The Last Cato (44 page)

I was on the verge of answering her rudely, but I contained myself. “I’m sure you can imagine…”

“It’s terrible. You don’t know how I suffered two years ago when my father died. It was frightening.”

“What’re you doing here, Doria?” I cut her off in what must have been a curt tone of voice, because she looked at me surprised.

“Monsignor Lewis asked me to help out. I’m the cultural attaché to the Italian embassy here in Turkey. I accompanied the monsignor from Ankara to lend a hand.”

What next! Doria was “the expert on Byzantine archeology” the nuncio offered us? She undoubtedly was well-informed of our mission. Great.

“Old friends reunited, right?” the monsignor said, appearing suddenly at our side. “What a stroke of luck to have your friend, Doria, help us out with this project, Sister Salina; even the Turks ask for her advice!”

“Not as much as they should, Monsignor,” Doria said in a mellifluous voice of reproach. “Byzantine architecture is more a nuisance to them than a marvel worthy of conservation.”

Monsignor Lewis turned a deaf ear to Doria’s troublesome words. He took me by the arm and whisked me over to His Most Divine Holiness Bartolomeos I, who extended his pastoral ring for me to kiss. I genuflected lightly and brought my lips to the jewel, asking myself how long I would have to tolerate the presence of “my old friend.” It got worse when I turned to look for my companions and was struck by the image of Doria talking to Farag, eating him up with her eyes. He was so stupid that he didn’t even pick up on that harpy’s carnivorous attitude, and simply smiled at her innuendos. A bitter, bilious poison filled my stomach and heart.

Seated around a big rectangular table with the patriarch’s coat of arms (a gilded Greek cross in a purple circle) engraved in its center, we held a meeting that lasted well past the dinner hour. His Holiness Bartolemeos, in a halting tone that he unconsciously marked with his right hand, explained that the Church of the Holy Apostles was erected by Emperor Constantine in the fourth century with the idea of converting it into a family mausoleum. The emperor died in Nicomedia in 337 and his body was brought to Constantinople years later and inhumed in the
Apostoleion.
His son and successor, Constancio, brought the relics of Saint Luke the Evangelist, Saint Andrew the Apostle, and Saint Timothy to the church.

Doria cut the patriarch short to say that two centuries later, during Justinian and Theodora’s reign, the temple was completely rebuilt by the famous architects Isidoro de Mileto and Antemio de Talles. After that learned interruption, Doria had nothing more to add.

The patriarch went on to explain that until the eleventh century, many emperors, patriarchs, and bishops were buried there. The faithful flocked there to venerate the important remains of martyrs, saints, and priests. After the
Apostoleion
was destroyed, those relics traveled from one site to another over the centuries, until they ended up in the nearby patriarchal church.

“Except of course,” His Holiness said very slowly, “the ones the crusaders stole in the thirteenth century: relics, gold and silver goblets with precious stones, icons, imperial crosses, vestments trimmed with jewels. Today most of them are in Rome and in Saint Mark’s Church in Venice. The historian Nicetas Chroniates confirms that the Latins also profaned the emperors’ tombs.”

“After similar misfortunes and an earthquake in 1328,” added Doria, looking as if she’d been personally offended by his comments about Latins, “the
Apostoleion
had to be rebuilt. At the end of the thirteenth century, Emperor Andronicus II Paleologo ordered its restoration, but he never returned to see it. Plundered of its relics and objects of worth, it was abandoned and forgotten until the fall of Constantinople in the middle of the fifteenth century. In 1461 Mehemet II ordered its demolition, and in its place he built his own mausoleum, the Mosque of the Conqueror, or Fatih Camii.”

At the other side of the table, the captain was growing more impatient by the second. Farag, however, seemed enchanted with the Doria’s exposition, nodding when she was speaking and smiling like a fool when she looked at him.

“Could you comment on what the church looked like?” asked the Rock, stabbing straight into the heart of the matter.

Doria opened a notebook in front of her and passed around some large illustrations.

“The basilica was laid out in the shape of a Greek cross. It had five enormous blue cupolas—one at each end of the four arms, and another gigantic one in the center. Directly under that was the altar made entirely of silver and covered by a pyramid-shape marble ciborium. Columns lined the interior walls, forming a gallery on the upper floor called
catechumena,
accessible only by a spiral staircase.”

“If there is nothing left of the church, how do you know all that?” The Rock at times was marvelously suspicious. I felt indebted to him for questioning Doria’s knowledge. At that point, the first of the illustrations reached me. It was a virtual reconstruction of the
Apostoleion,
in black and white, showing its five cupolas and numerous windows the length and width of the walls.

“Why, Captain!” Doria protested in a delightfully witty timbre. “Do you want me to list my sources?”

“Yes, I do,” grumbled Glauser-Röist.

“Well, to start with, today there are two churches that were constructed in imitation of the
Apostoleion:
Saint Mark’s in Venice, and Saint- Front, in Perigeus, France. We also have descriptions by Eusebio, Philostorgio, Procopio, and Teodoro Anagnostes. And there is a long poem from the tenth century called
Description of the Apostles’ Building,
composed by one Constantine of Rhodes in honor of Emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenite.”

“Of course,” I cut her off, “this emperor wrote a magnificent treatise on the norms of court behavior. That manual was adopted by the European courts at the end of the Middle Ages. Have you read it, Doria?”

“No,” she said softly, “I haven’t had the opportunity.”

“Well, read it when you get the chance. It’s very interesting.”

I suspected her illustrious knowledge on Byzantium was limited to architecture. Her cultural knowledge wasn’t as broad as she wanted us to believe.

“Of course, Ottavia. Returning to the matter at hand,” she said, ignoring me completely from then on, “I should tell you, Captain, I have many sources at my disposal, although it would be tedious to list them all. If you wish, I would be delighted to pass my notes along to you.”

The Rock rejected her offer with a brusque monosyllable and sank down in his seat.

“Tell us about the location, Doria, please,” Farag requested, smiling, as he leaned over the table, his hands crossed, like a fawning scholar.

“My location?” said the twerp with a smile, not taking her eyes off him.

Farag grinned very easily at her joke. “No, no, of course not! The
Apostoleion
’s location.”

“Ah!” she said with a flirtatious smile. “Of course.”

I felt like getting up and killing her, but I controlled myself.

“Based on what we know, Constantine the Great ordered his mausoleum built on the highest hill in Constantinople. The primitive Church of the Holy Apostles was erected around this circular building. Over the centuries, the church was expanded until it reached the same dimensions as Saint Sofia. After that, it fell into a decline. Mehemet II left nothing when he razed his mosque.”

“Can we visit Fatih Camii?” the Rock asked.

“Naturally,” responded the patriarch. “But you mustn’t disturb the Muslim faithful. You would be expelled without a second thought.”

“Can women also enter?” I asked. I wasn’t well versed on Islamic customs.

“Yes,” Doria answered quickly, with charming smile, “but only in certain areas. I’ll be accompanying you, Ottavia.”

I looked at the captain out of the corner of my eye; he responded with a slight shrug that meant, We can’t avoid it. If she wants to come, so be it.

The second illustration reached me just then. In a sumptuous Byzantine illumination, you could clearly see the golds and reds of the cupolas and the walls, just as they must have been at the church’s moment of greatest splendor. Inside, as tall as the columns and the walls, Mary and the twelve apostles contemplated the ascension of Jesus to the heavens. I couldn’t help an admiring exclamation.

“What a charming miniature!”

“Well, it’s yours, Ottavia,” replied Doria, sarcastically. “It belongs to a Byzantine codex from 1162. You’ll find it in the Vatican Library.”

It wasn’t worth answering her. If she wanted me to feel responsible for the historic ravages made by the Catholic Church, she could always try.

“Let’s recap,” answered Glauser-Röist, thrusting forward in his chair as he smoothed his elegant but wrinkled jacket. “Here’s a city known as the richest, most splendid in the ancient world, with untold riches and treasures. In this city we must purge ourselves of greed, who knows how. We must do it in a church that was dedicated to the apostles but which no longer exists. Do I have it right?”

“You’re exactly right, Kaspar,” Farag said, rubbing his beard.

“When do you wish to visit Fatih Camii?” inquired Monsignor Lewis.

“Immediately,” the Rock answered. “Unless the doctor and Professor Boswell need to know anything else.”

We both gently shook our heads.

“Fine. Then let’s go.”

“But, Captain!” said Doria in her phony singsong voice. “It’s lunchtime! Professor Boswell, wouldn’t you agree we should have something to eat before we go?”

I was seriously thinking about killing her.

“Please, Doria, call me Farag.”

My insides churned, tearing me into microscopic, venomous fragments. What exactly was going on here?

Dragging my soul behind me, I walked alongside Father Kallistos to the patriarchate’s dining room, where a couple of old Greek women, their heads covered in Turkish style, served us a meal I barely tasted. Doria was sitting to my right, between Farag and me. I had to put up with her absurd prattle. I think that’s what took away my appetite; but so as not to call attention to my distress, I ate some fish and a bit of stuffed vegetables with spicy pasta that reminded me of the tasty Sicilian
caponatina.
For dessert, the patriarch devoured three or four small milk puddings as white as his skin. Everyone followed his example, except me. I preferred a soft junket of goat’s milk to calm my unsettled indigestion.

During coffee, Doria pried herself away from Farag and started up a conversation with me. While the men discussed the Staurofilakes’ strange behavior and their incredible history and organization, my “friend” dove into a subject I would’ve rather avoided: our distant childhood memories. Her insatiable curiosity about the members of my family surprised me. She seemed to know a lot about them, but she always lacked some detail to complete the puzzle. At last, bored with her obsessive questions, I rudely took a big leap in the conversation.

“How is it, Doria, that you live in Turkey yet stay so up on what we Salinas are doing in Palermo?”

“Concetta talks a lot about you all on the phone.”

“Why is that, with all the tension between our families right now?”

“Well, Ottavia,” she said sweetly, “we Sciarra girls don’t hold a grudge. Our father’s death pained us a lot, but we’ve forgiven you all for it.”

“Forgive me, Doria, but you’re saying foolish things. What are you talking about? Why do you need to forgive us for your father’s death?”

“Concetta always says your mother was wrong to hide your family’s business from you, Pierantonio, and Lucia. You know nothing about it, do you, Ottavia?”

Her candid look and that sibylline smile showed she was ready to tell all. I gulped down some coffee in order to steady my nerves. I don’t know what got into me, but when I finished, I shot back one of my mother’s habitual sentences:
“Passu longu e vucca curta,
Doria.”
*

“Come now!” she said, surprised. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about!”

I looked at her in astonishment. “I asked you to stop!”

“Oh, come on, Ottavia, don’t act like a little girl! You can’t ignore that your father was a
campieri!
”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “My father wasn’t a
campieri
!
*
You’re insulting the Salinas’ memory and good name!”

“Well,” she sighed. “There’s nothing sadder than a blind man who will not see. Anyway, Pierantonio knows the truth.”

“Doria, you’ve always been a bit odd, but with this, I can say you’ve finally gone nuts. I’m not going to allow you to insult my family.”

“The Salinas of Palermo?” she asked, surprised. “Who own Cinisi, the most important construction business in Sicily? Who are the only shareholders of Chiementin and have exclusive control over the milliondollar cement business? Who own the stone quarries in Biliemi that provide the stone for all public buildings? Who own every share of the Bank of Sicily that launders dirty drug and prostitution money? Who own nearly all the productive lands on the island? Who control the fleet of trucks, the distribution networks, and the ‘security’ of the businessmen and vendors? Are you referring to the Salinas of Palermo?”