“I hope you will tell us more in time, Stoyan. Meanwhile, please stay and let us hear what Paula has heard.”
I passed on my information as accurately as I could: the Armenian merchant, whose name had been mentioned in the message Salem bin Afazi had sent Father; the fact that the Portuguese had visited him twice, asking about antiquities. “I heard the man say something about a blue house,” I said. “The Armenian was staying there. Near the Arab Mosque, I think that was what he said. It’s up a lot of steps and apparently very hard to find.”
“Interesting.” Father set his glass down on the tray. “Your sharp ears have served us well, Paula. This is the first indication we’ve had that the item we seek is already here in Istanbul, and the seller with it. However, we cannot march over to this blue house and knock on the front door. We’d best send a discreet message. If we can locate the place.” He glanced at Stoyan.
“It sounds as if the pirate was prepared to knock on the door, Father,” I pointed out. “As a result, he has the advantage right now.”
“And has therefore put himself in the path of danger, where we, thus far, have avoided it. Stoyan, is it possible someone believed my old friend Salem was actually in possession of the item we are discussing? That he was done to death in a bungled attempt at robbery?”
“I cannot say,” Stoyan said. I could see on his face that the subject was raw and painful for him, even though he had raised it himself earlier. “The house of Salem bin Afazi is in the same quarter of the city as the mosque Kyria Paula mentioned, and he was close to home when…when it happened.” His voice fell to a murmur. “This artifact…a myriad of tales surrounds it, tales certain parties find deeply unsettling. For some time there have been rumors….” Hefell silent, clearly uncomfortable under two sets of shrewdly assessing eyes.
“Go on,” Father said.
“I accompanied Salem on many missions and into many houses and places of trade. I am not a man of learning, but I have learned how to listen. This piece, Cybele’s Gift, has a long history. For some time now, since before we heard it had been found and would be offered for sale, there have been stories circulating in the city. Stories that have made the imams uneasy.”
“I have wondered why Salem did not want to deal with Cybele’s Gift himself,” Father said. Now that Stoyan had said its name, there seemed no reason to hold it back, but he, too, spoke quietly. In a trading center such as this, there were ears everywhere. “It was exceptionally generous of him to allow me the opportunity to bid for it. There must be many collectors in Istanbul and the regions nearby who would pay handsomely for such an artifact. Salem could have made a big profit.”
Stoyan seemed about to speak, then thought better of it.
“What is it, Stoyan?” I asked him.
The strange eyes lifted to meet mine. “He would not have done so, kyria. Salem was a Muslim. He made his devotions daily; he lived his life in accordance with the principles of his faith. As a trader, he took risks. One such risk was to alert your father to the probable arrival of this rare piece in the city. To handle it himself would have been…ill advised.”
I was missing something. “I don’t understand,” I said.
“You mentioned the imams.” Father was several steps ahead of me. “Are you saying the Islamic religious leaders didn’t approve of the sale? Why should it trouble them? Cybele’s Gift may be a pagan artifact, but it’s extremely old. The cult it related to died out hundreds of years ago. Of course, there is a great deal of superstition attached to it, but…”
“There was a story.” Stoyan seemed reluctant to say more, but in the face of our expectant silence, he went on. “A rumor. That somehow the cult of Cybele had been revived, here in Istanbul. An ancient ritual, idolatrous, shocking, and violent. The idea sparked outrage amongst those in positions of influence at the mosques. Salem never found out if it was true.”
“But if it was,” I said, thinking out loud, “that would give other people reasons for wanting the piece, apart from pursuing it for profit or because it’s supposed to confer good fortune.”
“If there were such a cult, possession of Cybele’s Gift would strengthen it,” said Father. “A pagan revival of that kind must be seen as a threat by Islamic leaders. That’s if the story is true.”
“What do you know about Cybele’s Gift, Stoyan?” I asked him. “What did Salem tell you about it?”
“That it holds the last words of an ancient goddess. This Cybele, it is said her feet were like the roots of the deepest tree and her hair a nesting place for birds and insects of a thousand kinds. To touch this piece would be to touch the power of the earth itself.”
His words sent a shiver through me. This seemed a far more profound interpretation of the lore than the one we had heard, that the artifact bestowed good fortune on its owner and his descendants. “You sound as if you believe it,” I said, then regretted it, for Stoyan’s face closed up as if he were offended.
“Of course,” he said, “I am not an educated man.”
This seemed to be a sore point for him. I wondered what he would think if I told him my own story, in which eldritch forces of nature had played a significant part. “If someone really has revived the cult,” I said, “then I suppose it could be argued that the piece belongs with that person, not with a buyer like ours. On the other hand, the man who financed our trip is a genuine collector, scholarly and responsible. He would value the piece and look after it.”
“We could debate that issue at length and get nowhere,” Father said. “The fact is, as merchants, we are only ever middlemen, buying and selling on behalf of others, and while we spend time pondering motivations, our competitors are likely to seize the advantage in the deal. I’m not going to let that happen with Cybele’s Gift; there’s too much riding on our securing the piece. Stoyan, I will give you a message to take to this blue house. I won’t put anything in writing. Ask if there is an Armenian merchant in residence, and if the answer is yes, please let him know the trader Teodor of Brasov wishes to speak with him on a sensitive commercial matter. I can attend him at his convenience.”
Stoyan nodded, then glanced at me as if expecting that I would add my own contribution to the message.
“Go safely,” I said.
We were expecting a party of Venetian merchants before midday, to discuss arrangements for a future supply of hides and furs. Father was anxious to secure the deal on favorable terms, without too many conditions. In particular, he was keen to gain access to fine glassware. If the Venetians would ship our supplies as far as Istanbul, we would use the a, where the landward part of the
