Hail Mary, Mother of God,
Take us under your wing.
O Virgin of the Closed Door,
Who doth songs of David sing.
Hail Mary, Mother of the Word,
Hear those who bear your message,
Container of the Uncontainable,
Grant us your intercession.
When the prayer was done, Balkis nodded. The man in red pulled back the ewe’s head and stroked its soft throat as tenderly as a lover. When the animal relaxed, he cut its throat, directing the blood into a large bowl on the ground. Balkis used a cup to pour some of the blood into the hollows on top of the pillars by the entrance. Then Malik dipped the peacock feather in the blood and anointed the prayer house door with one long stroke, followed by three short cross-strokes. He took the key from his belt and unlocked the door.
They waited while Gudit lifted the bowl and spilled its contents beneath a towering fig tree, its fruit plump and red veined. Then Balkis led the village into the prayer house. As the villagers entered, they each touched one of the pillars and then their forehead.
The interior of the prayer house was lined with marble, except for a mosaic inside the vault that depicted a gold crescent and disk against an indigo background. Oil lamps hanging from the ceiling cast a spiderweb of light over the congregation. At the front of the nave a wrought-iron divider separated the congregation from the Holy of Holies. Beyond it, an iron gate guarded a room that only the priestess was allowed to enter. Inscribed on the gate was an angel with powerful wings, which were painted gold. Those permitted to approach could see that the angel was crying.
The floor was spread with carpets, like a mosque. The women’s side of the room bloomed with bright colors, while the men’s side reflected the stolid tones of earth and grain and vernal green.
As the procession passed down the middle of the hall, the villagers bowed their heads respectfully. Balkis and Malik passed through the divider and stood before the gate, where they led the congregation in prayer.
Balkis unlocked the gate using the key on her chain and pushed it open. It made no sound on its oiled hinges. The congregation craned to see. Malik took a lit candle from a niche and handed it to Balkis. She walked through the opening and was immediately swallowed up by the darkness. The gate swung shut behind her.
There was a faint scent of incense. Balkis could hear the muffled hum of conversation resume in the hall. She blew out the candle and closed her eyes. The dark power in this room, the Holy of Holies, penetrated her like heat in the hamam, taking control of her body and cleansing it.
She imagined her brother’s majestic, cloaked figure on the other side of the gate, standing guard before the miracle. Malik, caretaker of the Melisites.
“Behold Balkis,” she heard him intone in a loud voice. “Behold the Proof of God, Container of the Uncontainable. Behold the Key to all religions.”
The angel gate opened and Balkis stepped out into the light. She felt tall and commanding. She knew the villagers no longer saw her, but their priestess. Two fillets hung from her embroidered turban, framing the face of a woman comfortable with power. In her hand was the iron scepter. The gate closed behind her.
Balkis stood for a moment, surveying the crowd, noting who had come and who had stayed away. She took her time, bestowing approving glances on those whose goodwill she needed to carry out the project she had in mind, and letting the few young people heedlessly flirting at the back of the room feel the weight of her gaze until they fell silent. Saba and Amida sat side by side at the front of the room before the elders, a place of honor. Saba, as always, was absorbed in the ceremony, perhaps imagining herself in the role of priestess. Amida looked bored and distracted. This saddened Balkis. She wanted her son to believe in the Melisites as she did, to love the sect. To love her.
Balkis put her scepter aside and turned to face the gate, her eyes on the angel’s powerful wings. She wondered, as she always did, why the angel was crying. She thought she knew.
The cloak slipped from her bare shoulders and pooled around her feet. Beside her, Malik too let his cape fall. They raised their arms to the angel gate.
“Behold the Proof of God,” Balkis announced.
“Adonai, help us,” the congregation responded. “Virgin of Chora, Container of the Uncontainable, keep us.”
Balkis felt the fervor of their gaze on her bare tattooed back. Priestess and caretaker, angels before the angel gate.
5
Back in his office at the courthouse, Kamil combed through the files again, this time looking for links to the Charshamba district or the Habesh, but the files contained little more than lists and sketches of objects taken, and the names of places they had been taken from. None of the thefts had occurred in Charshamba. Kamil wondered if criminals had a code of honor that forbade them from stealing in the area where they lived, or whether the pickings were simply better elsewhere. A silver nielloed Byzantine ewer and matching plate, a solid gold plate, a chalice decorated with diamonds, and another with rubies and pearls had disappeared from the Fatih Mosque, just a stone’s throw from the Charshamba market. The sketches were clear enough, but the report was illegible. The police required their officers to be literate, but in practice that could mean anything. He peered at the paper, unable to make out where in the large mosque complex the objects had been stored.
The other stolen items came from smaller mosques, churches, and synagogues all over the Old City. He assumed that these would be less carefully guarded than a venerable institution like the Fatih Mosque. But, he chided himself, on what basis was he making that assumption? What he had seen so far had convinced him that people at all levels of responsibility were careless with old things, probably believing them to be intrinsically less valuable than something new, even if they were made of precious materials.
The descriptions of stolen items corresponded closely to a list sent by the London Metropolitan Police Force of oriental objects recently sold in that city, including the ruby and pearl chalice. That sale and several others had been handled by Rettingate and Sons, dealers in oriental antiques, located at 58 Smythe Street in South Kensington. A good address near Kensington Gardens and the museum, Kamil noted. He remembered elegant rows of brick and stucco houses with black-lacquered doors and polished brass knockers. Perhaps the tent of facts could be anchored at that end. He penned a telegram to Detective Inspector Joseph Ormond, his contact at the Metropolitan Police, or as it was commonly known, Scotland Yard.
In the letter accompanying the list, Ormond had suggested Kamil contact Magnus Owen, the cultural attaché at the British Embassy in Istanbul. Kamil wrote a note requesting an appointment with Owen and gave it to Abdullah to deliver to the embassy, only minutes away.
Half an hour later, the door to the office flew open and an enormous man with a heavy beard fell into the room. With one hand, he extricated himself from Abdullah’s grip, with the other he dragged Avi, who squirmed in pain.
Kamil jumped to his feet and bellowed, “Drop that child right now. What is the meaning of this?”
The man stopped but didn’t loosen his grip. Abdullah renewed his attempt to pull the stranger from the room.
“Let the boy go or I’ll have you arrested.”
Reluctantly, the man complied. Trouble seemed to stick to this boy like metal filings to a magnet, Kamil thought irritably. He noticed that the man’s sash protruded at the side, indicating a weapon, most likely a long-handled knife. With a stealthy flick of his fingers, he slid open a drawer, putting his Colt revolver within easy reach.