Langdon stared at the man, incredulous to hear both that Sienna had found a way to get to Turkey, and also that, having successfully escaped from Venice, she would risk capture and possible death to ensure that Bertrand Zobrist’s plan succeeded.
Sinskey looked equally alarmed and drew a breath as if preparing to interrogate Brüder further, but she apparently thought better of it, turning instead to Langdon. “Which way?”
Langdon pointed to their left around the southwest corner of the building. “The Fountain of Ablutions is over here,” he said.
Their rendezvous point with the museum contact was an ornately latticed wellhead that had once been used for ritual washing before Muslim prayer.
“Professor Langdon!” a man’s voice shouted as they drew near.
A smiling Turkish man stepped out from under the octagonal cupola that covered the fountain. He was waving his arms excitedly. “Professor, over here!”
Langdon and the others hurried over.
“Hello, my name is Mirsat,” he said, his accented English voice brimming with enthusiasm. He was a slight man with thinning hair, scholarly-looking glasses, and a gray suit. “This is a great honor for me.”
“The honor is ours,” Langdon replied, shaking Mirsat’s hand. “Thank you for your hospitality on such short notice.”
“Yes, yes!”
“I’m Elizabeth Sinskey,” Dr. Sinskey said, shaking Mirsat’s hand and then motioning to Brüder. “And this is Cristoph Brüder. We’re here to assist Professor Langdon. I’m so sorry our plane was delayed. You’re very kind to accommodate us.”
“Please! Think nothing of it!” Mirsat gushed. “For Professor Langdon I would give a private tour at any hour. His little book Christian Symbols in the Muslim World is a favorite in our museum gift shop.”
Really? Langdon thought. Now I know the one place on earth that carries that book.
“Shall we?” Mirsat said, motioning for them to follow.
The group hurried across a small open space, passing the regular tourist entrance and continuing on to what had originally been the building’s main entrance—three deeply recessed archways with massive bronze doors.
Two armed security guards were waiting to greet them. Upon seeing Mirsat, the guards unlocked one of the doors and swung it open.
“Sağ olun,” Mirsat said, uttering one of a handful of Turkish phrases Langdon was familiar with—an especially polite form of “thank you.”
The group stepped through, and the guards closed the heavy doors behind them, the thud resonating through the stone interior.
Langdon and the others were now standing in Hagia Sophia’s narthex—a narrow antechamber that was common in Christian churches and served as an architectural buffer between the divine and the profane.
Spiritual moats, Langdon often called them.
The group crossed toward another set of doors, and Mirsat pulled one open. Beyond it, instead of the sanctuary he had anticipated seeing, Langdon beheld a secondary narthex, slightly larger than the first.
An esonarthex, Langdon realized, having forgotten that Hagia Sophia’s sanctuary enjoyed two levels of protection from the outside world.
As if to prepare the visitor for what lay ahead, the esonarthex was significantly more ornate than the narthex, its walls made of burnished stone that glowed in the light of elegant chandeliers. On the far side of the serene space stood four doors, above which were spectacular mosaics, which Langdon found himself intently admiring.
Mirsat walked to the largest door—a colossal, bronze-plated portal. “The Imperial Doorway,” Mirsat whispered, his voice almost giddy with enthusiasm. “In Byzantine times, this door was reserved for sole use of the emperor. Tourists don’t usually go through it, but this is a special night.”
Mirsat reached for the door, but paused. “Before we enter,” he whispered, “let me ask, is there something in particular you would like to see inside?”
Langdon, Sinskey, and Brüder all glanced at one another.
“Yes,” Langdon said. “There’s so much to see, of course, but if we could, we’d like to begin with the tomb of Enrico Dandolo.”
Mirsat cocked his head as if he had misunderstood. “I’m sorry? You want to see … Dandolo’s tomb?”
“We do.”
Mirsat looked downcast. “But, sir … Dandolo’s tomb is very plain. No symbols at all. Not our finest offering.”
“I realize that,” Langdon said politely. “All the same, we’d be most grateful if you could take us to it.”
Mirsat studied Langdon a long moment, and then his eyes drifted upward to the mosaic directly over the door, which Langdon had just been admiring. The mosaic was a ninth-century image of the Pantocrator Christ—the iconic image of Christ holding the New Testament in his left hand while making a blessing with his right.
Then, as if a light had suddenly dawned for their guide, the corners of Mirsat’s lips curled into a knowing smile, and he began wagging his finger. “Clever man! Very clever!”
Langdon stared. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t worry, Professor,” Mirsat said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I won’t tell anyone why you’re really here.”
Sinskey and Brüder shot Langdon a puzzled look.
All Langdon could do was shrug as Mirsat heaved open the door and ushered them inside.
CHAPTER 88
The Eighth Wonder of the World, some had called this space, and standing in it now, Langdon was not about to argue with that assessment.
As the group stepped across the threshold into the colossal sanctuary, Langdon was reminded that Hagia Sophia required only an instant to impress upon its visitors the sheer magnitude of its proportions.
So vast was this room that it seemed to dwarf even the great cathedrals of Europe. The staggering force of its enormity was, Langdon knew, partly an illusion, a dramatic side effect of its Byzantine floor plan, with a centralized naos that concentrated all of its interior space in a single square room rather than extending it along the four arms of a cruciform, as was the style adopted in later cathedrals.
This building is seven hundred years older than Notre-Dame, Langdon thought.
After taking a moment to absorb the breadth of the room’s dimensions, Langdon let his eyes climb skyward, more than a hundred and fifty feet overhead, to the sprawling, golden dome that crowned the room. From its central point, forty ribs radiated outward like rays of the sun, extending to a circular arcade of forty arched windows. During daylight hours, the light that streamed through these windows reflected—and re-reflected—off glass shards embedded in the golden tile work, creating the “mystical light” for which Hagia Sophia was most famous.
Langdon had seen the gilded ambience of this room captured accurately in painting only once. John Singer Sargent. Not surprisingly, in creating his famous painting of Hagia Sophia, the American artist had limited his palette only to multiple shades of a single color.
Gold.
The glistening golden cupola was often called “the dome of heaven itself” and was supported by four tremendous arches, which in turn were sustained by a series of semidomes and tympana. These supports were then carried by yet another descending tier of smaller semidomes and arcades, creating the effect of a cascade of architectural forms working their way from heaven toward earth.
Moving from heaven to earth, albeit by a more direct route, long cables descended straight down from the dome and supported a sea of gleaming chandeliers, which seemed to hang so low to the floor that tall visitors risked colliding with them. In reality, this was another illusion created by the sheer magnitude of the space, for the fixtures hung more than twelve feet off the floor.
As with all great shrines, Hagia Sophia’s prodigious size served two purposes. First, it was proof to God of the great lengths to which Man would go to pay tribute to Him. And second, it served as a kind of shock treatment for worshippers—a physical space so imposing that those who entered felt dwarfed, their egos erased, their physical being and cosmic importance shrinking to the size of a mere speck in the face of God … an atom in the hands of the Creator.
Until a man is nothing, God can make nothing out of him. Martin Luther had spoken those words in the sixteenth century, but the concept had been part of the mind-set of builders since the earliest examples of religious architecture.
Langdon glanced over at Brüder and Sinskey, who had been staring upward and who now lowered their eyes to earth.
“Jesus,” Brüder said.
“Yes!” Mirsat said excitedly. “And Allah and Muhammad, too!”
Langdon chuckled as their guide directed Brüder’s gaze to the main altar, where a towering mosaic of Jesus was flanked by two massive disks bearing the Arabic names of Muhammad and Allah in ornate calligraphy.
“This museum,” Mirsat explained, “in an effort to remind visitors of the diverse uses of this sacred space, displays in tandem both the Christian iconography, from the days when Hagia Sophia was a basilica, and the Islamic iconography, from its days as a mosque.” He gave a proud smile. “Despite the friction between the religions in the real world, we think their symbols work quite nicely together. I know you agree, Professor.”
Langdon gave a heartfelt nod, recalling that all of the Christian iconography had been covered in whitewash when the building became a mosque. The restoration of the Christian symbols next to the Muslim symbols had created a mesmerizing effect, particularly because the styles and sensibilities of the two iconographies are polar opposites.
While Christian tradition favored literal images of its gods and saints, Islam focused on calligraphy and geometric patterns to represent the beauty of God’s universe. Islamic tradition held that only God could create life, and therefore man has no place creating images of life—not gods, not people, not even animals.
Langdon recalled once trying to explain this concept to his students: “A Muslim Michelangelo, for example, would never have painted God’s face on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel; he would have inscribed the name of God. Depicting God’s face would be considered blasphemy.”
Langdon had gone on to explain the reason for this.
“Both Christianity and Islam are logocentric,” he told his students, “meaning they are focused on the Word. In Christian tradition, the Word became flesh in the book of John: ‘And the Word was made flesh, and He dwelt among us.’ Therefore, it was acceptable to depict the Word as having a human form. In Islamic tradition, however, the Word did not become flesh, and therefore the Word needs to remain in the form of a word … in most cases, calligraphic renderings of the names of the holy figures of Islam.”
One of Langdon’s students had summed up the complex history with an amusingly accurate marginal note: “Christians like faces; Muslims like words.”
“Here before us,” Mirsat went on, motioning across the spectacular room, “you see a unique blending of Christianity with Islam.”
He quickly pointed out the fusion of symbols in the massive apse, most notably the Virgin and Child gazing down upon a mihrab—the semicircular niche in a mosque that indicates the direction of Mecca. Nearby, a staircase rose up to an orator’s pulpit, which resembled the kind from which Christian sermons are delivered, but in fact was a minbar, the holy platform from which an imam leads Friday services. Similarly, the daislike structure nearby resembled a Christian choir stall but in reality was a müezzin mahfili, a raised platform where a muezzin kneels and chants in response to the imam’s prayers.
“Mosques and cathedrals are startlingly similar,” Mirsat proclaimed. “The traditions of East and West are not as divergent as you might think!”
“Mirsat?” Brüder pressed, sounding impatient. “We’d really like to see Dandolo’s tomb, if we may?”
Mirsat looked mildly annoyed, as if the man’s haste were somehow a display of disrespect to the building.
“Yes,” Langdon said. “I’m sorry to rush, but we’re on a very tight schedule.”
“Very well, then,” Mirsat said, pointing to a high balcony to their right. “Let’s head upstairs and see the tomb.”
“Up?” Langdon replied, startled. “Isn’t Enrico Dandolo buried down in the crypt?” Langdon recalled the tomb itself, but not the precise place in the building where it was located. He had been picturing the dark underground areas of the building.
Mirsat seemed confounded by the query. “No, Professor, the tomb of Enrico Dandolo is most certainly upstairs.”
What the devil is going on here? Mirsat wondered.
When Langdon had asked to see Dandolo’s tomb, Mirsat had sensed that the request was a kind of decoy. Nobody wants to see Dandolo’s tomb. Mirsat had assumed what Langdon really wanted to see was the enigmatic treasure directly beside Dandolo’s tomb—the Deesis Mosaic—an ancient Pantocrator Christ that was arguably one of the most mysterious pieces of art in the building.
Langdon is researching the mosaic, and trying to be discreet about it, Mirsat had guessed, imagining that the professor was probably writing a secret piece on the Deesis.
Now, however, Mirsat was confused. Certainly Langdon knew the Deesis Mosaic was on the second floor, so why was he acting so surprised?
Unless he is indeed looking for Dandolo’s tomb?
Puzzled, Mirsat guided them toward the staircase, passing one of Hagia Sophia’s two famous urns—a 330-gallon behemoth carved out of a single piece of marble during the Hellenistic period.
Climbing in silence now with his entourage, Mirsat found himself feeling unsettled. Langdon’s colleagues did not seem like academics at all. One of them looked like a soldier of some sort, muscular and rigid, dressed all in black. And the woman with the silver hair, Mirsat sensed … he had seen her before. Maybe on television?
