‘A toast,’ he said, ‘to Suleiman, the greatest sultan who ever lived.’
Brandon thought it a strange toast but joined the others in acknowledging the gesture. They got stuck into the starter, making small talk as they did, but Brandon found it all very false and finally spoke up.
‘Mr Hundar,’ he said, ‘this is all very nice, but could you please explain exactly what is happening here?’
‘Brandon,’ said, India, who was loving Hundar’s witty repartee, ‘leave it until later.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Hundar. ‘I understand your impatience. OK, ask your questions, Mr Walker, and I will try my best to answer them.’
‘First of all,’ said Brandon, ‘why are we here?’
‘I think we all know why, Mr Walker. I am now in the possession of both halves of the Piri Reis map and believe that between us, we have the necessary talent to uncover its secrets.’
‘But why are we sitting out here in the middle of the Mediterranean?’
‘This is the fastest yacht in this part of the world,’ answered Hundar, ‘and we are currently holding position with the aim of speeding to any destination that may be uncovered by our efforts.’
‘And you really think it exists?’
‘I am sure of it.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Brandon. ‘The luxury of this yacht says to me that you already have more money than you know what to do with.’
‘It is true, I enjoy great wealth,’ said Hundar, ‘a legacy handed down through my lineage, though one with a bitter taste attached.’
‘Why?’
‘My ancestors were exiled after the war,’ said Hundar, ‘cut off from generations of history and the true royal bloodline.’
‘Which war?’ asked Brandon.
‘The Turkish War of Independence,’ said Hundar. ‘They could trace their lineage right back to Suleiman himself, yet were treated like dogs. They were paid off and scattered around the world while the usurpers were feted by the emerging western nations as freedom fighters. For fifty years my ancestors were essentially homeless, yet they never gave up the fight to return to their homelands and reclaim their birthright.’
‘Homeless millionaires,’ said Brandon, cynically.
‘Millionaires, yes, but homeless nevertheless,’ said Hundar. ‘Anyway, in 1974 the current Turkish government finally agreed to rescind my uncle’s exile and he returned to his homeland a broken man. He died a few years ago, leaving me as the last true descendant of the Suleiman lineage, the true heir to the Ottoman Empire.’
‘But the Ottoman Empire no longer exists,’ said India.
‘In here it does,’ said Hundar, tapping the side of his head, ‘and in here.’ He placed his hand over his heart.
‘So this is a one-man vanity mission,’ suggested Brandon.
‘There are many like me who want the old days back,’ said Hundar, ‘tens of thousands of the poor and the dispossessed. All have been treated shamefully by the incumbent government and would benefit from a return to the traditions of the sultans.’
‘With you at the head,’ said Brandon.
‘I detect irony in your voice,’ said Hundar, ‘but I do not expect you to understand. This is a way of life you will never comprehend, Mr Walker. Your own heritage is far too western to understand the strength of a continued lineage in charge of a country.’
‘We have the royal family,’ said Brandon.
‘A mere figurehead with no power,’ said Hundar. ‘No, this is an eastern concept that is within our very blood. The sultans of the Ottoman Empire have had a continuous bloodline since the time of Osman in the thirteen hundreds. It is our way.’
‘You decry your government,’ said India, ‘yet you are a politician in that very government. Isn’t that hypocritical?’
‘I keep my enemies close, Miss Summers,’ said Hundar. ‘How better to keep abreast of the corruption that rots our country, than to work amongst those who spread the disease.’
‘So why do you want this treasure?’ asked Brandon. ‘Don’t you have enough money for your campaigns?’
‘More than enough,’ said Hundar. ‘It is not the money I desire but the worldwide recognition such a discovery will bring. The young of today are losing sight of the old ways, so we need a powerful reminder of how great we once were and can be again. When we find this treasure, Mr Walker, the world will sit up and take notice. They will be forced to listen to the calls for the return of the Ottoman Empire and we will carry a wave of young fervor with us. This is my dream, Mr Walker, and I refuse to let it whither like a grape in the sun.’
The main course was brought in by the waitresses and the conversation continued as the meal progressed. Finally, the desert dishes were cleared away and everyone left the dining room. Brandon joined India out by the handrail, overlooking the sea five floors below.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘Nothing we didn’t already know,’ said India.
‘He seems like a typical megalomaniac to me,’ said Brandon.
‘Cute though.’
‘Really?’ asked Brandon. ‘I can’t say I’d noticed, to be honest.’
Before India could answer, they were joined by Hundar.
‘Enjoying the evening air?’ he asked.
‘Something like that,’ answered Brandon. ‘So tell me, Mr Hundar, where do you think this treasure is?’
‘Me? Oh, I have no illusions as to my limitations in these matters,’ said Hundar. ‘But that is why you and Miss Summers are here, to answer that very question.’
‘Surely there are better people than us?’ said India.
‘Perhaps so,’ said Hundar, ‘but that would involve people in the outside world. This way, it is a bit more personal.’
‘So when will we get to see the map?’ asked Brandon.
Hundar glanced at his watch.
‘No time like the present,’ he said, and held out his arm for India to take. ‘Shall we?’
Despite her reservations, India was captivated by his charm and allowed herself to be led back into the dining room, closely followed by a slightly jealous Brandon.
* * *
The dining room had been cleared of the dinner set-up and the table lay gleaming in the light. Diane, Abbas and Helga were already there, waiting alongside Basil, who was holding a rolled-up document.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Hundar, ‘I hope you appreciate this moment, as for the first time in over five hundred years, we are about to see the complete Piri Reis map.’ He nodded to Basil, who proceeded to place the rolled-up document on the dining table. The butler weighted down the one end with a pair of antique brass weights and unrolled the map to its full extent, before weighting down the other end with similar items.
‘Please turn up the lights, Basil,’ said Hundar. The room lightened and Basil left the six people alone in the dining room. Everyone stared down at the document. It was obviously a high-quality colour photograph of two halves of the same map, pushed together to complete the whole.
‘Where are the originals?’ asked India.
‘In a safe place,’ said Hundar. ‘They are far too valuable to be exposed to the sea air.’
‘I thought the one half was on display in the Topkapi museum,’ said Brandon.
‘Let’s just say the one in the museum is an extremely good copy,’ said Hundar. ‘The two that have been photographed to create this document are both halves of the original gazelle-skin map. Take a look at the torn edges. Apart from a few places where the ends have frayed, the tear fits almost perfectly.’
India stared at the document and could see immediately he was right. The map edges did fit perfectly. The left half showing the coast of America was very familiar to her, but it was the right half that drew her gaze. It was certainly the document they had recovered from the Nileometer but the detail was far clearer as the photographer had carefully stretched out the map before taking the picture. The detail was easier to see and the colours seemed to be mo
re vibrant compared to the other half of the map. The first thing that caught her eye was the incredible detail; mountain ranges, cities and rivers filled in the land masses along with a host of creatures ranging from monkeys and snakes to elephants and hyena. The oceans between were filled with all sorts of seagoing vessels from yachts to galleons, sailing between continents and islands alike, while down both sides of the map were lines of carefully crafted Turkish writing. Silence fell around the room as they all gazed at the document in awe.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Helga.
‘There’s so much detail,’ said Brandon. ‘Where would you begin to look?’
‘Well, that’s why we are here,’ said Hundar, ‘to share our ideas. We now have the full map before us and your Greek policeman, Gatilusi, seemed convinced he had solved the secret. If he could do it, I am sure we can. So, Miss Summers, do you have any ideas?’
‘No,’ said India, with a sigh. ‘Like Brandon said, the map is overwhelming in detail.’
‘What about the writing?’ asked Brandon. ‘Does it say anything?’
‘The left-hand side is in Ottoman Turkish,’ said India, ‘and was translated long ago. Some of it describes the various mineral and animal resources of the new world whilst the rest is a reference to the source maps. As for the right-hand side, it has obviously only just been uncovered, so I have no idea what it says. I suppose much of the same.’
‘Then you suppose wrong, Miss Summers,’ interjected Hundar. ‘I have had the text translated and it is a poem.’
‘A poem?’
‘Yes, a poem extolling the virtues of Selim the First. It would seem that Piri Reis knew exactly what he was doing. Before he fell from grace, he was a favourite of the sultan. A very good career move, I would add, it was just a shame that it never lasted.’
‘What about these?’ asked Brandon, pointing at the many lines radiating from different sized circles placed randomly across the map.
‘Ah, I can help here,’ said Hundar. ‘They are compass roses, typical of most Portolan maps of the area.’
‘Portolan maps?’ asked India.
‘Typical maps of the time,’ said Hundar, ‘mainly drawn from magnetic bearings or dead reckoning. Many maps from that time are similarly drawn, but this is by far the most detailed I have ever seen. Some of the lines represent compass bearings while others represent wind direction. I have no idea which is which.’
‘And all the pictures?’ asked Brandon.
‘Again,’ answered Hundar, ‘typical of Portolan maps. The cartographers took any information given to them by the explorers and simply used them as representations of what they knew to be there.’
‘So where do we start?’ asked Brandon.
‘There seems to be nothing that stands out,’ said India, ‘so I suggest we start with the poem. You say you have had it translated?’
‘I have,’ said Hundar, and walked to a sideboard to retrieve a few sheets of paper. He handed them out to all present. India read the inscription quietly to herself.
From the towers of Topkapi,
Praise the name of the exulted one
Ruler of the earth and the heavens above
Turn away from his humble gaze
His word is God’s will.
He is all knowing and all seeing so
Doubt him not, the undeserving or learn
To drink from the devil’s cup
His glory will shine eternal, unto the end of life
Fear him
From this world to the new
Herald the approach of the sun and the moon
Lord of all people
and master of beasts in guises unknown
Follow his gaze for he is mighty
Let his glory shine across all lands
Led by wings of angels
To paths not met nor trodden by man
His is the way of the almighty for only his words show the true way
Defender of the weak, smiter of the infidel
Lower your gaze, for such is his word
and seek his tribute on the infidel day of rest
She read the poem a few times before looking up at last.
‘Wow,’ she said, ‘there are all sorts of conundrums in there.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Hundar.
‘Well, it certainly can be read as a poem about how great the sultan was, but there are also some weird statements that don’t make sense.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, he describes the sultan as mighty in one line, yet humble in another.’
‘Both compliments, surely.’
‘Perhaps, but it’s strange to see the two together. Another thing: why “seek his tribute on an infidel day of rest”? What could possibly be found only on a certain day?’
‘Perhaps it’s in a church.’
‘Possibly,’ she said, before straightening up once more. ‘It’s all so jumbled, it doesn’t make sense. There doesn’t seem to be any flow to the whole thing.’
‘But you think there is definitely something there?’ interjected Hundar.
India glanced at Brandon before answering.
‘Well, I am surprised to be saying this, but yes, I think there is.’
‘Excellent,’ said Hundar. ‘Right, I will leave you now, as I have to attend to some business. The resources of this craft are entirely at your disposal, and Basil will see to your every need. Please, make yourself comfortable and apply your genius to the problem in hand. I will return presently and expect to see some answers.’ He left the room along with Helga and Diane, leaving the other three alone to pore over the map. For the next hour India compared the map against the poem, trying to make sense of the clues, while Brandon and Abbas spent their time looking at the map and sipping the strong coffee provided by Basil. Finally, she stood up and shook her head.
‘Well?’ asked Brandon.
‘I’m sure it is there,’ said India, ‘but the more I examine the poem, the more I think there should be a key.’
‘A key?’
‘Yes, something to point the way to the relevant parts of the map. There is so much information, there is no way it is all relevant.’
‘And where can we find this key?’
‘I have no idea,’ she sighed.
They fell silent for a while before Brandon spoke again.
‘India,’ he said, ‘you say we are looking for a key?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, what if I was to tell you I saw one less than a few days ago.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes, but let’s take a step back first,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s go back to Gatilusi. He seemed to be clued up as to what all this meant, right?’
‘I don’t follow,’ said India.
‘Do you remember the biscuit tin?’
‘Yes, what about it?’
‘There was another document in there, one that made no sense.’
‘The photograph?’
‘That’s right. Why would he put that photograph in if it wasn’t important?’
‘OK,’ said India slowly, ‘so you think it has something to do with the map?’
‘Possibly. I’ll go and get it.’ Five minutes later he returned with the documents and they both pored over the photograph.
‘The carving on the coffin lid is the likeness of a key,’ said India. ‘I had forgotten. It’s a shame we didn’t get to see it close up. I wonder if there was something inside the casket.’
‘There wasn’t,’ said Brandon.
India looked up sharply.
‘How do you know?’
‘I have been there,’ said Brandon. ‘Adriano and I went to the Topkapi museum and saw the coffin first hand.’
‘Did you see anything relevant?’
‘Well, I didn’t think so at the time; it was a very ornate coffin lid, admittedly, but that’s all it was, an elaborate coffin with a carving of a key. I think it was a mess
age left by someone in the past, telling us that a key of sorts lay within.’
‘Even if you are right,’ said India, ‘whatever it was, it is obviously long gone.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Brandon. ‘Within the casket was an inscription.’
‘Do you know what it said?’ asked India.
‘No, it was written in Turkish. Adriano said that as coffins were often reused at that time, the craftsmen often left their name on any elaborate work so people knew who made it. I assumed it was the carpenter’s signature.’
‘I don’t suppose you remember the letters,’ said India.
‘Nope,’ said Brandon, ‘I don’t, but I have been in this business long enough to know that you never ignore anything that may be a clue, so I did something else.’
‘You wrote them down?’ asked India hopefully.
‘Better than that,’ said Brandon, pulling his digital camera from his pocket. ‘I photographed them.’
Chapter 17
It was past midnight when Hundar rejoined them in the dining room. Helga was already there and they all stood around the map in excitement.
‘Right,’ said Hundar, ‘bring me up to date.’
‘Well, at first,’ said India, ‘it didn’t make any sense, and it was obvious that there had to be a key. Luckily, Gatilusi had somehow uncovered the key and a few days ago, despite not realising it, Brandon actually photographed it in the Topkapi Palace.’
‘Really?’ said Hundar. ‘Lucky for me I invited you along, Mr Walker.’
‘It seems so,’ said Brandon.
‘So where are these photographs?’ asked Hundar.
‘Basil printed them off for me,’ said Brandon, ‘and Abbas translated them from Turkish into English.’
‘So what do they say?’
‘It’s a set of numbers,’ said India, and read the handwritten note before her.
1-9-11-17-14-4-18-8-19-21-22
‘Are they coordinates?’ asked Hundar.
‘No, they are an instruction about how to read the poem. Each number is a line number, and when you rearrange the corresponding lines into the new order, the poem makes more sense.’
The Treasures of Suleiman Page 19