The Emerald Tablet

by Meaghan Wilson Anastasios

  ‘After everything you’ve told me about her, I was expecting more,’ she said curtly.

  Ben turned to Hasan, shielding his eyes from the morning sunlight with a raised hand and struggling to feign disinterest. ‘So why was she in Istanbul? And why should I care?’

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to help me shed some light on that.’

  ‘As you’d know better than anybody, Hasan, my track record when it comes to second-guessing that woman is unimpressive.’

  ‘That may be, Benedict. But you still know more about her than anyone else in my phone book. And if she’s been here, sniffing around my city, I want to know why.’

  ‘You’re the detective, Hasan Bey, not me. It’s been a long time since I gave her a moment’s thought.’ The lie burnt his tongue like bile.

  ‘She was here three months ago as a member of a British delegation attempting to negotiate a way out of the mess in Egypt. It was just good luck that we managed to identify her. I wanted to confirm my suspicions with you.’

  ‘So she’s branched out into politics now, has she? One thing she could never be accused of is a lack of ambition.’

  ‘We’re presuming that’s just a front. She’s going by the name of Mrs Estelle Peters these days. Widowed, according to her travel documents.’

  ‘Black widow, more like.’ Ben laughed wryly. The last time he’d tangled with her he’d been lucky to escape with his life. ‘But why would this be of any interest to you, Hasan? Political intrigue isn’t your thing, is it? Or have you moved on from the Antiquities Bureau?’

  The policeman tilted his chin up and clicked his tongue against his teeth, meaning ‘no’ – a gesture peculiar to eastern Mediterranean populations. ‘It wouldn’t have crossed my desk if she hadn’t also arranged a visit to the Topkapı archives during her stay.’

  Ben sat bolt upright. ‘Topkapı?’ What was she looking for there? he wondered. The archives stored in the library at Topkapı Palace dated from the earliest years of the Ottoman Empire. Since Mehmet the Conqueror drove the Byzantine Emperors from the city of Constantinople in 1453 and established his palace on Seraglio Point, the archives had become a repository for books and documents from across the known world, many of them unique and all of them historically significant.

  ‘Yes. Thankfully, one of my overzealous underlings who harbours an exaggerated mistrust of foreigners noticed the entry in the museum’s ledgers. We’ve learnt from experience to take note anytime a visitor to our country demonstrates an unseemly interest in our cultural heritage without going through official channels.’ Hasan cast a sharp glance in Ben’s direction.

  It had been several years since the woman now going by the name of Estelle Peters had seduced a gullible Ben and implicated him in the antiquities smuggling ring that had tarnished his reputation. His name was now as clear as it would ever be, but he suspected Hasan would always have doubts about him. Not that it’s undeserved, he reminded himself.

  The Turk continued. ‘She put herself in a great deal of jeopardy by coming here. Whatever she’s after, it’s important enough for her to risk a lifetime in prison. But fortunately for her – and unfortunately for me – I wasn’t made aware of her presence in Istanbul until long after she’d left.’ He pulled a notebook out of his pocket. ‘So. The Kitab sirr al-khaliqa wa san`at al-tabi`a. Any thoughts?’

  ‘Only that my Arabic is a little rusty.’

  ‘It’s also known as the Kitab Balaniyus al-hakim fi’l-i`llal.’

  ‘Thank you . . . but still not helpful.’

  ‘Book of Balinas the Wise on Causes?’

  Ben smiled. ‘Ah, yes. Now you’re talking my language. The venerable Balinas. Also known as Apollonius of Tyana. Scribe of the most sacred of all alchemical texts – the Emerald Tablet. And through that, the patron saint of every crackpot who thinks they’ll one day find a way to fabricate pure gold from pure bulldust.’

  Fi laughed. ‘It’s lead. Alchemists make gold from lead.’

  ‘Lead. Bulldust. Same thing.’ He paused, puzzled. ‘But why would she bother coming all the way here to see a document she could see in any number of other libraries? Why take the risk?’

  ‘That’s a question I’m hoping you can answer, Dr Hitchens. Trouble sticks to that woman like flies to rotten meat.’ Hasan slipped his notebook back inside his jacket. ‘And I’m less than thrilled to hear she’s set her sights on Topkapı. Who knows what’s caught her eye? The Spoonmaker’s diamond . . . The Topkapı dagger. And, of course, Moses’ staff and the Prophet’s mantle. Priceless and irreplaceable relics.’

  ‘Don’t forget Muhammad’s beard hairs and broken tooth. Though, let’s be honest, who’d want to handle those?’ Ben feigned a shudder of disgust. ‘Thirteen-hundred-year-old body parts. Nasty.’

  Hasan shook his head at Ben’s irreverence. ‘You seem to forget your own faith’s obsession with the worship of saintly relics, Benedict. But I’ll ignore your insult to the Prophet – only because I want your help. I need you to visit the archive and see if you can work out why she was so interested in this edition of Balinas. I’ve spoken to the staff – they’re expecting you.’

  ‘That was a little presumptuous, wasn’t it?’ For Fi’s benefit, he tried to project an air of indifference. But it was a wholesale sham. Adrenalin coursed through his veins at the thought of the woman he’d known as Eris Patras. After all she’d done to him, the knowledge that he was still in thrall to her filled him with self-loathing. Every instinct told him to decline the Turkish officer’s request. He was under no obligation to help him, and he had more than enough things to occupy him without embarking on a wild-goose chase after the woman who’d made such a complete mess of his life. But he couldn’t resist. He was still consumed by her.

  ‘Fine. On one condition. I’ll need to take someone with me to help with the Arabic. The modern script gives me enough trouble – I won’t stand a chance with the Classical variant.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Whatever you need.’ The Turk flicked his hand impatiently.

  ‘Don’t be too hasty, Hasan. You’re not going to like this – there’s only one man in the city whose knowledge of Classical Arabic exceeds that of most scholars, and who’ll drop everything to help me.’ He paused. ‘Ilhan Aslan.’

  Hasan looked up, mouth hanging open in disbelief. ‘Is this a joke, Benedict? The only reason he knows so much about ancient languages is because he makes a living stealing and selling antiquities. And you’re asking me to give that man permission to have unrestricted access to the museum? I’d more likely trust a fox in a henhouse.’

  ‘Yes. Thought that might be your reaction. But you don’t know him as I do, Hasan. And our visit will hardly be “unrestricted”, will it? Presumably there’ll be staff with us in the archive. I’ll vouch for Ilhan’s behaviour. If anything goes wrong, you can hold me personally responsible.’

  ‘There’s a saying in English, isn’t there, about shutting the gate after the horse has bolted? He won’t be able to help himself. And after he’s gone, the damage will be done. How can I trust him not to take advantage of being there?’

  ‘If you want me to help, Hasan, you’ve got no choice.’

  Looking into the distance, the Turk’s eyes were stormy. He nodded tightly. ‘All right. I’ll speak with the chief librarian. But you warn Ilhan Bey – they will be watching his every move. And if anything goes missing, yours will be the door I’ll be knocking on.’

  Ben nodded with more confidence than he felt. Confronted with a collection of precious documents so extensive that it was largely uncatalogued, he hoped his friend could resist the temptation to liberate a book or two from the archive on the assumption they wouldn’t be missed. The American had spent the past year working hard to redeem himself in the eyes of his peers and the authorities. The last thing he needed on his report card was another scandal.

  Hasan turned to leave, then halted mid-stride. ‘I almost forgot. Your old friend Josef Garvé was here at the same time as her.’

 
Ben’s hands balled into fists instinctively, fingernails digging into his palms. Unless pushed, he generally couldn’t be bothered wasting energy on grudges. But Garvé was a special case. ‘That malignant bastard . . .’ he hissed through his teeth.

  ‘It was a group of foreign politicians, so of course the delegates at the meeting were under police surveillance. When I found out she was there, I looked through the notes made by our agents. She met with Garvé at the Pera Palace. There’s no record of what they discussed.’

  Ben’s head buzzed. ‘You can bet that whatever it was, it’s bad news for you.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, too. Anyway, Benedict. It’s something to bear in mind as you think about the document’s significance.’

  If he’d been in two minds about whether or not to pursue her, news of Garvé’s involvement was the nail in the proverbial coffin. He’d dreamt of destroying both of them. And if he had the opportunity to sabotage their scheme – whatever that may be – there was no way Benedict Hitchens was going to pass it up.

  3

  Istanbul

  ‘You need to explain it to me again, Benedict.’ Ilhan Aslan walked with his head hanging down and arms crossed angrily in front of his chest.

  The Turk was dressed in one of the meticulously tailored and expensive suits that always made Ben’s favoured costume of weathered chinos and corduroy jacket look even more down-at-heel than usual. To those who didn’t know them, the two men appeared an unlikely couple. Despite his recent reversal of fortune, to his friend’s disgust, Ben hadn’t been tempted to invest any of his windfall in a new wardrobe. His indifferent approach to personal styling had never seemed to work against him when it came to the things that counted, and he had no plans to change now.

  Beneath a furrowed brow, Ilhan’s golden eyes flashed. ‘Explain to me why I’m helping a man who’d happily throw me into jail if I ever fell out of favour with his superiors?’

  ‘“Fell out of favour”?’ Ben laughed. ‘Stopped paying them, you mean! I never understood – why don’t you just put Hasan on your payroll as well?’

  ‘He’s the worst type of policeman – fancies himself as incorruptible. And he’s doing everything he can to destroy my business.’

  ‘In his defence, that is his job. In case you hadn’t noticed, your business is built upon the breaking of laws he’s trying to enforce.’

  ‘Not the point.’

  Soaring branches arched above their heads like the vaulted ceiling of a medieval cathedral as the two men strode in dappled autumn sunlight across Topkapı Palace’s First Courtyard. Ahead of them rose the distinctive pointed turrets of the twin towers on either side of the Gate of Salutation.

  Ilhan had been less than pleased by Ben’s call. Although he’d begrudgingly agreed to accompany him to the Topkapı archive, the Yeni Kütüphane, it had taken some persuading on Ben’s part. The dealer had been anticipating the arrival of a wealthy German collector who wanted to purchase a first century AD Roman statue of Eros and Psyche that Ilhan had ‘sourced’ from Ephesus. Over the phone, the German had used the magic words: ‘money is no object’. By succumbing to Ben’s entreaties, Ilhan had been forced to entrust the sale to his well-meaning and diligent assistant, Yilmaz. The young man’s intentions were always good, but his ability to close a major sale was yet to be tested. Ilhan feared this could be an expensive excursion.

  Ben understood he was putting a great deal of pressure on Ilhan by asking for his assistance – in Turkey, the bonds of friendship carried a much higher burden of obligation than they did in the West and he was duty-bound to help when asked. But that didn’t mean Ilhan was particularly happy about it, and his irritation had been plain to see when the two men met beneath the chestnut trees in Divan Yolu and began their walk towards the palace library. Ben tried to pour oil on the waters by changing the subject. ‘You know, only the Sultan was permitted to ride his horse through the Gate of Salutation. Everyone else – even visiting heads of state – had to dismount.’

  Ilhan ignored him. ‘Superintendent Demir is the last person I should be helping,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Think of it less as helping him, and more as helping me. Besides, it does mean you’ll have one positive mark in your ledger with the department of antiquities.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll see it that way.’

  ‘Well, then – it’s the only way you’ll ever be able to see inside the archives. Countless priceless books and manuscripts. Uncatalogued. There’s no other way of getting to see the treasures housed in the library.’

  ‘Uncatalogued, you say?’ Despite himself, Ilhan laughed. ‘Demir must be really desperate if he’s letting me in there.’

  ‘Come on, Ilhan. Behave.’

  His friend glanced at Ben through narrowed eyes. ‘Me? Of course. I won’t put a foot wrong. I promise.’

  A long timber table stretched out before them, its surface pitted from centuries of use. Golden sunlight streamed through rippled panes of handmade glass, illuminating the turquoise and cobalt-blue Iznik tiles covering the four walls of the reading room. The air was filled with the dusty smell of ancient vellum and parchment and the intoxicating scent of leather bindings.

  When Ben had introduced himself to the librarian at the Yeni Kütüphane, the elderly man’s white eyebrows shot skyward. Fatih Alkan’s spindly spine poked against the fabric of his ancient but well-pressed cotton shirt as he ducked his head deferentially, impressed to be in the presence of the noted archaeologist, Dr Benedict Hitchens. His reaction when he made the acquaintance of Ilhan Aslan was less sanguine. Tut-tutting and shaking the misty cloud of hair atop his head, Fatih shuffled into the archive to retrieve the book Ben had requested.

  ‘Do you think he’s heard of me, then?’ Ilhan asked beneath his breath in English, stifling a laugh.

  ‘Yeah. Your reputation precedes you,’ Ben responded. ‘Hasan did say they’d be keeping an eye on you.’

  ‘Please. They can’t stop me. I can deceive them in ways they wouldn’t even imagine.’ Ilhan paused and drew a deep breath. ‘That aside – Ben, it may not be my business, but I have to ask. Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Doing the bidding of a man who should mean nothing to you.’

  ‘I do owe him, Ilhan. If he hadn’t lobbied the Ministry on my behalf, I wouldn’t have been given permission to open my excavation on Mt Ida. More likely I’d have been kicked out of the country.’

  ‘He was just looking after himself. That discovery made him. As for that woman and the Frenchman, they’re just shadows who should be left to live in the dark place you found them. Why can’t you just leave them be?’

  ‘What can I say?’ Ben whispered. ‘I’ll never be done with them.’

  The scuff of leather soles on the library’s cold flagstones heralded Fatih Alkan’s return. He shuffled towards the two men clutching a worn volume.

  As he drew closer, Fatih fixed Ilhan with a baleful gaze. ‘Here you are, gentlemen. The Kitab Balaniyus al-hakim fi’l-i`llal.’ He placed it reverentially on the reading table before Ben. As Ilhan slid his chair closer to the book, the old man tapped the desktop with an arthritic forefinger.

  ‘I’d prefer you remain where you are, Ilhan Bey. This is an extremely early and valuable edition of Jabir ibn Hayyan’s text and I do not want it to be damaged. Or – heaven forbid – lost.’ He glared at him.

  Ilhan leant back in his chair, brows arched above flashing eyes. ‘Fatih Bey, I’m here at the invitation of Dr Hitchens and Superintendent Hasan Demir. I’ve nothing but good intentions.’

  The old Turk looked sceptical. Ben attempted to distract him as he gestured to Ilhan to move closer, his hand beneath the table’s edge and out of the librarian’s line of vision. Without Ilhan’s participation, the visit to the archive would be a futile exercise. ‘I’d be grateful if you could tell me all you know about this book, Fatih.’

  Preening, the old man was delighted to flaunt his expertise to a respected peer. Somehow, news
of Ben’s fall from grace didn’t seem to have reached his aged ears. ‘Well, as I’m sure you know, Dr Hitchens, we have the foresight and genius of the early Arabic philosophers to thank for the preservation of Balinas’ writings – and that of many other important Western thinkers. While the early Christians were busy burning books, Islamic scholars were transcribing and studying the great works of Graeco-Roman thought. Without their efforts, all the greatest writers of the pre-Christian era would have been forgotten.’

  ‘There’s a Christian monk or two who may have something to say about that revisionist history,’ mumbled Ilhan in English under his breath. Ben nudged him beneath the table.

  As Fatih warmed to the task and began to pace up and down before the table, he seemed to forget his reservations about Ilhan. The librarian didn’t notice the Turk as he moved to sit by Ben’s elbow. ‘Jabir was Persian . . . an extraordinary man – astronomer, physician, engineer, physicist. This was during the first century of the Hijri calendar – or the eighth century by your Gregorian calendar. But he was also an alchemist. In this book, he translated the texts Balinas composed while he was in Alexandria, although by then, of course, Balinas was known by the name Apollonius.

  ‘Alchemy is an art – a pursuit – that has obsessed humankind for thousands of years. And this –’ The old man leant over Ben’s shoulder and carefully peeled open the fragile pages of the volume lying on the desk. ‘This is the most important alchemical text Balinas left us. Or, more accurately, a transcription of that document. The Tabula Smaragdina. The Emerald Tablet. After Balinas discovered the tablet, he copied down the text that had been written upon it many thousands of years ago.’