“Indeed,” he confirmed. “It appears to be an annual record from the harbormaster, for port fees and dockage. These are the names of vessels, with their lading,” he said, running a gloved finger down a pair of columns.
“Isn’t that a reference to the Emperor?” Sophie asked, pointing to a block at the top.
“Yes,” Haasis replied, trying to interpret the heading. “It’s titled a report of Caesarea port fees, or something to that effect. Written on behalf of Emperor Marcus Maxentius.”
“If my memory serves, Maxentius was a contemporary of Constantine.”
“Maxentius ruled in the west and Constantine in the east, before the latter consolidated power.”
“So this must date to the early fourth century.”
Haasis nodded with a glimmer in his eye, then looked at the other scrolls. “These may offer us an amazing glimpse into life in Judaea under Roman rule.”
“Ought to provide fodder for a good thesis or two from your students,” Dirk said, as he emptied the bin of three additional ceramic boxes. Tucking the empty bin under his arm, he turned and headed out of the tent.
“Dirk, you just uncovered a magnificent historical find,” Haasis said with wonder. “Where on earth are you going?”
“I’m gonna go get wet like a damn fool,” he replied with a twisted grin, “because there’s plenty more where those came from.”
8
OZDEN CELIK ARRIVED AT THE FATIH MOSQUE, ONE OF Istanbul’s largest, an hour after morning salat and found the ornate interior halls of the complex mostly empty. Bypassing the main prayer hall, he followed a side corridor to the rear of the structure, then exited into a small courtyard. Marble paving stones led to a nondescript building located in an area cordoned off from tourists and worshippers. Celik made his way to the threshold and entered through a heavy wooden door.
Stepping inside, he found himself in a bright and bustling office. Cloisters of gray cubicles extended in all directions, fronted by a large wooden reception desk. The clamorous din of churning laser printers and ringing phones filled the air, lending the feel of a telemarketing call center. Only the odor of burning incense and photos of Turkish mosques on the walls indicated otherwise. That and the absence of any women.
Celik noted that all of the office workers were bearded men, many wearing long robes, tapping at their computers in apparent incongruity. A young man behind the counter stood as Celik approached.
“Good morning, Mr. Celik,” he greeted. “The Mufti is expecting you.”
The secretary led Celik past a line of cubicles to a large corner office. The room was sparsely decorated, containing only the requisite Turkish rugs on the floor for expression. More notable were the sagging rows of bookshelves that lined the walls, packed tightly with religious tomes reflecting the scholarly background of an Islamic Mufti.
Mufti Altan Battal sat at a barren executive desk, scribbling on a writing pad, with a pair of open books on either side of him. He looked up and smiled as the secretary ushered Celik into the office.
“Ozden, you have arrived. Please, take a seat,” he offered. “Hasan, let us talk in peace,” he added, shooing away the secretary. The assistant quickly backpedaled, closing the door on his way out.
“Just putting the finishing touches on Friday’s sermon,” the Mufti said, setting a pencil down on the desk beside a cell phone.
“You should have one of your Imams do that for you.”
“Perhaps. But I feel that it is my calling. Deferring to one of the mosque Imams might create jealousies as well. I would rather ensure that all of the Imams of Istanbul speak with one voice.”
As Mufti of Istanbul, Battal was the theological leader of all three thousand of the city’s mosques. Only the President of the Diyanet Isleri, a nonelected post in Turkey’s secular government, technically wielded greater spiritual authority over the country’s Muslim population. Yet Battal had developed far greater influence over the hearts and minds of the mosque-going public.
Despite his seniority, Battal appeared nothing like the stereo-typical stern gray cleric with a raging beard. He was a tall, powerfully built man with an imposing presence. Not yet fifty years old, he had a long face that expressed the sunny disposition of a Labrador puppy. He often wore suits instead of robes and inflected a deprecating sense of humor that made his brand of fundamentalist Islam almost seem fun.
Yet despite his sunny persona, the message he sold was a bleak one. Raised on the extreme fundamentalist tenets of Islamic interpretation, he vocally supported Islamism, the expansion of Islam as both a religious and political movement. His worldview taught the subjugation of women’s rights while strongly turning away from Western culture and mores. He had gradually built a power base by railing against the forces of foreign influence, then turned his sights on the secular government as economic conditions within Turkey soured. Although he hadn’t publicly taken a militant stance, he believed in jihad for the defense of Islamic territory. Like Celik, he was driven by a powerful ego, and privately aspired to command the country as both its religious and political leader.
“I have some very good news to report, on several fronts,” Celik said.
“My friend Ozden, you are always working behind the scenes on my behalf. What is it that you have done for our cause now?”
“I recently met with Sheikh Zayad of the Emirati Royal Family. He is pleased with the work you have done and wishes to make another substantial contribution.”
Battal’s eyes widened. “On top of his earlier generosity? This is wonderful news. I am still at a loss, however, as to his interest in our movement here in Turkey.”
“He is a man of vision,” Celik replied, “who supports adherence to the Sharia path. He is troubled by the growing threats against us, as evident by the recent mosque attacks here and in Egypt.”
“Yes, despicable acts of violence against our holy sites. And on top of that, there is the recent theft of the Prophet’s relics from Topkapi. These are intolerable assaults on our faith by outside forces of evil.”