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
[Illustration: THE SEA WALL.
These remnants of massive walls with battlemented summits, or perhaps
little wooden houses are perched on top.]
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
[Illustration: THE MARBLE TOWER.
Standing out boldly is a fine tower, almost intact. This is the Marble
Tower.]
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.