The Snake Stone

91

Yashim walked slowly out from the palace. Time was short, he’d told Palewski; but so far he hadn’t made much headway. He wondered what he should do next.

He thought of visiting the hammam, but instead of returning to Fener he found himself in the Hippodrome again, considering the broken column.

The serpents of the column emerged from a bronze ring, where you could read the names of thirty-one Greek cities-Athens, Sparta, Patras, Mycenae, and the rest of those jealous, warring city-states that combined in 479 B.C. against the Persian invader. At the battle of Plataia, the Persians were defeated by an army of Greeks, united for the very first time.

To commemorate that victory, the bronze weaponry and armor of the defeated Persians were melted down and recast to make the Serpent Column. It was set up at Delphi, a neutral place, the seat of the oracle respected by all Greeks alike. Entwined one upon the other, the three serpents soared into the air: unity was strength.

Yashim supposed that had the battle gone the other way, there would have been no Greece. No philosophy; no academy; no Alexander-and no Greeks.

Solemnly, he leaned against the rail. Twelve years ago, the Greeks had attempted to unite again. What was it that Dr. Millingen had said? That the Greeks were incapable of working together. Missilonghi was scarcely a battle. It was a siege, and the Greeks had lost it. No Serpent Column could be cast to commemorate those years.

But Lefevre had been there, hadn’t he? A doctor, like Millingen. Working together-for a cause.

Yashim pressed his forehead against the railings and closed his eyes. He tried to think: he had a sense that time was running out.

“Efendi.”

He turned, recognizing the voice.

“I saw you cross the Hippodrome, efendi.”

Yashim smiled at his friend. He had known, in the kebab house a few days earlier, that they would soon meet.

“I am glad to see you,” he said, and it was perfectly true. Seeing Murad Eslek standing in front of him, short, sturdy, and grinning from ear to ear, Yashim realized exactly why they were supposed to meet. Murad Eslek was a man who took each day as it came. He thought on his feet. He was efficient, reliable: a friend. He had once saved Yashim’s life.

But above all, Murad Eslek was an early riser. Every day, long before dawn, he would be at one of the market gardens beyond the city walls, overseeing the delivery of vegetables and fruit to half a dozen street markets around Istanbul. Carts and mules; donkeys with panniers; Murad Eslek and his men saw them into the city and arranged their distribution, so that when Istanbul woke up the stalls were piled high, as if by magic, with all the produce of the season.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” Yashim said. “Shall we have a coffee together?”