Augusta had never thought much about the past, but she had to admit—Istanbul made its history come alive. When they finally made it back to the mainland several hours later and trekked up yet another hill toward the historic part of town, she was amazed at the beauty of the architecture on every street corner. From the elegant brick-and-stone façade of a Victorian train station—familiar, and yet extravagantly unfamiliar in its way—to the shops selling rugs, ceramics, jewelry, and leather bags at every turn, their walk to this historic center of the city was sumptuous.
They climbed higher and the buildings seemed older, grander, more magnificent. Peeking up over a long stone wall was the top of a palace, which Erol assured her they would visit tomorrow when they had time. At the crest of the hill the street opened up to a wide square, revealing a massive complex of minarets and domes.
Instead of crossing the square, however, Erol turned left down a narrow, cobblestone alley. As they walked the lane turned into a beautiful thoroughfare, and directly in front of them Augusta saw a three-story building jutting out onto the sidewalk, each story wider than the one beneath it. This building was definitely very old. Well, maybe not old to someone raised in the Byzantine capital, but old to a 20-year-old American who had only discovered this city two days before. White-framed wooden windows peeled charmingly above an entryway framed in potted geraniums and iron scrollwork. A gilded sign, which Augusta had to squint to read properly, confirmed that this was the Ottoman History Museum.
“Ahh,” Erol sighed with satisfaction as they approached the front door. “My second home.” He held the door open for Augusta.
She stepped into the entrance hall of what must have once been a palatial Ottoman home. On one side beckoned the beautiful parquet floors and high ceilings of a grand ballroom, culminating in a magnificent bay of windows at the far end of the house. On the other side was a series of rooms consisting mainly of polished, oak-paneled display cases. Thick, ornately-patterned Turkish carpets stretched as far as she could see in either direction. Free-standing glass display cases with everything from tiny bronze artifacts to large, yellowing books filled every room. The floor plan had been carefully calculated so that not a square foot of this impressive old mansion went to waste.
“Wow,” was Augusta’s only comment as she gazed at the curiosities lining the walls and display cases. She didn’t know whether to be impressed by the sheer audacity of cramming so many antiques into one space, or concerned that there were no visitors anywhere to be seen. It was certainly unlike anything she had ever seen before.
“And this is just the first floor,” Erol told her proudly. “Wait till you see the weapons upstairs.”
Just then a middle-aged man wearing a velvet smoking jacket and fez glided over to them. Erol greeted him heartily.
“Hasan, meet Miss Augusta Carter. Hasan is our museum guide. You can see he’s in costume.”
Augusta smiled politely as Hasan bowed. “Welcome to Istanbul, Miss Carter.”
“Augusta is here on official museum business, Hasan. I’m showing her around the archives. She’s very interested in Ottoman history.”
“Oh, a lover of Ottoman history!” Hasan’s face lit up and he opened both arms wide, indicating the breadth of the museum. “I would be happy to show you our special collections. We have a new display of musical instruments from the court of Mahmud I. And one of the finest collections of 18th century Ottoman books in the world.”
“Yes, that’s exactly why I’m here,” Augusta said with an air of gravity. “Your 18th century Ottoman book collection. I’m a big fan. Do you have anything printed by Müteferrika for Sultan Ahmet III? Maybe an atlas or a medical dictionary? Those are my favorites.” She caught Erol’s eye and, with great difficulty, prevented herself from giggling.
“Yes, of course! Right over here.” Hasan was already halfway across the room, hurrying toward a large, handsome bookcase, when Erol cleared his throat. Augusta could have sworn he was choking down a laugh.
“Sorry, Hasan, we’ll have to save that for another time. Right now I need to show Miss Carter something from F2. We’ll see you later.” He headed for the back of the room and pushed open a dark-paneled door marked Staff, motioning for Augusta to follow.
They climbed two flights of narrow, musty-smelling stairs and emerged into a narrow, musty-smelling hallway. Closed office doors lined the hallway, which was decidedly less elegant than the grand ballroom on the first floor. A few feet away, one of the doors stood open. Augusta followed Erol inside and saw Eda sitting in an office chair waiting for them.
“Augusta!” Eda jumped up and gave Augusta an affectionate hug. “Are you ok? How are you feeling? You’re not hurt?” She held Augusta at arms’ length and looked her up and down, then shot Erol a glare which he was careful not to see.
“No, I’m fine,” Augusta assured her, trying to look as fine as possible. “We’re not hurt.” She never liked fussing, although she appreciated Eda’s warm concern. Trying to deflect Eda’s attention away from herself, she said, “Your brother is a bit of a hero, though. He helped save Father Ephraim’s life.”
“What, really?” Eda turned to her brother. “How did that happen?” She listened anxiously as Erol recounted their adventure at the monastery, frequently interjecting with questions and opinions.
Erol had almost finished his tale when there was a knock on the office door. Without waiting for a response, a man with close-cropped blond hair strolled into the room, shook hands with Erol, and turned to face Augusta. “Welcome to Istanbul,” he told her, nodding courteously. What was that, an Australian accent? He was in his early 30s, with a studious air and an open, honest face. She sensed he was a friend.
“This is Mark,” Erol was saying, gesturing toward the newcomer. “One of our curators. He’s an expert in filigreed metalwork from the Ottoman court. And he can tell us more about—” He lowered his voice. “The Rumelov group. He has experience with them.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Mark agreed. “May I?” he asked Erol, gesturing toward the open door.
“Yes, of course.”
Mark shut the door and sat down, making himself at home in Erol’s office. It was a small but comfortable room. Bright afternoon light filtered through a curtained window to one side, illuminating the standard-issue desk, two chairs, and filing cabinets lining the walls. No fancy antiques in here, Augusta noticed. She also noticed a distinct chill coming from Eda the moment Mark had joined them. Eda, normally so cordial and talkative, was sitting mutely with her arms crossed over her chest, staring at the floor in front of her. It was clear she didn’t like Mark. There were no secrets with Eda.
Ignoring Eda’s less than warm welcome, Mark explained his encounter with the Rumelovs two years previously.
“We first became aware of the Rumelov group when several of our rare Ottoman astrolabes went missing. Do you know astrolabes?” he asked, looking at Augusta. She shook her head.
“Astrolabes are astronomical instruments, invented by the ancient Greeks, showing the position of the sun and other celestial bodies. Basically a map of the universe you can hold in one hand. Mastery of the astrolabe passed from the ancient Greeks to the Eastern Roman Empire, which we know as the Byzantine Empire. They are beautiful works of art, in bronze, silver, or gold. And at the time they were advanced scientific tools. A true blend of art and science. Each astrolabe is handmade by a skilled metalworker. But not just any metalworker could create an astrolabe. Only one trained in the astronomical sciences. That’s why they’re so rare. They were highly prized possessions in the courts of all the sultans.”
Despite her avowed lack of interest in Ottoman history, Augusta found herself fascinated by the thought of ancient scientific instruments made of gold. She thought immediately of the beautiful bronze lantern she had seen in Eda’s apartment and wondered if making an astrolabe required more skill than a lantern. It would certainly take a skilled craftsman to create items of such intricacy and precision.
“Astrolabes had value as a legitimate scientific tool,” Mark continued. “Calculating latitude, predicting eclipses and so forth. But they were also used for what we today would call occult purposes. Astrology. Fortune-telling. Predicting the future.” He paused significantly. “That’s why we believe the Rumelovs wanted our Ottoman astrolabes. They think it will help achieve their political goals.”
“Which are?”
Mark sat back in his chair and gave Augusta a steely look. “Pan-Mediterranean monarchy. They want to reunite the lands bordering the Mediterranean Sea into a modern-day empire. Like the ancient Greeks and Romans, or the Byzantines, or the Ottomans. It’s been done before, so they think it can be done again.”
Augusta wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. “They want to re-create the Roman Empire?”
“Essentially.” Mark nodded. “Not the Roman Empire itself, but a new empire centered around the Mediterranean. From Spain all the way across Southern Europe, through Turkey and the Levant, and across Northern Africa all the way to Morocco. They have no chance of succeeding, but that doesn’t stop them from stirring up trouble.”
“Let me see if I have this straight.” Augusta leaned against the small desk, ticking off her points on her fingers. “The Rumelovs want to take over all the lands bordering the Mediterranean Sea. So in order to do this, they try to read the future. And in order to read the future, they steal antique items like the astrolabes and the lost discourses of Epictetus.”
“That’s it, more or less. They are following the ancient customs of astrology and divination. You know, the Ottoman sultans kept a court astrologer on their staff for hundreds of years, even into the 20th century. They took divination and other forms of prediction very seriously.”
Erol, who had been restlessly pacing the small room, cracking his knuckles, and tapping his foot on the ground while he listened, suddenly interjected. “And you know one of their favorite methods of fortune-telling? Bibliomancy. They would open a book at a random page and try to interpret its meaning in light of future events. Legend has it this was quite a spectacular party game at the Ottoman court.”
“That’s pretty weird.” Augusta was having a hard time believing anyone would try to take over the whole Mediterranean Sea, much less that they would use antique fortune-telling methods to do it. It was baffling. Then again, she reminded herself, everything related to her grandfather’s old book had seemed baffling. Maybe this wasn’t stranger than anything else.
“Okay, so how do you know all this about the Rumelovs?” she asked Mark. “Are they handing out brochures about their pan-Mediterranean takeover, or what?”
“If only. The opposite, actually. They’re very secretive. It’s hard to find any information about them. I only know all this because we got a tip-off at the time our astrolabes went missing.” Mark turned to Erol. “I suppose that’s what you want to know? How to get in touch with my source?”
Erol nodded.
“I’ll write the address down for you. It’s a bookseller near Galata Tower. Maybe he can tell you where to find them.”
Eda had been sitting quietly, listening to Mark’s lecture, but now she scowled at him. “No. That’s a bad idea. Don’t go, Erol, it could be dangerous.”
Mark stared straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard anything. “You might need a password. I’ve written down what he told me before. Mare Nostrum. Mention it to him if he doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Mare Nostrum? Latin for our sea?”
“No!” Eda jumped up and grabbed Erol’s arm. “Who knows what these Rumelovs will do to you? They’ve almost killed two people on two different continents looking for some old book. Let them have the book. There’s no way their crazy plan will work. They will never succeed in taking over the Mediterranean Sea, but they might succeed in killing you.”
Erol patted Eda’s hand comfortingly. “No need to worry, Eda. It’s just a bookshop, where hundreds of people go every day. Nothing will happen to us there.”
“Us? What do you mean, us?”
“Augusta’s coming with me.” Erol caught Augusta’s eye and smiled. She nodded and smiled back.
Eda turned to Augusta, aghast. “Are you really going with him?”
“Yes. I promised myself I would find my grandfather’s book. I owe it to his memory. And I think Erol’s right—going to a bookshop won’t be that dangerous.”
Eda’s normally cheerful face had become quite grim—her jaw set, just like her brother’s when he was angry. Her green eyes had gone dull, her vibrant energy congealed into imperious disdain. Glaring at Mark, she muttered, “This is all your fault.” Mark seemed not to notice.
“Don’t worry, Eda, I’ll bring Augusta back to you safe and sound.” Erol sounded soothing, and Augusta realized he was used to placating his older sister. How many times had they re-enacted different versions of this scene? A brief pang of regret pulsed through her—where was the brother or sister she had always wanted? But she shook it off quickly. No time for speculation right now. Focus on the facts.
“Eda,” Augusta said, looking directly into her friend’s eyes, “I wouldn’t go if I thought it was dangerous. I’ll go to the bookshop and then I’ll come straight back. I can’t promise what Erol will do, since we both know he’s crazy—” she looked with amusement at the dark-haired young man beside them— “but I promise I’ll be right back.”
Eda dropped down onto one of the office chairs, resigned. “Fine. I’ll wait here. I’ll see if I can dig up anything in the archives that might be useful.”
“That’s more like it,” Erol said enthusiastically. “Mark can help. You don’t mind, do you, Mark?”
Mark shot him a pained look but said, “Not at all. Happy to help if I can.”
“Excellent!” Erol was the happiest he had been all day. “We’ll be back soon. Text if you find out anything.” He turned to Augusta. “Ready?”
Augusta nodded, and together they went back down the narrow hallway, down the musty stairs, and back through the museum entrance, waving to Hasan as they passed. Walking up the cobblestone street, they retraced their steps past carpet shops and cafes, alongside the imposing stone wall with the Ottoman palace peeking over the top. At every turn tourists snapped photos, vendors called out their merchandise, and boys carrying trays of tea and rolls hurried between shops. She was starting to enjoy the busy energy of the city.
“Is Eda always so worried about you?” Augusta asked as they crested the hill.
“She feels responsible for me,” Erol said simply. “When I was a kid I almost died in an accident. She’s always felt like she has to protect me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
“I’ll tell you some other time. I don’t really like to talk about it.”
They were now walking back downhill. Back toward the water, Augusta assumed, though she couldn’t see it yet.
“Okay. Well then tell me—what’s the deal with Mark? Eda really doesn’t like him.”
Erol threw his head back and laughed. “You noticed? It wasn’t always that way. They used to be a couple. It was a bad breakup.”
“Ohhhh.” Now it all made sense. The snarky comments, the ignoring each other—Augusta had seen other couples act that way during fights. And that would explain the beautiful filigreed lantern in Eda’s apartment. It had probably been a gift from Mark. She wondered how Eda felt about it now. Did she keep it because the lantern was so beautiful? Did it remind her of her ex-boyfriend?
“Mark is from Sydney,” he continued. “He’s an excellent historian. Somehow in Australia he fell in love with Ottoman history and came to Turkey for his university studies. He’s worked at the museum for several years now.”
As they approached the bottom of the hill, with the sea glistening in the afternoon sun, a sudden wail burst from a loudspeaker nearby, and then another, and another. Augusta was still not used to the call to prayer that echoed from block to block five times a day, and it startled her every time. But there was a lyrical beauty to the chant which intrigued her. Lilting from hundreds of minarets all at once, pouring in waves of sound all over the city, the call to prayer was at once mysterious and ordinary. Just one more piece of the symphony that was Istanbul.
“When I got my first job there after university, I introduced Mark to Eda. I thought it was love at first sight. They seemed so happy together. But they ended up having a big fight. I don’t know what it was about, but they’ve been hostile to each other ever since.”
“That’s too bad,” Augusta murmured. It really was too bad. She wanted Eda to be happy, and Mark seemed so nice. Her mind flitted back to the two of them together at the museum and she wondered how that conversation was going right now. Hopefully they wouldn’t have killed each other by the time she got back.
Just then Erol’s phone buzzed and he took it out of his pocket. “Efendim?”
As he listened, his face drained of color and took on an expression of utmost gravity. He said a few words in Turkish and hung up, turning to Augusta.
“That was the island police station. We’ll have to go back tomorrow to answer some more questions.” He cleared his throat drily and his jaw clenched again.
“Father Ephraim is dead.”
A character from Sydney! And a bad break-up...agh, I'm hooked...