The Chi Rho Conspiracy

by Rene Fomby

  Sam’s cell phone started to buzz. She glanced down and saw it was Mehmed, her tourist guide from the trip to Turkey. Why in the world would he be calling me now? she wondered, thumbing the screen to answer the call.

  “Mehmed! Great to hear from you!”

  “Yes, it is nice hearing your voice, as well, Ms. Tull—Sam. I trust everything is well with you?”

  “Everything I can control, at least,” she answered, following Maddie and Barley again back down the path toward the pond. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Yes, well, I hope I’m not interrupting anything important, but you asked me to let you know as soon as I discovered anything about those Chi Rho symbols. And—it looks like I may have something.”

  “You finally know who’s sticking them onto churches all across Europe?” she asked, suddenly at full alert. “You know why?”

  “No, and no, unfortunately,” Mehmed answered. “But I do know something. I found a—pattern—in how they’re being distributed. I can’t figure out what it all means, yet, but clearly something big is going on.” He hesitated. “Look, this would be a lot easier if I went over it with you in person. Are you headed back to Ankara anytime soon to finish your deal?”

  Sam watched as Maddie hopped over a small rain-filled gully on the path. “No, that deal’s on hold for the moment. But it does look like I’ll need to be in Istanbul sometime next week.”

  “That’s wonderful news! I’ve got an academic conference scheduled for the end of next week in Istanbul. Maybe, if it works out for your schedule, I could show you around the major tourist sites, the Hagia Sophia and all that, and then we could sit down and take a look at what I’ve found.”

  Sam thought about what her next week looked like. “Sure, Mehmed, that would be super. Let me touch base with the bankers and see if I can set something up. Would any particular day be better for you?”

  “I’ll make any day work for you, Sam, but Thursday night we have a welcoming reception at the Basilica Cistern that I think you might find pretty amazing. If you could meet with the bankers, say, on Wednesday, we could take all day Thursday to explore the city, and then finish up with the reception.”

  “Thursday would be perfect. But why Wednesday with the bankers, and not Friday?” she asked.

  “I think you’ll find that Friday is a bad day all the way around in Turkey, these days,” he explained. “Muslim holy day, and all that. I seriously doubt your bankers would be available for a meeting.”

  Sam stopped for a second to send a short message to her assistant, Claudia, asking her to set up the meeting in Istanbul. “Good to know, Mehmed. Okay, give me a day or so to confirm the meeting with the money guys, and then I’ll get back to you on plans to tour your home town. I hope we can make it work—it sounds like a real treat. After Cappadocia, I can’t imagine how much interesting inside dirt you must know about the city you grew up in.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, as well. Give me a call as soon as you know something.”

  “Don’t worry, I will,” she promised, hanging up the call and peering down the path at her happy little four-year-old, skipping merrily behind Barley’s prancing steps. Up ahead she could already make out the edge of the pond, and Barley could barely contain himself. If ever a dog was made for the water, Sam told herself, that dog would be Barley.

  73

  Istanbul

  Sam was glad Mehmed’s schedule had left her time for a nap before the reception. After making the grand tour of the Hagia Sophia, Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace and the Grand Bazaar—where she bought several bags of spices to take home to the cooks in Siena—they stopped for a quick lunch, and lastly a walking tour of the Hippodrome, a circular track used in ancient times to hold chariot races and other games. While they never wandered an inch outside of the historic center-city Sultanahmet District, all the walking in the summer heat had left her completely drained.

  Mehmed arrived at the Four Seasons Hotel just before six, dressed in a casual suede jacket and khaki slacks for the reception. She met him downstairs in the lobby, and he was immediately impressed with how quickly she had magically transformed from a casual American tourist into something more like a Hollywood starlet, with a simple black dress and heels, and a diamond pendant with matching earrings. A look she would never have touched with a ten-foot pole back in Texas, but something Margaret kept insisting was— socially speaking—the absolute minimum effort for such a prominent member of the Ricciardelli family. Mehmed gallantly reached out to take her right hand, and guided her toward the front door.

  “If you are still tired, we can hail a cab. Otherwise, the walk to the Cistern is not far, about ten minutes, and it is a great time of day to see the city change its face as everyone prepares for the evening,” he explained with an accommodating smile.

  Sam shook her head, smiling back, just for an instant considering the challenge of walking that far in her new shoes. “No, that’s perfect. Let’s go. That nap was just the tonic I needed after your wonderful tour. And thank you so much for that! I had no idea Istanbul could be so beautiful.”

  “My pleasure, Sam. And now the topping on the cake, the Basilica Cistern.” Mehmed continued to talk as they walked north, back in the general direction of the Hagia Sophia. “In Turkish, the cistern is called Yerebatan Sarnıcı, the ‘Cistern Sinking Into the Ground,’ but the Basilica name comes from the Stoa Basilica, a large public square that existed during the 3rd and 4th centuries CE on the First Hill of Constantinople, underneath which the cistern was built. One of the first structures at that location was actually constructed by none other than Constantine himself, and was later expanded after the Nika riots of 532 by Justinian, the same emperor responsible for the construction of the Hagia Sophia.”

  “I’ve heard you call this city by three different names today,” Sam noted. “I’m confused. What names went with what time periods?”

  “Good question, Sam.” They turned right, walking along the southeast side of the ancient cathedral. “The oldest name for the city was Byzantium, and in general, that was the name used to describe the general area around here and its empire, all the way up to the final surrender of Constantinople to the armies of the Ottoman Empire in 1453. When Constantine decided to move the Empire’s capital to Byzantium in the fourth century, he renamed the city ‘Nova Roma,’ or New Rome. But that name didn’t stick, as people just started calling it Constantinople, Constantine’s city. Then, when the Ottomans took over, they were confused, thinking that the local name for the city was Istanbul, because the Greeks who lived in the town were constantly reminding the Turks eis’stin poli, which is a Greek expression that loosely translates to ‘you’re in the city.’ In other words, the modern name ‘Istanbul’ actually amounts to a big-city put-down by the original Greek residents toward their ignorant country cousins.”

  Sam got a kick out of that. “So, they may have lost their city to the Ottomans, but at least they got the last dig in.”

  “Yes. Just desserts, as you Americans might put it. But anyway, we’re almost to the Cistern now, and once inside you’ll be far too busy for any more of these history lessons, so let me give you just a bit more background on what you’ll be seeing.” They turned left again, walking along the northeast side of the Hagia Sophia, which was already brightly lit up, even though it was still several hours before sundown. “The cistern is 138 meters long and almost 65 meters wide. If you do the math, that adds up to a covered area of almost 1,000 square meters, and the cistern is capable of holding up to 80,000 cubic meters of water. The roof of the cistern is held up by 336 marble columns, 12 rows of 28 columns, spaced about five meters apart. The twelve rows are important—twelve was a magic number to the ancients. Twelve signs of the zodiac, twelve Greek gods on Mount Olympus, the twelve tribes of Israel, Jesus’ twelve apostles. You get the point. Anyway, as you’ll see, you’d be hard pressed to find any two columns that are exactly alike—evidently, they were scavenged from other bui
ldings at the time.” He stopped suddenly. “And now we’re here!”

  Mehmed walked up to a nondescript one-story building, topped by a red tile roof and ringed by several horizontal red brick stripes.

  “This is it?” Sam asked. “It doesn’t look all that big from where I’m standing.”

  Mehemet nodded as he reached around her and opened the glass door leading inside. “Yes, but this is just the entrance. Its purpose is just to collect the tickets and provide a cover for the stairs leading down into the cistern. Please, step inside. I have our tickets to the reception in my jacket.”

  A well-dressed young Turkish lady was waiting for them just inside the door, and, after checking their tickets and confirming their names against the guest list, ushered them toward the stairs. As soon as Sam entered the cistern, she was instantly bedazzled by the magical beauty of the room, like nothing she’d ever seen before.

  “Okay, Mehmed, I’ll have to admit, I was a little skeptical when you told me we were attending a fancy reception in the middle of a two-thousand-year-old sewer, but I had no idea—”

  “Yes. Pretty special, don’t you think? Come along. We’ll get some drinks, and then I’ll show you more.” He took her elbow and guided her toward the bar. “Would you care for a glass of wine? Or would you prefer a cocktail?”

  “No thanks,” she replied. “It’s still a little early for me. I’ll just stick to some fruit juice, if they have it.”

  “Of course.” He spoke briefly to the bartender in Turkish, and in moments they were wandering off to explore the depths of the cistern, clutching generous glasses of freshly squeezed apricot nectar.

  Suddenly something caught her eye. “Is that a fish, Mehmed? Do they let fish swim around in the city’s water supply?”

  Mehmed laughed. “Yes, and I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Although the cistern is still used as a major source of water for the city, it is no different from how you Americans get your water from lakes and rivers. It all goes through a purification process before it ever shows up at the taps for drinking and bathing. In fact, the fish help to keep the cistern relatively clean. Without them, given all of the lighting that was installed down here in the 1980s, along with the walkways and other conveniences for tourists, the water would probably soon get clogged up with algae and other undesirable plants.” He nudged her to the left, along a walkway that carried them down a row of columns, just a few feet above the water level. “But come, I want to show you something special, before the rest of the guests get here and everything starts to get a lot more crowded.”

  They wandered off toward the northwest corner of the basilica, where the bases of two columns had earned their own individual lights, as well as a dedicated walkway surrounding them. “These are the famous Medusa heads,” Mehmed pointed out. The sculpted heads were lit up with an eerie green glow, one of the heads positioned upside down, the other tilted ninety degrees to the side. “Where they originally came from is a complete mystery, but legend has it they were aligned this way in order to neutralize the power of the Medusas’ gaze, which could turn men to stone in an instant.” He watched as Sam leaned forward carefully to get a better look. “And far be it from me to splash cold water on anyone’s beliefs, but it’s much more likely that this alignment just made the columns fit better. I think you’ve already experienced the credo of the ancient architects: reuse, repurpose, recycle. Our ancestors were far more interested in their future than they were of their past.”

  “And that’s too bad,” Sam suggested. “So much history has been lost that way. But at least they weren’t like the Taliban, or ISIS, just blowing up anything they didn’t happen to agree with.”

  “Or Leo III, who managed in less than a year to pretty much wipe out the entire artistic history of Constantinople,” Mehmed added. “It seems to be an ongoing problem throughout history. And almost always, mea culpa, the work of my particular gender. Women seem to be much better suited to preserving the world instead of tearing it down.”

  Sam had bent over the water perilously far for his comfort, so Mehmed positioned himself to catch her in case she started to fall into the cistern. But finally she—albeit reluctantly—gave up her examination of the busts and straightened up. “Pretty danged awesome. Thanks for showing this to me, Mehmed.” She pointed back toward the entrance. “So, is there anything else that can beat this, or shall we go join the rest of the guests?”

  “There are always a few little stories hiding away in every bit of this underground wonderland, but nothing that can hold a candle to the Medusas. And,” he noted, heading back along the elevated walkway, “I have someone special I think you’d like to meet. A fellow professor, out of Cambridge University in England.”

  “Someone special? And why is that?” she asked, intrigued.

  “Well, let me just leave you in suspense for a few minutes longer.” He nodded his head toward the crowd now gathered near the bar. “Ah, and I see he’s already here. So, let’s mingle, shall we?”

  ※

  Mehmed made the introductions as soon as they refreshed their drinks at the bar, Sam switching to a Perrier instead of the overly-sweet apricot nectar. “Samantha, this is Sir Archibald Bennington, Archie to those of us who know him. A peer of the realm, and, I must say, not all that bad a researcher when he sets his mind to it. Sir Archie, this is Samantha Tulley, the women I told you about.”

  “Ah, the one interested in the Knights Templar!” Archie’s face lit up like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. “Splendid, splendid. And I hear you have a special interest in the First Librarian.”

  Mehmed leaned conspiratorially in Sam’s direction. “He means Sir Guillaume de Tuiles.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, finally making the connection. “The knight who handled moving the Templar treasure and library to Acre during the siege of Caesarea.”

  “And quite a famous knight he was,” Archie pointed out. “A famous scamp, that is. After the Templar trove was safely locked down at Acre, Sir Guillaume apparently settled into a highly profitable side venture, selling off a number of quite valuable items and pocketing the proceeds himself. That went on for a few months, and might have never been noticed at all if he hadn’t made the stupid mistake of hocking the Holy Grail—the goblet used by Jesus at the Last Supper. Or, if you will, the chalice used by Joseph of Arimathea to collect Christ’s blood as he hung on the cross. There appear to be as many theories as to the origin of the Grail as there are fish in the sea. Anyway, the buyers were a group of Genoan monks, who took the plundered Grail back home to Genoa and placed it in the Church of San Lorenzo, where it remains to this day.”

  Sam’s eyes lit up. “For real? The Holy Grail is a real thing?”

  “No. Well, at least not that particular goblet,” Archie explained. “That turned out to be just an ordinary emerald bowl. Quite lovely in its own way, but it dates to over a century after Jesus’ death. In fact, most modern researchers believe the actual Grail to be the so-called Nanteos Cup from Wales, brought to England by Joseph of Arimathea himself. That cup was stolen for a short time back in 2014, but the police managed to recover it intact, and it is now safely ensconced in the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth.”

  “Okay, so what happened to Guillaume?” Sam asked.

  “Unfortunately,” Archie continued, shaking his head slightly, “for all his gains in selling off the Templar treasures, Guillaume wound up a little short himself in the end. When Sir Richard Cœur de Lion heard the news—Richard the Lion-Hearted to the English-speaking world—he had Guillaume hauled out into the village square at Acre and summarily beheaded. Problem solved, and a message duly delivered to anyone who might think about repeating Guillaume’s folly. And, as far as we know, nobody ever did, through multiple successor Librarians. Leading up to, of course, the Last Librarian, Sir Richard de Lys, a knight from the Lys area of what is now northwest Italy. Richard was Librarian when Acre itself fell to the Mamluks in 1291. As a matter of fact
, Richard is the very reason I was invited to keynote this conference in the first place. A speech that, unfortunately, is not going to happen.”

  “Why is that, Archie?” Mehmed asked.

  “Because certain people associated with the antiquities ministry in Israel have made a dog’s dinner of the whole operation. They’re dragging their heels on what may turn out to be one of the greatest archaeological discoveries of all time.” Archie paused to snatch another glass of red wine from a passing waiter. “You see, we have long believed that secret tunnels and storage rooms lie hidden beneath the streets and buildings of Acre. As they do under almost every other ancient construct, such as the Hagia Sophia next door, or Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. In fact, one such tunnel was accidentally discovered in Acre in 1994, when a woman living directly above it complained to authorities that her sewage was blocked. When the sewer workers looked into the problem, they stumbled upon a rather large tunnel hiding just underneath. Originally, the tunnel provided a secret access to the port of Acre at the eastern end of the town from the Templar fortress, which itself stood on the western end, overlooking the sea.”

  “That’s pretty funny. So it sat there almost a thousand years, and nobody noticed until a toilet wouldn’t flush?” Sam asked.

  “That’s actually pretty common,” Archie explained, taking a long sip from his wine glass. “I mean, even this cistern we’re standing in was abandoned for over a hundred years after the fall of Constantinople. Until it was rediscovered by a French scholar, who was following up on reports that people were catching fish by dropping lines down into cracks in their basement floors. And this structure is itself connected by a web of tunnels to almost every other structure in old Constantinople. Which is not surprising, given the fact that it served as the city’s primary source of water.”