The Riddle and the Knight

by Giles Milton

  "The Patriarchate has to be, and will always be, in Constantinople," said Tarasios. 'Tt was here when your chap came and it will be here in the future . . ."

  He offered me a tour of the buildings, only recently rebuilt after a disastrous fire in 1951. For years the Patriarchate was not allowed to touch the charred remains, and it was only after the personal intervention of Jimmy Carter that the government relented.

  The exterior had to be an exact replica of the old building, but inside the designers were allowed greater freedom and unleashed a riot of gilt and regal purple. In the throne room, where His All-Holiness meets his most distinguished guests, a long red carpet leads the eye towards a raised platform atop which stands a carved and gilded chair. The room is lit with chandehers dripping with plum-sized lumps of crystal, and I suddenly felt as if I had left the centuries-old traditions of the Church behind and stepped through the doors of Hollywood. At any moment Joan Collins could have wafted into the throne room.

  It changed my perception of the Patriarch. Before, I had imagined him as a remote and dignified person radiating gravitas and imperial authority. Now he had become a walk-on part in an American soap.

  "Who paid for all this?" I asked Father Tarasios.

  He pointed upwards, suggesting, I thought, that the money had descended like the Holy Spirit from on high. But when I looked above my head, I saw an oil painting of a Greek shipping billionaire who had generously donated huge sums to restore these buildings.

  But billions of dollars will not keep the dwindling population here alive, and the Patriarch is well aware of that. He takes an interest in every single Romioi in the city, helping them gain university places abroad (they are not allowed to study at Turkish universities) and offering them career advice.

  Constantinople

  "Every single one of us counts in the city/' said Tarasios, "and it is absolutely devastating if a family leaves. People often move abroad temporarily to enable their children to study, and once they have seen a different life, they choose to stay. Sometimes we have thirty funerals in a month. On the rare occasions there is a wedding or baptism, it's a huge celebration."

  The Patriarchate also tries to keep the few surviving Greek schools open, even though some have only one or two pupils. Children are bussed from all over the city to attend these schools. Once they close— even if only for a year—they are never allowed to reopen.

  "The other night we were tipped off that one of our churches was going to be knocked down in the middle of the night. We sent the local bishop and his parishioners to defend the building. When they got there, a bulldozer was about to knock it down. They got there just in time."

  The attitude of the Turkish government towards the Patriarchate mirrors the state of diplomatic relations with Greece. When relations are running smoothly, the Patriarchate is left in peace. When relations break down—as they constantly do—there is certain to be trouble. One night, above all others, is forever etched on the memories of the Romioi community here. On a September evening in 1955, a mob of thousands systematically ransacked Romioi property in the city and attacked the Orthodox community. A ninety-year-old priest from the monastery of Balikli was burned alive. Women were raped. And the destruction to property was immense. The pohce watched on passively as thousands of shops, houses, and churches were looted and people attacked. Some even fraternized with the rioters. There was eventually some semblance of justice, but not until many years later. After the military coup in i960, the Prime Minister, Adnan Menderes, was ousted and accused of complicity in the anti-Greek riots. Fifteen members of his government were found guilty, and the disgraced Menderes was hanged. He instantly became a martyr.

  The present Patriarch, Bartholomeus, is a shrewd man who walks the diplomatic tightrope with skill and is enough of a realist to have accepted that his community is in an endgame situation. Every year there are fewer and fewer Orthodox left in Istanbul, and it has been calculated that by 2020 there will be no more Romioi left in the city.

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  Yet under Turkish law the Patriarch has to be a Turkish citizen. What happens when there are no Orthodox "Turks" left?

  The Patriarch has taken the high-risk strategy of raising his profile on the international scene, and his aim is to publicize the problems faced by the Orthodox in Istanbul. To this end, he has recently invited a number of important visitors to the patriarchal buildings. Chauffeur-driven limousines have been spotted drawing up in the steep alleyways carrying foreign ministers and diplomats from all over the world. Recently he welcomed Prince Philip here. Soon he will visit the Pope, a meeting of great symbolic significance which suggests that after more than six centuries of cold-shouldering one another the Catholic and Orthodox churches might at last begin working towards rapprochement. Even the Anglican Church maintains close contacts with the Orthodox Church, and the Archbishop of Canterbury has his own ambassador to the Patriarch permanently living in the city.

  When Tarasios had finished his grim tale, he folded his arms and asked if I had any questions. I told him about Mandeville's interest in the Orthodox Church, and explained my quest to discover whether there were any true Byzantines left in the city. "Perhaps," I said hopefully, "I have already reached my goal. Perhaps your family have lived here for generations."

  He chuckled for a moment. "I'm afraid not," he said. "You see, I'm from Texas. But there is a person you ought to see . . ."

  Dr. Yagcioglu peered at me over the frame of his glasses in a way that only doctors can. "You're looking for a real Byzantine," he said in a slow, considered voice. As he did so, he let out a long, low whistle followed by a series of tut-tutting noises.

  "That won't be easy," he said. "You see, most of our community only arrived at the turn of the century. My family came from Anatolia. Others come from the islands or from Greece. But a Byzantine . . ." Again he tutted. "I think this calls for a cup of tea."

  I was in the psychiatric ward of what had once been Istanbul's largest Greek hospital. But the Greek patients have long since been supplanted by Turks, and Dr. Yagcioglu—who was in his late seventies—was one of only five Greek doctors remaining. When built, the hospital had been surrounded by pleasant suburbs, but times have

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  changed. Nowadays it is overshadowed by the squaHd Topkapi bus station and the nearby streets are Httered with rubbish and smashed-up cars. Even the great Byzantine walls of the city, which I could see from the window of Dr. Y's room, have seen better days. Home to beggars, tramps, and gypsy families who build ramshackle shelters among the rubble, they have acquired a dangerous reputation in recent years. A group of tourists trampling across people's homes recently found themselves at the receiving end of a hail of bullets.

  Sir John would almost certainly have entered the city through one of the stone gateways that puncture these walls. If he had arrived from Europe by land—as seems likely—he would probably have walked through the Yedikule Gate, as I had done just half an hour before. Perhaps he, too, had looked up and noticed the stone carving of a Byzantine eagle; blackened by pollution these days but still as proud a symbol as ever. It seemed a telling comment on the ancient empire of Byzantium that I was now scrabbling around for the descendants of that empire in the psychiatric ward of a decaying hospital.

  Outside Dr. Y's room, a queue of Turkish women were waiting to see him. Some were moaning. Some were silent, staring at the walls with blank eyes. Others had wild, dishevelled expressions that gave their faces a frightened and frightening look. At first Dr. Y had been reluctant to see me, for he was a busy man. But he was intrigued to see a foreigner in his hospital, and as soon as he learned of my quest, he jumped me to the front of the queue, invited me in for tea, and visibly relaxed as he chatted about his life.

  He had worked here since the fifties. In those days, he said with a tone of regret, it was a splendid hospital, but now—he threw up his hands—he was weary. His children had left Istanbul: his son had emigrated to the Unit
ed States, his daughter to Greece. But he would remain in the city; yes, he would remain . . .

  His ageing face contained the last vestiges of middle age. His hair was Ronald Reagan black, though a touch of silver grey was visible at the roots. His saggy jowls hung from his face like heavy curtains, and he sipped the tea with prolonged and noisy slurps.

  "And you say you are following Robin Hood?" he asked. I corrected him for the second time, but he didn't seem to hear. Instead, he repeated in a puzzled voice: "Tut, tut, tut ... a Byzantine family . . . ?"

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  Suddenly his face lit up. "Of course. There is a lady in the old people's home here. I'm sure her origins are in the city."

  Mrs. E—her name was unpronounceable—was eating a bowl of mashed potatoes when I knocked on her door. She didn't ask who I was or what I wanted when she invited me in to her tiny room. Instead, she told me to sit down, and said she'd be ready as soon as she'd finished her dinner. She shared her room with a blind lady who must have been in her nineties, but although I'd been told they were friends, they scarcely spoke to each other for the whole time I was there.

  I sat quietly while Mrs. E ate her potatoes, and as soon as she finished, she turned to me and thanked me for coming to see her. "My dear, it is very sweet of you to come and visit me. You see, I get so few visitors these days. My family have all gone abroad. It is good of you to pop in."

  I was just about to tell her of my quest when she stopped me. "Now, my dear, I expect you want to hear all about my life. But you mustn't interrupt me with questions or I shall forget everything I've told you."

  She had, in fact, led a fascinating life. Her rouged face and black mascara hinted at a lifetime in the arts, and I soon discovered that she had been a concert pianist and spent many months in Paris and Vienna. She had also worked in her parents' fashion business, and although her tales of the cosmopolitan lifestyle of Istanbul in the twenties were fascinating, they were not entirely relevant to my quest. But Mrs. E was in her element and not going to stop for anything. Whenever I tried to interrupt, she would raise her hand and say "Hush, my dear, hush."

  Finally she finished and I got to ask my question. "It sounds like your family have lived here for generations," I said. "You must be one of the last people who can truly claim descent from the ancient empire of Byzantium?"

  "I don't know where you got that idea from, my dear," she said. "I'm not Greek, and neither are my family. Didn't I tell you? I'm from Bulgaria."

  It was Sunday and the feast of St. Dimitrios. The Patriarch was back in town after his visit to Greece and would, I was told, be celebrating the Divine Liturgy at the little church of St. Dimitrios.

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  Whenever Patriarch Bartholomeus goes abroad, he is feted in the streets, and tens of thousands of people turn up to receive his blessing. In Istanbul it is not quite the same. Because of his precarious position he keeps a low profile in public, and besides, there are few people left to greet him. Despite this, the church of St. Dimitrios in the Kurtalus suburb of Istanbul was packed on that last Sunday in October. More than two hundred people—young and old—had turned up for the liturgy, and more arrived every minute. As I stood in the doorway, the worshippers—unused to a foreigner in their midst—turned around and stared at me.

  I peered back at them through the gloom and could make out twelve men singing in the choir. Priests and deacons appeared and disappeared in billows of incense; women prostrated themselves on the floor. But where was Patriarch Bartholomeus? He didn't seem to be here after all. Slowly my eye was drawn towards a lavish golden throne on the right side of the iconostasis. It was surmounted by a gilded canopy which glittered in the candlelight, and there, on the throne, swathed in imperial purple (an effect only slightly marred by his thick spectacles), sat His All-Holiness the Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomeus, Archbishop of Constantinople and New Rome. In his left hand he held a golden staff topped by a ruby-red cross.

  At certain moments he would rise from his throne and bless the crowd. Once he took a few steps towards the altar and two monks leaped up to carry his train. But more often he sat in dignified silence, stirring occasionally to cross himself. There were readings from the Epistles and the Gospels. The faithful received communion. And as the long service in St. Dimitrios drew to a close, the assembled throng queued up to receive the Patriarch's blessing. I was last in the queue and wondered what to say to him. Should I thank him for his letter? Tell him I'd met Tarasios?

  Suddenly I found myself staring into his spectacles. He looked at me inquisitively, as if to ask what I was doing here. Then he held out his hand for me to kiss, gave me a piece of blessed bread, and murmured a few words in Greek.

  It was all over in seconds, and I forgot to say anything. But I was more than content, for here in this little church of St. Dimitrios I had at last caught a glimpse of the city that Mandeville himself claims to

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  have visited. The legacy of the medieval empire of Byzantium still lives on in the Orthodox Church. The vestments worn by the priests are modelled on the costumes of the imperial court, and the robes that the Patriarch was wearing that Sunday were the same as those the emperor himself would once have worn. His crown, too, represents the imperial authority invested in him by the first Ottoman Sultan—a symbolic replacement for the crown lost by the last emperor in 1453. Bar-tholomeus, in fact, looked as if he had just stepped out of the mosaic on the wall of the little church of St. Saviour in Chora.

  ®I|? iianuarrtpt

  Mandeville, Sir John, was the ostensible author of the book of travels bearing his name . . . there are strong grounds for the behef that his name is as fictitious as his travels.

  Dictionary of National Biography, 1893

  ^"#^ hen I returned to London, I went to see one of the earliest ^ J J copies of Sir John's Travels, kept under lock and key in the '^*^ * great manuscript vaults of the British Museum. This was a copy of the greatest rarity, and before I v^as allowed to look at it, I had to produce letters of reference and photographs of myself, as well as fill in numerous forms promising not to eat, smoke, or destroy the manuscript. Forty minutes later, the handwritten edition of Sir John Man-deville's Travels was brought to my desk. It had been rebound in red Morocco leather in 1757 and was embossed with the emblem of King George II. But open the covers and Georgian England gave way to a medieval fantasy world of dwarfs and monsters.

  The Gothic script, in gold, was difficult to read, and the scribe had added at the beginning in spidery red letters: "Here bygynneth the book of John maundeile, knyght of Ingelong that was born in the town of seynt Albons . . ."

  As I turned the vellum pages, they crackled with age. Each sheet was decorated with pictures illustrating Mandeville's pilgrimage to Jerusalem. On one page there were depictions of St. James and St. John; on another, a Crown of Thorns dripping with blood. But as soon as Mandeville embarked on the second half of his travels, these illustrations became increasingly outlandish. There were dwarves with holes for mouths and men with gigantic upper lips, while the borders were

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  decorated with giant snails, men with ears traiHng along the ground, and trees giving birth to lambs.

  The monk chosen to illuminate the book must have read its stories with wide-eyed astonishment. True, the first half of the book was a religious text, but had the abbot read beyond the chapters about Jerusalem? Did anyone realize that the last part of the book, which purported to be the pilgrimage of a religious knight, described every sort of wickedness and abomination? Most likely he decided to keep quiet, for The Travels was far more interesting than the Bibles and prayer books he was normally given to illuminate, and while his fellow monks in the scriptorium were producing devotional pictures, he had been given free rein to draw the most ghastly creatures imaginable. It was only on the last page that he returned to the devotional theme with a pious portrayal of the Crucifixion. Perhaps he felt that at the
end of this strange story the reader needed a visual reminder that all creation is due to the beneficence of God.

  By the time of Sir John's death, there were dozens of such editions circulating around Europe. The Travels had achieved a quite extraordinary success, and medieval cartographers scanned its pages for new information about the world. With the passing of the centuries, however, Mandeville's reputation was steadily undermined and his work discredited. As the world was charted by geographers, his stories of magical valleys were shown to be nothing but figments of his imagination until, by the seventeenth century, he was being mocked in stage satires as the archetypal lying traveller.

  The following century brought a brief reprieve. The chattering classes of Georgian London found that Mandeville's monstrous tales appealed to their bawdy sense of humour, and The Travels was republished as a tuppence-ha'penny chapbook. Stripped of its devotional material, the book focused on the pygmies, monsters, and cripples that Mandeville met in the east. Sir John himself underwent a character change: in the rough woodcuts that illustrate these cheap editions, he is portrayed in eighteenth-century costume, a parrot in one hand and a stick in the other, shooting at a blackamore with his blunderbuss. Any anachronism was easily circumvented by the publisher, who simply changed the date of the travels from 1372 to 1732 and altered the title

  The Manuscript

  to produce a maximum impact on his potential readers. The Travels of Sir John Mandeville became "The Foreign Travels and Dangerous Voyages of the Renowned English Knight Sir John Mandeville, wherein he gives an Account of Remote Kingdoms, Counties, Rivers, Castles, Giants of a prodigious height and strength, the people called Pigmies, very small and of a low stature. To which is added an Account of People of odd deformities; some without heads. Also enchanted wildernesses, where are fiery Dragons, Griffins and many wonderful beasts in the country of Prester John. All very delightful to the reader."