CHAPTER V

THE WALLS BY THE SEA OF MARMORA

Let us go ashore under the sea-walls of Constantinople. We now approach the white Seraglio lighthouse, keeping a little south of it and yet a little more, rounding a slight bend of the coast to westward. Here, beyond a strong square tower which formerly showed a flare of Grecian fire to guide the mariner, is a stretch of beach, Author and Artist insist on landing. The tower we left on our right joins on to a large front of masonry, built stoutly of rough stones as you may see where the walls are broken, and where a few marble pillars frame hollow openings for the windows. This place is full of the memories of dark and strange events, it is the Palace of Justinian.

Old chroniclers called this the Palace of Hormisdas, or Hormouz, Prince of Persia, who sought refuge here with Constantine the Great. Others, again, suggest that this palace was built by Justinian himself before he began his long and useful reign.

At any rate, great and famous names occur to us as we survey these ruins. It is an astounding chapter of history this, which tells how Justinian came to inherit the Imperial Purple. His uncle Justin was the founder of his house, a simple Dacian peasant who left his native village and the flocks he tended to enter the military service of the Eastern Empire. Through his own strength, his own ability and valour in the field, Justin the Dacian peasant rose step by step until he took his place next to Cæsar himself in importance. Then when the Emperor Anastasius died, after carefully excluding his own kinsman from the throne, Justin was acclaimed Emperor by the unanimous consent of those who knew him to be brave and gentle, his soldiers, and by those who held him to be orthodox, the priests. So in his old age, for he was sixty-eight when Anastasius died, Justin climbed the throne and reigned for nine years. Strange, too, it is, that he and yet another ruler of his time, Theodoric, the King of Italy, even in those days when learning was by no means uncommon, should both have been unable to read and write. Justin had brought his nephew Justinian out of Dacia, and had him educated in Constantinople to be trained for the Purple.

His was a curious and eventful reign. Of great strength and comely of face, full of the best intentions and restless in his pursuit of knowledge, Justinian entered into his inheritance; he had been his uncle Justin's right hand, and so was well acquainted with all the devious ways of statecraft. So everything promised well, and in a measure he succeeded. The wars he undertook were brought to a successful issue, the laws he framed should have earned him the people's gratitude, yet Justinian was not beloved.

No doubt these walls could tell the reason--you may almost hear them whisper, "Theodora, the actress, the dancer, and Justinian's empress." Surely those were stirring times, when Justinian and Theodora sat side by side upon the throne, when circus and streets rang with the cries of factions, Blue and Green. And Theodora favoured Blue--her cause for doing so dates back to the day of her earliest appearance in Constantinople--in the theatre. Here she and her sisters, daughters of Acacius, whose office was to tend the wild beasts that the Green faction kept for the games, were brought by their mother in the garb of suppliants. The Green faction received them with contempt, the Blues with compassion, and hence the reason that Theodora favoured that colour.

Then some time elapsed, during which it were best not to follow Theodora's fortunes. During this epoch a son was born to her. Years after, the father of the child when dying told him: "Your mother is an empress." The son of Theodora hastened to Constantinople, hurried to the palace to present himself--and was never seen again. When in seclusion at Alexandria Theodora had a vision which told her that one day she would wear the Purple, so she returned to Constantinople, and ere long won Justinian's love. So they reigned side by side, and Justinian first of that name is still called "the Great." Let whatever evil she may have done be forgotten. Are not the scandals of that time softened by the mists of romance which enshroud them, for all but those who like to peer about among the secrets of dead men, and to cavil at their failings, and tear what tatters of reputation they can find into yet smaller shreds.

Nearly four centuries had passed, and yet again the Palace of Justinian was witness of Imperial weakness. The Greek fleet rode at anchor beneath the windows of the palace, and from his ship the Admiral Romanus Lecapenus made his way into the presence of the Emperor. There he demanded of Constantine VII, called Porphyrogenitus, a share in the government of the Empire, and was proclaimed co-Emperor. At one time during this reign five Cæsars wore the Purple; he who was born in it, Constantine VII, Porphyrogenitus, ranked least among them, but he survived them all in office to die of poison, it is said administered by Theophane, the wife of his son, Romanus II.

Again a woman plays a strong part in the history of these palace walls. A woman of low origin, this wife of the Eastern Emperor, son of Constantine VII, and under the careless reign of her good-natured husband, she made her vigorous personality a power in the land. Four years did Romanus II reign, and in that time did nothing that could afford the historian excuse for lingering on his name. Strongly built and fair to look upon, his time was spent in the pleasures he best loved. While the two brothers Leo and Nicephones triumphed over the Saracens, the Emperor's days were spent in strenuous leisure. He visited the circus in the morning, feasted the senators at noon, and then adjourned to the sphæristerium, the tennis-court, where he achieved his only victories. From time to time he would cross over to the Asiatic side, and there hunt the wild boar, returning to the palace well content with what he probably considered a good day's work.

Theophane tired of her useless spouse, and mingled for him the same deadly draught which killed his father. She then aspired to reign in the name of her two sons, Basil and Constantine, one five, the other only two years old, but found she could not support the weight of such responsibility, and looked about for some one to protect her.

She found the man in Nicephorus Phocas, who was then accounted the bravest soldier in the land. In other ways he appeared suitable, for he combined with the military genius that had led to many victories the reputation of a saint. For the rest, in person he was deformed, so that perchance Theophane's spacious heart was aided by her head when she set about to choose the successor to Romanus in her affections. Another like him lived many centuries later and ruled over England, Richard of Gloucester--and through the hazy veil wherewith romance so kindly clothes the crude outlines of history, it is difficult to decide to what extent the religious practices and utterances of these two monarchs were prompted by sincerity or guile. For Nicephorus wore hair-cloth, fasted, and clothed his conversation with pious terms; he even wished to retire from the business of this world into the serene seclusion of a monastery. Whatever the value of the sentiments he expressed, the people and the Patriarch trusted him, and so he was invested with the command of the oriental armies.

No sooner had he received the leaders and the troops than he marched boldly into Constantinople at their head. He trampled on his enemies, avowed his correspondence with the Empress, and assumed the title of Augustus. Unlike his double, Richard, he spared the lives of the young princes.

After some dubious dealings, the silence of the clergy made his union with Theophane possible, so he reached the height of his ambition--the Imperial Purple. But, strange to say, the once so popular general when in the Purple lost the affection of his people. No doubt the faults were equally divided, the Greeks disliked him for his parsimony, and he had ample precedent of how easily a fickle population can change from favour to fierce hatred. A demonstration of this change caused Nicephorus to fortify the Palace of Justinian; he had been stoned by his own people, and had barely reached the palace in safety.

Whilst standing by the sea under this mass of ruins, let us go back to a winter's night in 969. The additions to the palace that Nicephorus had made to guard him against the fury of his subjects had that day been completed. The gates were locked and bolted, the windows strongly barred, and, as a further precaution, the Emperor had moved from the couch and room he generally occupied at night, and lay asleep stretched on a bear-skin on the floor of a smaller chamber. But treachery lurked within the palace walls; murderous plans were rife, and they were conceived in the brain of an adulterous empress. And listening by those dark waves we hear the sound of muffled oars. A boat takes shape in the gloom at the foot of the palace stairs. Headed by John Zimisces, lover of Theophane, a man of small stature but great strength and beauty, and a soldier of renown, shadowy forms ascend a rope ladder, lowered from a window by some female attendants. Other conspirators were hidden in Theophane's most private chambers; they reached the Emperor's retreat, and with much cruelty and insult Nicephorus II Phocas was done to death.

John Zimisces reigned in his stead, but ere he was allowed to assume full power with the sanction of the Church he had to face at least one upright man. On the threshold of St. Sophia, whither he went to his coronation, the intrepid Patriarch stopped his progress, charged him with entering the Holy Place with blood upon his hands, and demanded, as a sign of penance, he should separate himself from his guilty companion.

So Theophane was banished from the place that still is haunted by her baleful influence, and died unmourned in exile.

Another vision, less sombre, equally dramatic and more fleeting, comes and fades away. Amaury, king of Jerusalem, visits Manuel Comnenus in 1170, to implore his aid against Saladin. A brief pathetic scene thus re-enacts itself, brief as the reign of those, the Christian Kings of David's Royal City, pathetic in the waste of life, the misery, the abject hopelessness that marked those chivalrous enterprises known to us as the Crusades.

One final scene before we turn away from this historic spot, the last scene in its history, and splendid in its utter despair. Here, at the last siege of Constantinople by the Turks, stout-hearted Peter Guliano and his gallant catalans held out when all else was lost.

A steep incline leads from the beach, past little wooden houses perched anywhere against the ruined walls. They look like that old house--that dear old house--Hans Andersen speaks of in the shortest of his fairy tales. We climb up the steep ascent, and at the top find more ruins--the base of a gigantic marble pillar, broken arches built of brick and glorious in their subdued colour; and then--the railway. Yes, gentle readers, the Roumelian Railway, to give it its full and awesome title. And we must follow this railway if we would see more of the city walls. You may walk anywhere you like along the single track. A little pathway winds about here and there and everywhere, and on either hand are houses, some of wood, some more pretentious, scattered about with irregularity.

Above us is the ridge on which the Hippodrome, theatre, and circus used to stand in days when a pleasure-loving population spent time and money in much the same way as do some Western nations of this day. No doubt they too considered themselves sportsmen; no doubt they too danced abject attendance and stood numerous dinners to the stalwart hero who was awarded his "Blue" or his "Green," as the case might be. And as to some forms of sport in those days of the Byzantine Empire, we have already given account of one sportsman's strenuous day, the Emperor Romanus, and we have seen how his wife discouraged his proclivities, by methods effective, but far too drastic for the present age.

Ancient chroniclers make mention of a polo-ground, but it is too much to expect such very learned men to tell you how the game was played. Yet this concerns the Author and Artist nearly, for both have spent much time and pleasantly in the saddle. No doubt the game, under whatever rules, was extremely picturesque; the life, the colour, the movement of horses and men engaged in such a keen pursuit can never fail to give a series of brilliant and entrancing pictures. But when you come to details! No trim pigskin saddles, but possibly some coloured bolsters, with loose bits of braid or tassels for adornment; no doubt bright-coloured brow-bands--that abomination! And then the ball. The Artist wonders whether it was painted the colour of one of the many factions that made up the political life of the city--Blue, Green, or Red--or whether, like keen sportsmen, such differences were dropped in contests of this kind.

Undoubtedly party feeling ran high when races--chariot-races chiefly--were in progress at the Hippodrome. These Green and Blue kept up a continual wordy warfare, and no doubt backed their own fancy colour with the same indiscriminate ardour not altogether unfamiliar even in the world's greatest Empire of to-day. And here again another likeness presents itself, for the games were played and contests entered by men paid to show their skill, while thousands sat and watched, shouted advice, or yelled their disapproval, though quite unable and unwilling to venture on the game themselves.

Of fishing there is no mention as a sport. The Author much regrets to have to make this statement, as he would have liked to give Walton's disciples of to-day some account of how their gentle art was plied in the days of Old Byzantium. But then the necessary implements were not available, for the West had not yet swamped the East with cheap manufactures and easily-twisted pins in penny packets.

The Artist has watched with interest gallant attempts with the bent pin to draw fish from the Bosphorus. The small boy with his little rod so evidently cut by himself, and one sticky little hand full of dead flies, served to remind the Artist of his own efforts in that line. Oh the unholy joy of impaling a fat blue-bottle on the point of that bent pin! But the chief pleasure of this form of sport is lacking on the banks of the Bosphorus; the long arm of the law does not interfere, and so the charm of the "strictly forbidden" is denied you.

A noble form of sport was practised in the Middle Ages, and until comparatively recent times a pastime that has given rise to much that is beautiful in poetry and painting--the art of falconry. This was a favourite pursuit of many a sultan, this and hunting with those strong hounds whose descendants (though to judge from their appearance one can scarcely believe it) now roam the streets of Constantinople, and act as rather unsatisfactory scavengers.

A mighty sportsman in these particulars was Achmet I, who reigned in the beginning of the seventeenth century. It was in this monarch's reign that the Turkish theologians propounded a peculiar doctrine. Achmet had ordered all the dogs in Constantinople to be transported to Scutari, on the opposite side of the Bosphorus, with an allowance of bread and carrion for their maintenance. By a later decree they were again removed, this time to an island sixteen miles away, where they all perished for want of food. The lives of dogs, though held unclean by Turks, were deemed of such importance that the Sultan thought fit to ask the Mufti whether it were lawful to kill them. After due deliberation the head of Islam answered (for he can give no fetvah or decree unless first consulted) that every dog had a soul, and therefore it was not lawful to kill them.

What subsequently happened to the dogs is not recorded; some legends say that they swam back to their old haunts, and incidentally to their ladies, who it appears had not been exiled. Certain it is that their lives were spared, for there are plenty to be seen everywhere in Old Stamboul and its neighbourhood, for of course Achmet, a pious Moslem, would not disregard the Mufti's momentous utterance.

That Achmet was a pious man is without doubt; his mosque bears witness to his devotion, a mosque which far out-rivalled that of St. Sophia in the splendour of its decoration, though it is somewhat smaller. Great treasures were spent upon this mosque, and neither trouble nor expense were spared to make it more glorious than any other. But Achmet left behind an unpaid, discontented army and an empty treasury, having grasped the secret of laying up for himself treasure in heaven by the ingenious method of robbing other people's possessions on earth. In those days East and West drew nearer to each other than heretofore. Where formerly the West had paid sporadic visits which were by no means always welcome, commerce had begun to spread its tendrils, and found the policy of Turkey singularly liberal. So all the greater nations established relations on that friendly basis with the Porte; England, France and Holland had each a regularly accredited ambassador at the Ottoman Court. This inaugurated a more peaceful method of settling disputes, as, for example, when the Moors of Granada brought to the Sultan their grievance against France, telling how, in their passage to that country on being expelled from Spain, they had suffered bodily harm and loss of goods. A chaus or ambassador from Sultan Achmet to Henry IV soon set matters right without resort to what diplomats call the _ultima ratio_. While on the subject of ambassadors a romantic story should be told, an incident which nearly disturbed the peace of Europe.

Achmet left seven sons, all infants, into whose hands he could not place the reins of government, which he himself had held but loosely. On his accession he had not found it necessary to clear his path and prevent further trouble by the usual remedy of fratricide. His only brother, Mustapha, was thoroughly incompetent, almost an idiot. Yet it was he whom Achmet declared as his successor, and the Mufti, the Ulema, the high college of priests, and the high officers of State approved his choice and placed Mustapha on the throne. In all his acts Mustapha emphasized his incapacity to rule, and one of them went near to cause a rupture with France. It fell out thus.

Two captives languished in the dungeons of a castle on the Black Sea. One was Prince Koreski, a Pole, who had been taken prisoner in Moldavia during the last reign, and was confined here because he had refused to turn Mahomedan. The other who shared Koreski's cell was Rigault, a Frenchman, who kept up a clandestine correspondence with a fellow-countryman, Martin, Secretary to the French Embassy at Constantinople. Now Martin loved a young Polish lady, who with her mother and her maid was held prisoner by the Turks. Martin succeeded in purchasing the freedom of these ladies by a payment to the Sultan of two thousand five hundred crowns. But when the ladies returned to their home in Poland the father refused to accede to the arrangement and practically forbade the banns. So in his trouble Martin confided all to his friend Rigault, who in his turn told all to the Prince. Now Koreski was a man of great influence in his own country, and told Rigault to assure his friend that if their escape from prison could be managed, Martin should not pine long for his lady-love.

So Martin set to work right eagerly. A Greek priest who went to visit the prisoners concealed under his garments a long piece of pack-thread, and by these means the captives gained their freedom. Mustapha's police sought diligently, but only managed to discover Martin's share in the transaction, so the whole French Embassy were put under arrest. The ambassador was confined in the Grand Vizier's Palace, Rigault and the domestics were put to the torture.

The protests of the English and Dutch ambassadors failed to move Mustapha, and it was only through large donations to the chief officers of State that the French Embassy was set at liberty.

While listening to the tales the Author has to tell, our travellers have picked their way along the railway-line, and have threaded in and out among the picturesque inhabitants of this quarter. Here

stand broken arches, loopholes looking out to sea; there remnants of massive walls with battlemented summits, or perhaps little wooden houses are perched on top, with their latticed windows; while beneath them one sees gardens, where part of a prophecy is at least fulfilled, for every man has his own fig-tree. And as we walk on these remains, the walls recede inland and disappear altogether, for here was formerly a harbour, and the name of the station we are passing, Koum Kapoussi--sand-gate--was given to the gate that opened out on the harbour of the Kontoscalion. A fair-sized harbour too, now all silted up and built over.

What life and bustle was here in the days of old Byzant, those days of the great traders from the East, West and South. And what stores of treasure were landed at this spot. Work from the looms of Greece was stapled here, manufacturers of linen, woollen and silk--the former industries which had flourished since the days of Homer, the latter introduced about the time of Justinian. Perhaps it was here that those rich gifts arrived for Basil I from his generous friend, Danielis, the rich matron of Peloponnesus, who had adopted him as her own. Doubtless the goods she sent were products of the Grecian looms. Even an Emperor of Byzantium must have greeted with pleased astonishment the beauty of the presents sent by his friend. A carpet large enough to overspread the floor of a new church, woven of fine wool and cunningly designed to represent and rival the brilliant eyes that adorn the peacock's tail. Of silk and linen each six hundred pieces, the latter so exquisitely fine that an entire piece might be rolled into the hollow of a cane, the silk dyed with Tyrian crimson, and the whole ornamented with fair needlework.

Duties were raised on all the goods that entered, and went towards suggesting the splendour of the Emperor and his Court. It is not possible to accurately compute the value of the goods and the vast sums they realized, but at least one traveller of experience was much impressed by what he witnessed here. A Jew, and therefore no mean authority on pecuniary matters, one Benjamin of Tudela, speaks of the riches of Byzantium, which he visited in the twelfth century--

"It is here in the Queen of Cities that the tributes of the Greek Empire are annually deposited, and the lofty towers are filled with precious magazines of silk, purple and gold. It is said that Constantinople pays each day to her sovereign 20,000 pieces of gold, which are levied on the shops, taverns, and markets, on the merchants of Persia and Egypt, of Russia and Hungary, of Italy and Spain, who frequent the capital by sea and land." Nowadays the main source of public revenue is the crushing import duty on all new articles of 11 per cent., soon with the consent of the powers to be raised to 15. Until recently every Turkish subject resident in the capital paid also a capitation tax in lieu of the military service, which is now to be endured by all alike who cannot pay an exemption fee of £50.

We walk on but a little further along the line, still past ruined walls and towers, and come to yet another gate, Yedi Kapoussi, or New Gate. This was the entrance to a very ancient harbour--the oldest, it is said, along this stretch of coast. Its origin is ascribed to Eleutherius, who was one of the first to see this city rise. The site of the harbour is now entirely covered, and market-gardens are to be seen where formerly war-galleys sought refuge from enemies or elements.

It is not certain at what date this harbour was abandoned, but it had happened before the final assault by Mahomed the Conqueror. The difficulty of keeping this harbour dredged must have been very considerable, for not only does the sea constantly cast sand along this coast, but just here the Lycus, an historic stream, empties its waters into the Sea of Marmora, and deposits at its mouth an ever-increasing burden of rich mud washed down from above.

According to tradition the harbour of Eleutherius served not only for the safety of the Empire's ships of war, but also as an entrance to the slave-market, which is said to have been somewhere in this neighbourhood. It is too sad, sadder than all the tales of cunning intrigue, ferocious crime and unscrupulous ambitions which make up so large a portion of the history enacted behind these city walls, to remember the vast multitude of human beings bartered here like the beasts of the field. Innocent victims of misfortune were sold here, and many families must have met, possibly for the last time on earth, in this ghastly and degrading place, while captives that had escaped the sword in some bloody war of conquest or reprisal were here put up to auction, to be led away by their new masters and die in hopeless misery.

But that sombre vision vanishes too under the sun that draws such brilliant colours from the ruined walls that so long sheltered this chartered and unchallenged iniquity, and we move onward by a laughing sea towards the west, turning south by a point or two as we leave the harbour of Eleutherius behind us.

We linger for a minute at the Gate of Psamathia--sand-gate again--and look out across the sea from a shady Turkish café standing on a small spit of land that shelters a tiny harbour to westward. Here are a number of those craft that we have seen flying down the Bosphorus under full sail. The leisurely process of unloading is going forward, and stacks of wood are piled up carelessly and anywhere without undue hurry, while nimble-footed donkeys thread their way amongst the merchandise, and the driver follows sunk in his Eastern reverie. And everywhere are dogs lounging together in little knots like elderly gentlemen in a club smoking-room (and always in the way), taking no interest in anything save the adventurous flies, and only giving an occasional languid snap at them.

From here we thread our way through a maze of little narrow lanes of quaint wooden houses teeming with life and colour. Here at a street corner a modest general store, showing some melons in their thick green coats, one with a large slice cut out by way of charity or advertisement, the green skin merging from pale lemon to a delicious crimson. Near these a basketful of ripe tomatoes in their flaring red, contrasting strongly with the golden green of luscious grapes exposed for sale on delicate pink paper; yet all these colours harmonize, and in the cool depths of the background the owner sits and drowses cross-legged, amid all their glory.

As we continue on our way we lose sight of these ancient sea-walls, for we have to turn inland awhile and follow the high-road that leads out into the open country. But now and then we see between the houses a glimpse of high towers and battlements in front of us. We turn down from the high-road, recross the railway-line, and find ourselves again amongst imposing ruins. Standing out boldly is a fine tower, almost intact. As we draw nearer to it we understand how it came by its name, for this is the Marble Tower. It is a building of four storeys, constructed from the topmost string course downwards of large marble blocks, its white and gleaming foundations washed by the blue waters of the Sea of Marmora. To eastward, and joined on to the Tower, stands a two-storied mass of masonry, with deep-arched window looking out to sea. These are the ruins of a castle that stood here to mark the place where sea-and land-walls joined. Most probably it was the residence of some high military officer. Surely a pleasant place to live in, strong and secure, with a spacious courtyard and perhaps a shady garden therein.

Or more likely still, this space, now a market-garden, was the scene of military life for many

centuries; here the heavy-armed infantry of Roman tradition made way for lighter troops whose dexterity replaced the armour they had abandoned.

What discussions must have taken place when news came that a powder had been invented in the West, a powder which could hurl stones and leaden shot with greater impetus than any engines then in use, that a breast-plate and helmet and even stone walls were no protection against this deadly stuff. And the sentry pacing the ramparts on his lonely post at night would ruminate upon this matter, and wonder what power of evil could let loose a force capable of destroying both the stout walls under him and that fair marble gleaming white in the light of the moon. Probably with the simple faith of his time he laid the whole matter at the door of Satan himself, and his chosen agents--the workers of black magic--and no doubt glanced fearfully out to sea and crossed himself piously when he realized how much influence these unpleasant people still possessed even in a Christian world which caused them to be burned on the barest suspicion of such malpractices.

Moon and stars and the plashing waves are now the only guardians of these walls.