Inside was an elongated patch of brown material, pressed between two plates of glass. Sophie immediately recognized it as papyrus, a common writing surface in the Middle East up to the end of the first millennium. The sample was worn and frayed, yet clean rows of handwritten symbols were plainly visible down most of the document’s length.
“It appears to be a port facility record of some sort. I can make out references to a large quantity of grain and a herd of livestock being off-loaded at the wharf,” Haasis said. “We’ll learn more after laboratory analysis, but I think it might be a customs bill for a merchant vessel delivering goods from Alexandria.”
“It’s a splendid find,” Sophie complimented. “With luck, it will enhance the information gathered from the warehouse site.”
Haasis laughed. “My luck, it will prove entirely contradictory.”
They both turned as a tall figure entered the tent carrying a large plastic bin. Sophie saw it was the diver, still clad in a wet suit, his loose dark hair streaked with water. Still angered over her dousing, she began to make a caustic remark but felt her voice wither when she was met by a bright smile and a pair of deep green eyes that bored right through her.
“Dirk, there you are,” Haasis said. “May I introduce the lovely but damp Sophie Elkin of the Israel Antiquities Authority. Sophie, this is Dirk Pitt, Jr., on loan from the U.S. National Underwater and Marine Agency.”
The son and namesake of the agency head, Dirk walked over and set down the bin. Still flashing a disarming smile, he warmly shook hands with Sophie. She didn’t offer a protest when he was slow to release his grip.
“My apologies for the shower, I didn’t realize you were standing there.”
“No trouble, I’m nearly dry now.” She was inwardly startled at how her anger had suddenly been displaced by an odd tingle. She absently patted her hair to prove her point.
“I hope you’ll allow me the honor of buying you dinner tonight to make amends.”
Dirk’s forward proposal caught her off guard, and she stumbled to answer, muttering something unintelligible. Somewhere a voice inside screamed at her for losing her normally unflappable manner. Haasis thankfully intervened to save the awkward moment.
“Dirk, what’s in the box?” he asked, eyeing it curiously.
“Just a few goodies from the subterranean chamber.”
Haasis’s mouth dropped. “It truly exists?”
Dirk nodded.
“What chamber?” Sophie asked.
“While I was surveying the remains of the inshore breakwater, I found a small underwater opening near Keith’s test pits. I could only squeeze my arm in, but I could feel my hand break the water’s surface. That’s why I was using the water jet, to blast a larger hole through the mud and concretions.”
“How large is the cavity?” Haasis asked excitedly.
“It’s not much bigger than a crawl space, about six feet deep. But most of it is above water. I’ll go out on a limb and speculate that it was part of a cellar used for storage or records archives.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?” Sophie inquired.
Dirk dried off the plastic bin he had carried in and carefully pulled off the watertight lid. Inside were several ceramic boxes, rectangular in shape and colored a reddish orange. He pulled one out and handed it to Sophie.
“Hopefully you can decipher its contents,” he said. “They didn’t teach me ancient texts in marine engineering school.”
Sophie set the box on a table and gently pried off the lid. Inside were a half dozen tightly wound rolls of material.
“They’re papyrus rolls,” she said in a shocked voice.
Haasis could no longer contain himself, slipping on a pair of white gloves and squeezing in alongside Sophie.
“Let me take a look,” he said, pulling one of the rolls out and slowly unrolling it across the tabletop. An odd but orderly script filled the page, handwritten with a bold stroke.
“It appears to be Coptic Greek,” Sophie said, looking over the professor’s shoulder. An ancient text developed in Egypt using the Greek alphabet, Coptic script was a common written language in the eastern Mediterranean during the time of Roman rule.
“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 salatand 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 İşleri, 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.