But the most serious problem, said Dimitrios, revolved around the Phanar gateway. In
1821
the Greeks sealed the main door of the Phanar after the Sultan had hanged the then Patriarch, Gregorios, from its lintel. The Turks always considered the sealing a snub, and recently the
Refah
party had revived the issue by threatening to break open the gate by force. Then last month, on the eve of the anniversary of the fall of Byzantium to the Ottoman Turks, a huge bomb was found planted next to the gate inside the main courtyard. It was defused in time, but had it gone off not only the gate but the entire Phanar would have been reduced to a large crater.
'They left a note near the bomb,' said Dimitrios. 'I've got a translation somewhere.'
He rummaged around in his drawers and drew out a file. From it he took a single sheet of foolscap. 'Read this,' he said.
from the general headquarters of the fighters of light
Our administration has targeted the Patriarchate and its occupying leader, who behind what he considers insurmountable walls takes pleasure in the shedding of the blood of the Muslim people of the East, and to this end he is working on suspect and fiendish plans. We will fight until the Chief Devil and all the occupiers are chased off; until this place, which for years has contrived Byzantine intrigues against the Muslim peoples of the East, is exterminated. Occupiers disappear! These Lands are ours and will remain ours. We warn you one more time: there is no right to life for those who are occupiers.
Until the Greek Patriarchate and the Devil, the ridiculous Bartholomaios who wears the robes of the Patriarch, disappears from behind the thick walls where he plans his fiendish intrigues, our fight will continue. Patriarch you will perish!
Long live our Islamic Fight! Long live our Islamic Liberation War!
THE
CENTRAL
HEADQUARTERS
OF
LIGHT
After this,' said Dimitrios, 'our young have finally become convinced that there is no future for them here.' 'I can see their point.'
'Now it's just the old who remain. Our priests here are sick and tired of funerals. A single baptism - or rarer still, a marriage - is the event of the year.'
I asked whether the Phanar was getting enough young priests coming up to keep the place going.
'The Turks closed our only seminary in
1971,'
replied Dimitrios. 'It's cut the bloodline of our existence. A decade from now, when the older bishops have all died, there will be no clergy left. After
1,500
years, the Ecumenical Patriarch will have to leave Constantinople.' Dimitrios sighed. 'A century ago this was the centre of Greek Istanbul. Today there are no Greeks at all left around here. On a very good Sunday the Patriarch may still get a hundred people in this church. On a bad one he can't even fill the first two rows of pews. Come down and see what it's like at vespers.'
'Who will be there?'
'I fear just you, me and the angels.'
Fr. Dimitrios's apprehensions were justified. The service had already begun. One old bishop was standing at a lectern chanting hymns for the saint of the day. The other officiating priest, a bent-backed octogenarian, clanked a thurible from behind the iconostasis. There was no congregation in this, the senior church of Eastern Christendom, the Orthodox St Peter's; not one person occupied the empty pews. After a few minutes the bishop gave the dismissal and both old men quickly left the church.
'Look at your watch,' said Fr. Dimitrios. 'Exactly
4.15.
It never takes a minute longer when it's an empty church. Our priests don't feel inspired. In fact they feel almost embarrassed.'
From the Phanar I walked through the old city to the Armenian Patriarchate in Kum Kapi, overlooking the Sea of Marmara. In London, Armenian friends had told me horror stories about the fate of the sixty thousand Armenians left in Istanbul: that
Refah
party activists had taken to slopping buckets of human urine into Armenian church services, as well as regularly vandalising the graveyards and churches. My friends had told me that the parish councils hushed these things up for fear that they would be accused of 'making anti-Turkish propaganda', but I hoped that the staff of the Patriarchate might at least be able to confirm or deny what
I
had heard.
The Patriarchate was a lovely wooden Ottoman building with a pediment and slatted louvres. After a short wait
I
was shown in to a plump Armenian priest, who called for tea and chatted happily about his trip to England twenty years previously. But when
I
turned the conversation to politics he just raised his palms and shrugged, indicating clearly - if wordlessly - that it would be undiplomatic for him to comment.
As
I
was leaving,
I
mentioned that
I
had just been to the Phanar: 'Watch out, then,' he whispered. 'The Phanar is full of informers. Your phone will be tapped and they've probably followed you here. Don't leave your notebooks - or anything valuable or incriminating - in your hotel room.'
The old Middle Eastern paranoia, one of the strongest legacies of the Ottomans, a shadow which falls uniformly from the Danube to the Nile.
I
smiled, but - as always happens after such a warning - did find myself looking behind me on my way back, to see if
I
was being followed.
Of course, there was nobody there.
I
stanbul
,
20
J
uly
John Moschos did not like Constantinople, and he makes this dislike quite apparent in
The Spiritual Meadow.
One of his Constantinople stories concerns the astonishing sexual appetites of the Emperor Zeno; another is about a priest in the capital who 'was indulging in murder and dabbling in witchcraft'; a third is an anti-Semitic rant against a Jewish glassblower who tries to burn his eldest son to death after the boy announces that he plans to convert to Christianity. There are several other such tales, all designed to show the Byzantine capital - 'the city where the wicked rulers lived' - in a very dim light.
In some ways, Moschos's reaction is a little surprising. After all the monk admired the other two great Byzantine metropolises -Antioch and Alexandria - for their learning, and this was something in which the Imperial capital also excelled. Certainly Constantinople's university could not compare with that of Alexandria, but ever since the Emperor Theodosius II endowed a number of chairs in subjects such as medicine, grammar, rhetoric, law and philosophy, it had grown in size and stature, its reputation augmented by the presence nearby of the city's great public library.
Shortly before John Moschos arrived in the capital, his friend and mentor Stephen the Sophist had been lured to Constantinople from the School of Alexandria, where for many years he had lectured on medicine, philosophy, astronomy, astrology, horoscopy and ecclesiastical computus. Stephen should have been able to introduce Moschos to Constantinople's leading luminaries, men like the great historian Theophylact Simocatta; yet there is no indication in Moschos's writing that he met any particularly inspiring figures during his stay in the city.
There was another attraction which should have recommended Constantinople to Moschos: its extraordinary number of sacred relics. Moschos comments on the existence of such relics in almost every place he writes about; only in Constantinople does he omit to mention the number of holy objects on show in the churches, even though the capital's collection was the finest in Christendom. In one shrine alone, that under the Porphyry Column in the Forum of Constantine, were secreted the holy nails used in the crucifixion, the axe with which Noah built the Ark, and the
Dodekathronon,
the twelve baskets in which had been collected the leftover loaves and fishes from the feeding of the five thousand, which had been miraculously rediscovered by the dowager Empress Helena near the Sea of Galilee. Elsewhere in the city could be found the Crown of Thorns, the head of John the Baptist ('complete with hair and beard', according to one source,) the bodies of most of the innocents murdered by King Herod, and great chunks of the True Cross.
However dubious their pedigrees may seem to our eyes, to the
Byzantines relics were objects of priceless value. To see or to touch them was to come into direct contact with a God who was otherwise almost unimaginably distant and inaccessible. Relics were holes in the curtain wall separating the human from the divine. By contemplating them, and by reaching out and touching them, the Byzantines felt they were reaching through the great barrier which separated the visible from the invisible, the mundane from the transcendent. Gregory of Nyssa, a century before Moschos, described the emotion felt by ordinary Byzantines when they touched a sacred relic: 'Those who behold them embrace them as the living body [of the saint] itself; they bring all their senses into play and shedding tears of passion address to the martyr their prayers of intercession as if he were alive and present.'
Moschos must have had good reason to dislike a city full of such precious and holy objects, and a quick reading of the sources gives a good idea of what it was. For it seems that even by metropolitan Byzantine standards, Constantinople was a deeply degenerate place. When Justinian legislated on the Empire's brothels, the law he published contained a preamble which gives some details about the state of the capital's morality. Agents, it seemed, toured the provinces luring girls - some of them younger than ten years old - into their clutches by offering them fine clothes and shoes; once in the capital they were made to sign contracts and provide guarantees for their attendance at their bordello. Otherwise the unfortunate girls were kept imprisoned inside the whorehouses, shackled to their beds.
Nor was Constantinople's aristocratic elite renowned for its marital fidelity. Asterius of Amasia scolded his congregation: 'You change your wives like your clothes, and build new bride-chambers as casually as stalls at a fair.' St John Chrysostom blamed the city's famously lascivious theatre: 'When you seat yourself in a theatre and feast your eyes on the naked limbs of women, you are pleased for a time, but then, what a violent fever you have generated! Once your head is filled with such sights and the songs that go with them, you think about them even in your dreams. You would not choose to see a naked woman in the marketplace, yet you eagerly attend the theatre. What difference does it make if the stripper is a whore? It would be better to smear our faces with mud than to behold such spectacles.'
St John Damascene was even more shocked by what he heard of the 'city filled with impiety'. Constantinople was the setting of dances and jests, he wrote disapprovingly, as well as of taverns, baths and brothels. Women went about with uncovered heads and moved their limbs in a provocative and deliberately sensuous way. Young men grew effeminate and let their hair grow long. Indeed, complained the monk, some went so far as to decorate their boots. In such a climate even the bishops grew foppish. The
Ecclesiastical History
of Socrates talks of Bishop Sisinnios, who 'was accustomed to indulge himself by wearing smart new garments, and by bathing twice a day in the public baths. When someone asked him why he, a bishop, bathed himself twice a day, he replied: "Because you do not give me time for a third." '