The Abyssinian Proof: A Kamil Pasha Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  “Said to…” Kamil echoed.

  “No one actually knew what was in it.”

  “In four hundred years, no one was curious enough to open it?”

  “No one knew exactly where it was.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “The Melisite congregation believes the reliquary resides in the prayer house in the village.”

  “But it doesn’t.”

  “No. It never has. Only the leaders of the sect know it is missing and they pass that knowledge on to the next generation of leaders when they are initiated. We have always carried out the ceremonies as if the Proof of God are there in the Holy of Holies.”

  A sect built on lies, Kamil thought, but perhaps no different from most sects built around some shrine or object.

  “So a sect grew up around a reliquary that no one knew the contents or the location of?”

  “Faith, Kamil, is more powerful than knowledge. Sheikh Galip has shown us that reason can be duped by logic, but faith…”

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Kamil interrupted, a bit testily. “I’m too tired to follow Sufi allegories right now.”

  “Forgive an old man’s desire to rest in the garden of philosophy for a while.”

  There was a knock at the door. Malik stood quickly and put his face to the orchids.

  Kamil went to the door and returned carrying a large tray containing two cups of coffee, glasses, and a pitcher of water. The cook had added plates of baklava and fruit. Kamil set them on a table within reach. Malik sat down again and Kamil handed him a small china cup of coffee and a glass of water. “You can rely on Yakup’s silence.”

  Malik took a sip of water, then set the glass down. “It’s not my safety I’m concerned about. There’s much more at stake.”

  “The Melisites believe they’re a chosen people,” Malik explained, “who were given the reliquary for safekeeping during the Conquest of Byzantium. Shortly after the Conquest there was a battle between the caretaker of the reliquary and a false prophet, and the reliquary disappeared. The leaders of the community at the time believed the reliquary was still in the Church of Saint Savior in Chora, as it was known then, and that the caretaker had hidden it before he was killed. They believed it would be just a matter of time before it was found again, so they told no one it was gone.” He pointed to himself. “Each descendant of the original caretaker has searched for the Proof in his own way. Perhaps over the generations some lost hope. My father, for instance, no longer believed it was there. He said it would have been found by now.”

  “You found it, didn’t you? This is the reliquary that was stolen last week.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you ever find it?”

  “The building remained a church for a hundred years after the Conquest. As you know, when it was turned into a mosque, its mosaics and other features were plastered over. After the renovation revealed them again for the first time in three hundred years, I began to see possibilities.”

  “The Habesh men pray at the mosque, don’t they? Are they Muslims or Christians?”

  “Does it matter?” Malik sighed. “All the faiths of the Book received the same prophecy.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Kamil shrugged. “I just find it intriguing.”

  “The Melisites converted so they could continue to worship at the church after it became a mosque.”

  Kamil took that in. No wonder Malik was worried his community would be at risk if this information got out. “Who is their leader?”

  “Balkis is the priestess and I’m the caretaker, both hereditary positions, usually held by a sister and brother. The Melisites are named after the original caretaker’s sister, Melisane. Amida and Saba are the last of their line.”

  “I noticed your sister has the same ring.” Kamil pointed to Malik’s right hand.

  Malik rubbed it with his thumb. “They’re said to have come from Abyssinia along with the reliquary, and they’re handed on whenever a new caretaker and priestess are initiated.” He regarded Kamil with surprise. “I didn’t know you knew my sister.”

  “I went to the village today and spoke with your family about an incident that happened last night. Two policemen were killed and another kidnapped.”

  “A terrible thing. But why were you asking my family about it?”

  “The murders happened on the pier behind the Tobacco Works. We believe the missing policeman was taken into a tunnel that leads to Sunken Village. He might still be alive. Do you know anything about this tunnel?”

  Kamil fully expected Malik to deny having any knowledge of such things, and was astonished when he asked, “Was Amida involved?”

  “Probably.”

  “He’s not a murderer.”

  “I know that.”

  “There are many tunnels, but I don’t know of any leading to the Tobacco Works. I’m sorry. What makes you suspect Amida?”

  “An accusation. Perhaps it’s wrong. It’s possible the man accused Amida in order to draw suspicion away from himself.”

  “I see I was right that you have other things to worry about.”

  “I’m honored that you feel you can confide in me,” Kamil said earnestly. “I’ll do my very best to find the reliquary, but you must know that the stolen objects are being sent abroad. It’s possible the reliquary is already in London. Did you tell anyone you had found it? That would have been important news.”

  “No, not right away.”

  “Why not?”

  “A selfish reason unworthy of me. I wished to study it. And I didn’t know what would happen if I gave it to my sister. The sect isn’t what it was. So many years without a touchstone has eroded the faith of its leaders.”

  “So how did anyone know about it?”

  “I recently told Saba. She can read some Aramaic.”

  “Aramaic?”

  “Yes. It’s written in Aramaic.”

  “I thought it contained a relic.”

  “In a way, it does.” Seeing Kamil’s confusion, he continued. “It’s a document. A very old and invaluable document. The parchment was preserved in a lead sleeve that fit inside the reliquary. It’s extremely fragile. That’s why I wanted to make a copy of it before I told anyone else. I planned to copy it and then I wanted Saba to study it with me.”

  “What exactly is it?” Kamil wondered why Malik hadn’t told him this to begin with. Clearly it wasn’t the reliquary he was concerned about, but its contents. Secrets within secrets.

  Malik stood and paced nervously along the gravel path of the winter garden. Reflected in the night-blackened glass panes, a dozen faint Maliks split and recombined in a cascade of ghosts. The crunch of gravel suddenly ceased.

  “Please forgive me. I can’t tell you any more. The less the world knows about the document, the safer it’ll be. It needs to be preserved and protected. Then it can be made public. I sometimes wonder whether it wouldn’t be better just to hide it again, until humankind is worthy of such a gift. But I’m afraid it’ll crumble away.”

  “I can see why getting the reliquary back is so important to you, with such a fragile treasure inside.”

  “You misunderstand. The reliquary that was stolen is empty. I took the document out.”

  Kamil was stunned. “Why concern yourself with the empty box, then, when you have the document? Surely that’s the important thing.”

  “I understand it’s just one object among dozens that have gone missing, but there are two reasons for you to bend your mind to finding this particular empty box, Kamil. The reliquary confirms the Proof of God. It gives provenance to the document within.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On the lid is an engraving of Theodore Metochites, a historical figure who we know was associated with the Proof. The inscription is ‘The Proof of Chora, Container of the Uncontainable.’ It names the Proof and links it to Theodore’s church. That’s how we know it’s real.”

  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 Byzantin
e 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.

  A large bundle blocked the entrance to the minaret stairway. The imam, fearing he was late for his ezan, pushed at it with his foot. When it didn’t budge, he leaned over and pulled at the black cloth. He fell backward, landing hard on the floor, the cloth still in his hand. The stench was overpowering.

  The lamplight fell on Malik’s ghastly, bloodied face. His robe had been slashed open and his body sown with innumerable cuts.

  The imam felt his heart pause with fear. He took a breath, then tried to calm himself by whispering a prayer, but his eyes roved the dark corners of the mosque and his ears strained to hear whether or not the person who did this was still there. He tried to shake Malik’s cloak from his hand, but the cloth was swollen with blood and stuck to the imam’s arm, as if some vital essence of the caretaker was holding fast to him in a final desperate plea. With a shout of alarm, the imam struggled to his feet and ran outside into the driving rain. From the minaret of a neighboring mosque, the call “Allahu akbar, Allah is great” drifted over the imam as he woke the neighborhood with his cries.

  SQUALLS OF RAIN flung themselves against Kamil’s bedroom window as if someone were throwing handfuls of pebbles. He massaged his forehead against the pain that had settled inside his skull. Ever since his father’s death, he had been plagued by headaches. Sleep was impossible, so he rose and slipped on his dressing gown. The predawn call to prayer was muted by the weather, but the plaintive cry worked its way into the house and followed Kamil down the stairs. He could hear the chink of glasses and china in the dining room.

  Yakup appeared with a glass of tea on a tray.

  “Just tea. I’m having breakfast with a friend this morning,” Kamil told him. Not under the plane tree, he thought, peering out of the window at the rain. He looked forward to seeing Malik and to continuing their conversation, but he’d wait for dawn before setting off.