It was evening when we arrived at Constantinople. We came over a hill and there it was — the eastern suburbs of Chrysopolis falling away to the Bosphorus beneath us, and the domes and towers of the city rising in their splendour across the shining water. I could see Ayia Sophia, majestic on its promontory, and the many terraces of the palace cascading down the hill. The autumn sun was setting behind a cloud in the west, casting the sky, the water, the city, the whole world in molten gold. From across the strait, I thought I could hear the chant of the priests at vespers.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen it from this side before,’ murmured Helena. ‘It’s beautiful.’
We went down to the water’s edge, and waited for the boatman to ferry us across.
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