that this gilded statue had been toppled during a devastating hurricane more than two centuries before Sir John was even born. It was never repaired or restored. It was never put back up. Sir John, I could only conclude, had not seen the statue, and in all probabiUty had not visited Constantinople.
But I had underestimated Mandeville, as I discovered on my last day in Istanbul. I was walking back to my hotel along the six-lane Kennedy Caddesi when I spotted two chunks of inscribed marble built into the wall by the edge of the road. There was something about these carefully crafted blocks that caught my eye, and I went to have a closer look. They supported a small postern gate which had long ago been blocked up and was half-covered in rotting rubbish. The milky-white stone was as smooth as soap and scarred by neither blemish nor fault. It had clearly been hewn with the greatest of care, and one side was decorated with a neatly chiselled row of inscriptions which were in Greek. These ran from top to bottom, suggesting that the blocks were now on their sides and had not originally been intended as gateposts. What were they doing here? Where had they come from?
When I got back to the hotel, I flicked through my books on Constantinople and found a short footnote about these very posts. Every stone in Istanbul has been logged and documented by some Viaorian archaeologist or German Byzantinist, and these were no exception. They were not gateposts at all, and their inscriptions did not belong to pagan Greece but to Christian Constantinople. They had, I read with growing excitement, once stood in the Augusteum and formed the base of the celebrated equestrian statue of Justinian.
Justinian! So Sir John was right about the statue. And if it was in the Augusteum, that would mean it was situated right in front of
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Haghia Sophia. It was I who had made the mistake, for it had never crossed my mind that there might have been two imperial statues— only one of which had been blown down in the great hurricane of 1106. Further reading confirmed everything Sir John had claimed, for other writers had been equally impressed by the statue: "Upon this horse," wrote the historian Procopius, "sits a colossal brass figure of the Emperor ... he looks towards the east, directing his course, I imagine, against the Persians: in his left hand he holds a globe, by which the sculptor signifies that all lands and seas are subject to him."
Sir John mentions this globe as well, but claims that at the time he was visiting the city, it had fallen out of the emperor's hand. Could he be correct even in this tiny detail? I checked the other writers of the time and found that when William of Boldensele came to describe the glittering statue in 1332, the globe was still in the emperor's hand. Stephen of Novgorod also saw it in 1350. But the Byzantine historian Nikephoros Gregoras—whose exhaustive chronicle leaves no stone unturned—records that the globe, which was as big as a fifteen-gallon jar, was so badly damaged during a storm in 1317 that parts of it fell into the street. It took eight years to repair, so that if Sir John really did visit Constantinople when he claims, he would have indeed seen the imperial statue empty-handed.
One of the most influential men in Constantinople during this period was Theodore Metochites, the Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury. His rise to power was as rapid and spectacular as his eventual fall from grace. Brought to the attention of the imperial courtiers because of his writing ability, he scored a diplomatic triumph when he found a wife for the emperor's son. Soon after, he began to rise up the ladder of state, and within a few years found himself occupying one of the highest positions in the empire. Those who hoped to gain from his promotion wrote eulogies to his warm-heartedness; those who had been overlooked described him as a pompous bore.
What was not in doubt was Theodore's immense wealth, which allowed him to indulge his love of the arts. His greatest act of patronage was to pay for the restoration of the monastery church of St. Saviour in Chora, close to the city walls—including a complete reworking of
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the mosaics—and as a finishing touch he had a portrait of himself, finely crafted from chips of coloured marble, placed over the door. And just at the time when this mosaic was being set above the entrance, Sir John Mandeville arrived in the city.
I wondered if the two men had met, for they would have had a great deal in common. Theodore loved old books and built up a huge collection of ancient manuscripts—works on geography, mathematics, astronomy, and rhetoric. He was himself a great writer, and many of his works survived the destruction of the city by the Turks.
When I saw this mosaicked portrait of Theodore, I was at last able to imagine something of the people that Sir John himself would have met in the city. Theodore is depicted in an attitude of piety—offering a model of his church to Christ with an imploring look on his face. His beard is long but neatly clipped, and his hair flows in long locks over his shoulders. He is dressed in his official robes of office—a long, dark-blue caftan gathered at the waist—while his head is covered by an astonishing hat, a vast white-and-gold turban known as a skiadon, or sunshade. But despite the pious expressions of his and all the other faces adorning the walls of the church, these mosaics were very different from those I had seen in Haghia Sophia. There is good reason for this: at the time Mandeville was in the city, there was a revival of interest in the books of classical Greece and Rome, and here in St. Saviour that revival was finding expression in art. The human form, so long imprisoned by the static rules of iconography, was starting to shake off rigor mortis; the drapes of the robes were beginning to flow languidly over bodies; and even the trees and shrubs seemed to have been stirred into motion by the lightest of breezes. Here, on the walls of this church, the first tentative movements of the Renaissance were stirring—foreshadowing the free-flowing brush-strokes of Botticelli.
Alas, this Renaissance came to an end almost as abruptly as Theodore's career, for with Andronicus's victory in the civil war he was sacked from his post and driven into exile. At the height of his power, he had composed a few lines of poetry to run along the edge of his portrait, and I couldn't help wondering if he had been struck by some divine foresight when he wrote: 'T have made thee. Oh most pure Lady, my hope and the chora [dwelling place] for the refuge of my life."
The words came all too true, for when Theodore was recalled from
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exile he lived out his final days as a prisoner in his beloved church of St. Saviour in Chora.
European Istanbul is cut in two by the Golden Horn—a watery inlet which curls through the heart of the city before joining the great channel of the Bosporus. On the eastern shore of this inlet stands Galata, with its high-rise banks, businesses, and high street stores. On the western side is Haghia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, and below them row upon row of ferry terminals. The shoreUne along this western bank is derelict and noisy. A road runs along its entire length—punctured by a huge interchange for traffic crossing the Ataturk bridge— and the houses that face the water are empty and crumbling. The air of dereliction grows steadily worse as you near the Fener district, which lies halfway along the shore of the Golden Horn. Even the water seems to acquire a darker, murkier col
our.
Yet as little as a century ago this was the wealthy Greek quarter of the city, home to a thriving community of businessmen who made their fortunes from trade. Its name, Fener, is derived from the two Turkish words fena yer, meaning "bad place," the home of the Greeks. Now only a few of the once-grandiose wooden mansions are still standing, and even these are leaning at perilous angles. The wood is rotten, and the windows are in danger of falling out. Baggy Turkish bloomers hang from makeshift washing lines, witnesses to the vanished riches and cosmopolitan lifestyle that this area once boasted.
These days, the narrow streets are filled with women wearing veils and bearded men in Islamic dress. Many are clutching the Koran—the only book that the shops here seem to sell—and most are on their way to or from the local mosque. You won't hear the sound of Turkish in these streets: people chat to each other in Arabic, and the shop signs are decorated with beautiful Arabic calligraphy. The families living here are newcomers, peasants from Anatolia, who have come to the city in search of employment. Lacking money and jobs, they find themselves inexorably drawn into religious fanaticism.
High above the streets of Fener, and looming over everything like a huge russet cliff-face, is one of the city's few remaining Greek schools. Its walls are blackened by pollution and surrounded by barbed wire, and not a sound comes from the playground. The surrounding streets
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are derelict, and I soon found myself among alleys filled with rubbish. Passing a church and finding the door open, I stepped inside to ask the way to the Patriarchate. The woman at the door gave me directions, and when she had finished, I asked her if she was a Romioi. "No," she said. "I'm Italian. From Bologna."
She didn't look Italian, and I asked when she had moved to Istanbul. She paused for a moment, then said: "I think we moved here four centuries ago."
The Ecumenical Patriarch has lived in the city since the time when Constantine converted his empire to Christianity. In Mandeville's day, the offices were housed in the massive Church of the Holy Apostles; today they are in a building so heavily fortified that you could be forgiven for thinking you are about to enter the Bank of England's bullion vaults. There is a round-the-clock security guard outside the building. Closed-circuit television cameras monitor every inch of perimeter wall. There is chain-link fencing. And everyone entering the site is questioned before being asked to pass through an airport-style metal detector to check for weapons and explosives.
I had arranged a meeting with Father Tarasios, a youthful deacon who lives here, and after finally gaining entry to the building I suggested to him that they were, perhaps, going a little over the top.
"Even this isn't adequate," moaned Tarasios. "Last year, on the eve of the anniversary celebrating the Turkish capture of the city, three huge explosive devices were discovered along the perimeter wall of the main building. The gardener noticed the trip wire at 2:25 a.m. The bombs were timed to go off at 2:45 a.m., 3 a.m., and 3:15 a.m. Bang, bang, bang. We would have been blown sky-high."
Every week, there is some new altercation outside the Patriarchate. Rocks are hurled at the building, petrol bombs are tossed over the gates, and vandals cover the walls with radical Islamic graffiti. The new Islamic mayor of Istanbul recently said that there was no place for the Patriarch in an Islamic society, and the fundamentalists are continually threatening to break down the main gate to the complex of buildings, which was sealed in 1821 as a sign of respect to Patriarch Gregory V, who was hanged from it by a bloodthirsty mob.
"We are forever hearing how the fundamentalists will smash down the gate and destroy the Patriarchate," said Tarasios. "They claim we
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will not open that gate until the Patriarch has personally hanged the Chief Mufti from it in revenge. It is ridiculous. These things are reported in the press as fact. Everything we do is distorted and misquoted.
''We are not allowed to wear our vestments in public/' he added. "We accept that. It is Turkish law. But no one would ever dare tell the fundamentalists not to wear their dress, which is also forbidden. It is highly ironic that our community had far more freedom under the Ottoman Sultans than in a modern democracy. We feel like prisoners in our own homes."
Things could soon get even worse, for a member of the Turkish Parliament recently proposed opening Haghia Sophia once again to Muslim worship. The suggestion caused deep anxiety in Parliament; controversial legislation is not allowed to be discussed in public lest it damage Turkey's image in the eyes of the west. To raise such a matter openly was a deliberate provocation and a clear breach of this policy. But to those who work within the Orthodox community such provocation confirmed all their worst fears.
'Tt would be the last straw if that happened," said Tarasios. "It would be almost impossible to bear. But I suppose we would have to bear it."
Although Sir John doesn't write about the Patriarchate, he does record a letter sent by the Patriarch to Pope John XXII. It was a reply to a missive from the Pope and can have done little to heal the rift between the Orthodox and Catholic churches, for its tone was as curt as it was critical: "We well believe your power is great over your subjects; we cannot support your great pride; we do not purpose to slake your great avarice. God be with you, for God is with us. Farewell."
Most medieval writers would have been scandalized by such a letter and used it as a pretext for launching an attack on the Orthodox Church. But Mandeville shows a curious restraint, commenting on neither the author nor the contents. It is almost as if he agrees with the sentiments expressed.
The Patriarch who wrote it—a man named Esaias—had been reinstated in his job as soon as Andronicus won the civil war. The chronicler Nikephoros Gregoras records that the event was a cause for joyous
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celebration, and Esaia? was led back to the patriarchal palace with a bizarre procession accompanying him. There were not only bishops and priests by his side but also a band of musicians and a troupe of dancing girls. Esaias was said to be so deUghted by the bawdy antics of one of these girls that he was helpless with mirth as he made his wav through the streets of the cit'. Such happiness was short-Hved, for relations Nith Rome were going from bad to worse, and the reunion of the two churches was as far away as ever.
Before I arrived at the Patriarchate, I had imagined a run-down building gathering the dust of centuries, and I pictured antique priests shuffling along corridors while muttering to each other in Greek. Such a picture was the outcome of a letter I had received from the Patriarch some months earlier. I'd been hoping to travel to the monastic community on Mount Athos in Greece to write an article for the Telegraph Magazine, and had been told that when dealing with the Orthodox Church it pays to have numerous letters of support from a hierarchy of priests and bishops. On this occasion, I went straight to the top and wrote to the Patriarch, the spiritual head of Mount Athos, asking for his help.
What I received in reply was a letter so impressive I immediately had it framed. Written on thick paper and composed in the language of classical Byzantium, it had been penned in this ver' building and was signed personally by His .ll-Holiness the Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomeus I, .Archbishop of Constantinople and New Rome. His signature, decorated with a flourish of caUigraphy, stretched from one side of the paper to the other and underneath he had added, "At Constantinople; with the prayers of God." But if the language of the Patriarchate harked back to Mandeille's medieval world, the buildings themselves could not have been more high-tech. As I chatted with Father Tarasios, an international communications network was whirring away around us. Cable T picked up the Patriarch being interiewed on Greek teleision. Even,' second, it seemed, a fax would arrive. The telephone rang continuously. We could have been part of a James Bond film were it not for the conspicuous absence of Bond girls.
"We are continuously being accused of tring to set up a second Vatican," said Tarasios as he put down the phone. "Of acting like a state
Most venerable custodians and representatives of the community of the Holy Mountain, beloved children in the Lord of our Mediocrity, may the grace and peace of God be with you.
The bearer of this letter, the most honourable Mr. Giles Milton, of London, comes to this holy place with the sanction of the Church, to visit and make pilgrimage to the sacred dwelling-places therein. We commend him to your beloved venerability and we exhort you that he might, through your earnest care, be granted all that will facilitate the fulfilment of the purpose for which he has come.
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within a state. But this shows a profound misunderstanding of the Patriarchate. The Patriarch is not a political leader, and nor is he just the head of the Greek Church; he is the spiritual head of all Orthodox churches."
A second phone rang. He picked it up, shouted something in Greek, and hung up. "I'm sorry," he said. "We're busy today."
"Wouldn't it be easier to move the Patriarchate elsewhere?" I suggested. "Somewhere less controversial."
"This is impossible," replied Father Tarasios. "Constantinople is the historical and spiritual centre of Orthodoxy. This is where St. Andrew
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came. This is where so many martyrs have died for their faith. We could set up in Geneva, or wherever, but then it would be merely an administrative centre. It would be missing the point entirely."
He stopped talking for a moment in order to bang the television set, for the reception had broken out into a rash of fuzzy dots. Worse still, the video had packed up. Tarasios cursed the machines, and as he did so, the television burst into life once more.
