Fatih left the book lying open on a densely packed page of text and indicated it with a flourish. ‘Here, it’s said, lie the secrets of the universe. And, for those who believe such things, the instructions for transforming base metals into gold. Jabir’s translation is the oldest surviving version of Balinas’ work. Islamic scholars regarded Balinas as being gifted with one of the greatest minds of all time, and when the Moors took Spain in 771 AD, they carried copies of Jabir’s translation with them. From there, Balinas’ words spread across Europe, eventually reaching the ears of influential Christian thinkers – St Thomas Aquinas, Francis Bacon, St Albert the Great.’
Ben cast his eyes over the opened book. The ancient parchment was brittle and riddled with hairline fractures. ‘And this was the page of the book the Englishwoman was studying?’
‘Yes. She didn’t examine any other part of the volume. I was watching her very closely.’ The librarian dropped his voice. ‘The scholars and academics who come here . . . well, within these walls, most of the beauty is found in the pages of books, not in the visitors themselves.’
Ben examined the fragile parchment before him. There was nothing that immediately distinguished it from any other manuscript of the period. He ran his eyes over the ornate and – to him – largely incomprehensible but exquisitely drafted Arabic script and made a silent prayer of thanks that he’d insisted on bringing Ilhan with him. ‘Remind me – where did Balinas discover the tablet? I studied under Ethan Cohn for many years. But it’s been quite a while since I gave much thought to hermetic history.’
Fatih’s eyes widened, impressed. ‘Ah, if you studied with Professor Cohn, your knowledge of the subject matter will be a hundred times my own.’
‘I doubt that. It was during my period of callow youth. I never paid his pet subject the attention it deserved. After that . . . well, we haven’t spoken for years.’ As a mentor, Ethan had been a steadfast and generous patron. But the older man was incapable of making the transition from patron to peer and as Ben’s reputation grew and he began to enjoy independent success, Ethan set about undermining his student every chance he had. To lose the counsel of a man he admired and considered a friend had confused Ben, and their relationship had begun to fray. Any chance of salvaging their association was shattered when Ethan led the phalanx of detractors who came after him when his reputation was under siege. The betrayal still smarted.
‘It’s a shame you’ve lost contact with him. He’s the foremost expert in the field. Much of what I know I learnt from his research.’
‘Just the same – if you could refresh my memory . . .’
Fatih resumed his sermon. ‘The tablet itself was reputedly created by the founder of Hermetic wisdom, Hermes Trismegistus. Most of what we know about the great Hermes is conjecture. Some believe he was a prophet who lived during Ancient Egyptian times and that he was a contemporary of Moses. Others think he was a mystical figure in the pre-Egyptian era.’
‘Yes, and there are even those who think he was an extraterrestrial being from outer space,’ Ben interjected.
‘No one with any good sense,’ Fatih countered. ‘Either way, the great Hermetic texts – including the Emerald Tablet – were discovered by Alexander the Great when he conquered Egypt. Deep in the desert at the Siwa Oasis, he found them inside the Pillars of Hermes – two columns, one solid gold and the other an emerald green that glowed brilliantly at night. When Alexander left Egypt in 331 BC, he brought the contents of the pillars with him to Cappadocia and hid them in an underground cavern. Balinas was a young boy living in the village of Tyana early in the first century AD and doing what young boys do – exploring caves – when he stumbled on Alexander’s hiding place.’
‘What happened to the tablet itself?’
‘Nobody knows. After a life of service, Balinas died. But no trace of his body was found. Some of his followers believed his mortal remains ascended to heaven after he died. Others claimed his disciples entombed him in a secret cave with the Emerald Tablet held in his arms.’
‘Let’s hope there’s something unusual about the inscription,’ Ben said hopefully, taking his notebook and pen from his breast pocket. ‘Ilhan, would you mind? What I’m confused about is that it’s not difficult to find copies of the text. She could have laid her hands on that at her local library. There’s got to be something about this copy that’s important enough for Eris – or Estelle, or whatever name she’s going by now – to have put her own head on the chopping block. If you could translate the text for me . . .’
‘So this will tell me how to conjure up gold, you say? How can I refuse?’ Under Fatih’s watchful eye, the Turk leant over the book and began to read.
It’s true without lying, certain and most true.
That which is below is the same as that which is above. That which is above is like that which is below. To make the miracle of the one and the only thing.
And as all things have been and arose from the contemplation of the one, so all things are born from this one adaptation.
The sun is its father, the moon is its mother, the wind carried it in its belly, and the earth is its nurse.
It is the father of all perfection in the world.
Its force or power is entire if it is cast towards earth. It separates the earth from the fire, the subtle from the gross, sweetly with great industry.
It ascends from earth to heaven and again it descends to earth and receives the power of things above and below.
By this means you shall have the glory of the whole world and then you shall drive away all shadows and blindness.
Its force is above all force, for it overcomes every subtle thing and penetrates every solid thing.
So it was that the world was created.
From this are and do come admirable adaptations where all means are here in this.
I am called Hermes Trismegistus, having the three parts of the wisdom of the whole world.
That which I have said of the operation of the sun is accomplished and ended.
Ilhan looked up. ‘Am I missing something?’
‘No. That’s it. You wouldn’t expect them to give it up that easily, would you? Alchemical wisdom is always couched in deliberately obscure terminology – hidden in plain sight. Deciphering it is as complex as cracking military codes. More so, even, because it requires expert knowledge of an arcane and obscure world.’ Ben was puzzled. ‘OK. So that sounds like every other translation of the tablet I’ve read. What makes this one so special?’
He passed Ilhan his notebook and pen. ‘Be a friend and transcribe the Arabic for me, would you?’
‘Friend, you say? Secretary, more like,’ the Turk grumbled.
Ben ignored Ilhan’s bellyaching and took a jewellers’ loupe from his satchel. Running the magnifying glass over the manuscript, he looked for anything out of the ordinary. Other than patches on the parchment that had a strange, glossy sheen attributable to wear and handling over many centuries, there was nothing unusual about the page. He dropped his head into his hands, frustrated.
What had been a balmy autumn day outside had begun to turn wintry. Through the reading room’s windows a dense bank of clouds came scudding across the Bosphorus towards the emerald-green gardens of Topkapı. Ben’s gaze was focused on the ancient manuscript as the approaching storm bled across the face of the sun and cast the room into darkness. Then he saw it; a slight luminescence on the parchment. Doubting his own eyes, his heart began to pound as he ducked his head closer to the page and cupped his hands around his eyes to block out as much light as he could. There was no mistaking it. The patches of glossy texture he’d dismissed as patina were glowing.
He leapt to his feet. ‘Fatih! The woman who was here – did she examine the book in the dark?’
‘Well, yes, now you mention it. It did seem a little odd. She said she wanted to look at it under torchlight. I didn’t think it would do any harm.’
‘Where? Where did she take it?’
The old man gestured to a
doorway set in the reading room’s wall. ‘There. It’s one of our archive rooms. No windows in there.’
‘What did she find?’
‘I don’t know. I took the book in there for her, but left her alone. It wouldn’t be proper to be in there alone with her in the dark. A foreign woman? And one so beautiful? Not proper at all.’
‘Fatih, may I . . .?’
The librarian shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘What is it?’ Ilhan stood at his friend’s shoulder.
‘I don’t know. But we’re about to find out.’
Hands trembling, he placed the open book carefully on the desktop. ‘Ilhan, shut the door, would you?’
As the room was cast into pitch black, his eyes adjusted slowly to the dark.
There was no mistaking it. Markings on the ancient page seemed to hover in midair, glowing an eerie, phosphorescent green.
‘Maşallah!’ Ilhan exclaimed.
The entire page had been over-painted with delicate ink brushstrokes that were invisible in daylight, but which gleamed in the dark with the same luminosity as the markings on the dial of Ben’s Omega watch. Twin mountain peaks stood side by side, the one on the left surmounted by an erect phallus pointing skyward, the other breached by a stylised vulva. In the sky above the twin mountains hung a solar disc and a crescent moon. A constellation of stars shone above the mountain on the right.
‘Orion,’ Ben mumbled, dumbstruck by the hidden tableau the darkness had revealed to them.
His friend stood at his shoulder, his fast-paced breathing betraying his excitement. ‘What?’
‘The stars. There . . .’ He pointed, his finger a black shadow against the gleaming inscription. ‘It’s the Hunter. Those three stars there, in a diagonal row above the mountain? That’s Orion’s Belt.’
‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’
Heart pounding, he shook his head. ‘Never.’
In the space immediately beneath the mountain on the right-hand side of the composition was a pyramidal mound of what looked like small, round stones covering a crescent- shaped object. At the apex of the mound sat a raven, wings outstretched and holding one of the stones in his beak.
Above the summit of the mountain, in line with the three stars of Orion’s Belt, was a black-eyed skull.
‘A warning?’ Ilhan asked.
‘Don’t take it literally. Alchemical symbolism is always obscure. A skull doesn’t necessarily mean “death”.’
‘What does it mean, then?’
‘Rebirth . . . renewal. A process – the death of one thing to give birth to another . . .’
‘I thought you said your recollections of alchemical lore were hazy.’
‘It’s coming back to me.’ Ben flicked the switch by the door, and the room was flooded with light. The luminescent drawing disappeared. ‘That ink, though – that’s bloody interesting. I’ve never seen anything like it. The Romans added uranium to glass for mosaics to make them glow – same as the decorative glassware you can buy now. But I’ve never heard of it being used for something like this – if that is what they’ve done here. Most peculiar. And ingenious.’
‘Excuse me? Are you done?’ The ancient hinges of the door behind them groaned as the librarian inched into the room. ‘Did you find anything?’
‘No, nothing unusual.’ Ben tried to control the excitement in his voice. ‘But can you tell me, Fatih – do you know where this book came from?’
‘The Englishwoman asked the same thing. Most of the books in the archive aren’t catalogued. Truth be told, we don’t know what’s in here, much less how the books got here. The Ottoman Sultans gathered treasures from across the known world, and foreign dignitaries sent gifts to swell the royal archives. But it wasn’t like nowadays – back then where books came from wasn’t deemed important. Most times, they didn’t keep any records. But there is this . . .’ The old man reached for the volume and carefully turned to its flyleaf, indicating a faded stamp in the top corner about the size of a small coin.
‘A collector’s stamp?’
‘Yes. So it seems. But you don’t usually see them in books. And I’ve never seen that one before. The combination of symbols is very unusual.’ The motif comprised an oval line encircling a collection of apparently unrelated forms: a circle, a crescent, a horned staff and a serpent.
Ilhan leant forward to examine the page. ‘That doesn’t seem right. I’ve seen these on prints and drawings from major collectors, but they usually used their own initials, or an identifiable family crest.’ He peered closer. ‘I’ve never seen an abstract one like this. It’s very peculiar.’
Ben opened the book again at the Emerald Tablet inscription. They had been conversing in Turkish, but now he switched to English. ‘Ilhan, I’ve no idea what this is about, but the only way I’ll work it out is if I borrow this document from the book and study it in more detail.’
‘Borrow?’
‘OK. Steal. I don’t see Hasan – much less Fatih – letting me take it out of the archive. So this is my only chance.’ He glanced up at the librarian, who was frowning, oblivious to the purpose of their conversation. ‘How about you take a stroll among the collection? I only need a short distraction.’
Ilhan didn’t need to be asked twice. Spinning on his heel, he wandered aimlessly over to the teetering bookshelves. Fatih watched him suspiciously. ‘Where are you going, Ilhan Bey?’
‘I’ve heard much about the Topkapı Koran. I’d really like to see it. Is it back here?’
‘The Qur’ān of ʿUthmān? It is almost one-and-a-half thousand years old, and the work of ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān . . . the companion of the Prophet,’ the librarian said, voice quavering. ‘It is a sacred manuscript, and you’re to stay well away from it!’
‘So . . . you mentioned that most of these books are uncatalogued.’ As he spoke, Ilhan strode purposefully into the stacks, his fingers trailing along the spines of a row of ancient books. ‘That’s fairly risky, isn’t it? Would you even notice if one or two of them went missing?’
Without a backward glance, Fatih rushed after Ilhan into the dimly lit corridor between bookshelves that reached to the ceiling.
Ben acted swiftly. He knew he didn’t have long. The stitch-binding of the book was loose, and it didn’t take much to tease the page away from the spine. What on earth am I doing? If Hasan gets wind of this, I’m finished . . . again, he thought ruefully as he carefully slipped the sheet into his journal.
‘Ilhan?’ he called. ‘If you’ve done tormenting Fatih, we need to go.’
His friend emerged from the stacks, eyes sparkling. ‘All finished, then?’
‘Yes. Time we were off.’ He closed the book and handed it back to the librarian, willing him to keep it shut, at least until they’d had time to escape the palace grounds.
‘It’s quite remarkable, you know,’ the librarian said, clutching the ancient tome in breadstick-brittle arms. ‘I may as well put this out on permanent display with the interest it’s been getting. This book has been here for hundreds of years. I can’t think of a single time I’ve had to bring it out of storage until recently. But now? A constant stream of visitors. The Englishwoman. An American diplomat. Two visiting Soviet scholars – they were here just yesterday. And now you!’
It would have been comforting to dismiss it as coincidence, but that was something in which Benedict Hitchens put little stock.
Despite the autumnal chill in the air, a sheen of perspiration sat in a slick across Ben’s back as he and Ilhan walked briskly away from the archive, heels clicking on the courtyard’s worn paving stones.
A beetle-browed man with a linebacker’s shoulders fixed them with a leery glare as he strode towards them from the Gate of Salutation’s shadowy entrance. Well, that was quicker than I expected, Ben thought helplessly. He’d expected the librarian to put the book back in the archive without opening it again. Not for the first time in his life, he’d taken a bet on long odds, and it seemed he’d lost.
‘Looks like it.’ His muscles tensed and he greedily sucked air deep into his lungs, readying for a fight. ‘Keep walking.’
‘Should we run for it?’
‘No point.’ I’m a goddamned idiot.
As the man approached, Ben steeled himself. The sensible thing to do would be to surrender to the inevitable. But as the events of the preceding half-hour confirmed, common sense wasn’t one of Ben’s strongest character traits.
The man narrowed his eyes as he was forced to walk off the path and onto the grass to pass them. He shot a sullen glance back at them and then was gone, walking towards the library building.
Relieved, Ben exhaled. ‘Jesus. That had me worried.’
‘Had you worried?’ Ilhan elbowed his friend. ‘I’ve spent most of my adult life avoiding arrest, Benedict. Give me a little warning next time you plan to do something so foolhardy. That was an amateur job. If you’d let me help, I’d have made sure it wasn’t so damned obvious.’
The library door groaned. A gust of wind blew in as it opened, causing the pages of the manuscript to flutter like a moth’s wings.
Fatih sighed as he turned to face the entrance. ‘I’m sorry, but you need to make an arrangement with the museum to visit the archives. I have no record of any more appointments today.’
‘Appointment?’ The man slammed the door behind him and slid the lock shut with fat, blunt-ended fingers. ‘I don’t make appointments.’ In two strides he crossed the room and, before the librarian could utter a word, wrenched the old man’s arms behind him and frogmarched him into the airless archive. Fatih struggled weakly as he was cuffed to a chair, but was in such shock he didn’t make a sound as his mouth gaped like a hooked fish.
‘Who were those men?’
The librarian’s breath came in ragged gasps. Drawing back a fist the size of a baseball mitt, the man slammed it into Fatih’s thin-bridged nose. The cartilage snapped and a vermillion stream of blood ran in rivulets down his chin, gore dripping onto the front of his white shirt.
The Emerald Tablet Page 4