The Thousand-Year Hometown - Chapter 1
Theophanies Kantakouzenos, or Theo to his kith, was born in the illustrious city of Constantinople, in the year 1430. Under the favour of his father Andronikos, who was in charge of the Great Library, he was tutored by the most sagacious scholars of the Byzantine Empire. At an early age, he learnt the Ancient Greek and the Latin languages, tasted mercury in the alchemy labs, read the works of Marcus Aurelius, and to discover the secrets of the human body, dissected cadavers in secluded chambers.
After finishing his studies, he started to work with his father. The library was just a shadow of its forgone sublime days. The rustic shelves were barren, devoid of books, which were once abundant. Some of the books were sold-off to Arab merchants to pay the debts of the crumbling empire, some looted by the officials who were not paid for ages, and some just had been eaten by rats.
Yet, surrounded by the Turks, his city was an indulgent oasis to him. A stronghold of civilisation, Constantinople was fighting for its very existence against the barbarian hordes, who were as numerous as the grains of sand in a desert.
Alas, as history proved numerous times before, all civilisations were born, grow, and eventually perish; none was immune to death. No sage was needed to tell of the ill fortune of the Roman civilisation, founded by the she-wolf-suckling gourmet twins and the she-wolf in the winter of her life.
When the Turks laid siege to Constantinople, Theo helped the soldiers, defending his city with all his strength. His hands, which had never held anything rougher than a quill before, bled and callused as Theo helped to fortify the city walls, which were continuously beaten down by enemy weapons.
The noise from the besieging cannons was indescribably loud. In particular, one of them was far more deafening than the others and had a very distinct, earsplitting sound. "Shahi" was the name of that monstrous weapon and, when fired, its blast started with an eardrum-rupturing boom, shifted into a chest-vibrating thunder, and, before disappearing entirely, transformed into a deep rumble, giving everybody in Constantinople a throbbing headache. When Shahi's stone projectiles hit the ancient walls of the city, milk in the buckets spilt, pregnant women miscarried, cats fell from the roofs, roosters went mute, birds dropped dead, porcupines shed their spines, and bells in the church towers cracked.
After three long months of baptism in sweat and blood, the thick walls encompassing the city and once thought impassable to the hordes could not take more punishment from the fire-breathing Turkish cannons and collapsed. The terrifying sight of the Turks pouring into the city like a flood through the shambles of the walls affrighted the Constantinopolitans, and they ran to the great church of Hagia Sophia to find refuge.
It was commonly believed that Hagia Sophia, the church of the celestial dome, was spacious enough accommodate the whole city population. On the day the Turks captured the city, it was understood that the assumption was optimistic. The church was full to the brim with wailing children and women clinging to each other with despair and devoid of hope. A handful of able-bodied men were holding their swords and shields and waiting nervously for the decisive defensive battle. On that day, Hagia Sophia looked like a Hieronymus Bosch painting, depicting the turmoil in hell. Some Constantinopolitans waiting for a final miracle that would extirpate the Turks completely from the pearl of Christianity were praying silently. Some looked bedazzled, flabbergasted and aghast at the same time, wandering like ghosts. High shrieks coming from the scared refugees echoed from the walls and the mighty dome.
Theo was on his knees, as most of the people, but not following the priests conducting the prayer, which might be the last Christian prayer in Hagia Sophia. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee," he started his prayer, "Don't let the Turks capture me; free my soul away from my body with your mercy."
Toward the evening, a pandemonium had started at the gates of the church. They could hear the Turks, shouting with their crude language, on the other side of the bronze doors, and everybody rushed to carry whatever he or she can to fortify the gates. Shortly after, the Turks started to attack the gates, with battering rams. Every blow of the ram made the church cry in anguish. Theo was seized with remarkable dizziness. He could keep erect no more and sat on the floor. The Roman Empire, which grew like a huge, century-old cedar tree, which had protected its subjects under its thick branches, uplifted barbarians to civilisation, and provided refuge to nations, was about to be toppled down, and it was Theo's misfortune to witness the historical tragedy. "Instead of being enslaved," he thought, "I will throw myself at their swords."
Theo's dizziness increased and an incredible vertigo set him off, conquering him. The tremendous noise around him started to muffle; it was barely audible now. The colours intensified to create transcendental palettes: white became black and black became white. Suddenly, everything in his world started to get bigger; the church, the people and even the Bible, which he could not hold anymore, grew prodigiously in front of his eyes. The young Byzantine lost control over his body, and a thick darkness replaced his vision. Falling unconscious, he heard the metallic crash of the bronze gates.
Theo's last memory was of four Turkish equestrians dashing in and the cries of the nuns they dragged on the ground.
The toll of the physical transformation he went through was immense. Weeks after the church raid, Theo's memories were still foggy. He was submerged in a sea of nightmares. In his dreams, he was chased by giants about to die from thirst, ran from blazing fires and evaded rowdy soldiers. Getting caught by of them meant certain death. As time passed, he grew accustomed to his new body, and reality started to settle down. The fog, sitting in his brain since his metamorphosis, dispersed gradually.
Theo spent his first year as a weasel relentlessly praying . He was pleading to God to deliver and wake himself from the nightmare he was living in every day. "I am afraid my Lord," he prayed, "If this misery prolongs, I fear that I will take my life even tough it is the greatest sin."
He spent the next year, mourning for the collapsed Byzantine Empire. It was inconceivable how the empire of the Christians had fallen into ruins under the Barbarians. Clearly, there was a divine plan—there always was. But, it was hard to comprehend the motive behind it. Were his people punished for their sins and banished from their homeland like the Jews had been a couple of millenniums ago?
The third year went quicker than the first two as the weasel cursed his destiny continuously and pitied himself. Why him? There were thousands of souls in the Hagia Sophia Church on that day, and some of them were more honourable and impeccable than he was. They obviously deserved to be saved, too. Why was he chosen to undergo the transformation? Or, maybe, that was the wrong question. Maybe, the right question to ask was, "Who else underwent the transformation, along with him?"
Theo couldn't find any answers to his questions. On top of the disquieting conundrum of being clueless about the turn of events, the weasel felt as if he was utterly forsaken in a foreign land, in an alien body. How long would a weasel live? Five years, perhaps? Maybe it would live for ten years if it were not mauled and torn limb from limb by a cat or a dog. If that was the case, then he did not have much time left already.
Theo's body had changed, albeit mysteriously, his mind stayed the same. He was still Theophanies Kantakouzenos, who regularly needed to quench his thirst for knowledge. His days were numbered; it was enough whining after three years. He started with learning the language of the horde that invaded his town. Yes, this was his town, called different names by different tribes — Lygos, Byzantium, Miklagard, Tsargard, Kustantiniyyah, Kostandina, Kushtandina Rabati, Bolis and Carigard.
Regardless of whatever the other tribes called the city straddling two continents, the place where his ancestors were born, lived, and died was the thousand-year hometown to Theo. As he learned the language of the Turks, Theo realised that the differences between them and his people are not vast. Sure, Turks were warlike; they worshipped their horses and were technically advanced and enthusiastic about making pyramids from the heads of their fallen enemies.
However, such extravagant displays of violence were not reserved for the descendants of the steppe raiders. In wars, the civilisation herself always ran under a bunk and stayed there until the bloodshed finished.
The earth, under Istanbul, was home to the world's biggest network of interconnected tunnels. The city's smart kings, since the creation of the tunnels, were well aware of the value of a secret pathway to freedom in case of a siege. The large maze of underground passageways grew with the city. In the last years of the Byzantine Empire, nobody knew how the İstanbul underground looked like exactly, except the spies and the smugglers.
Theo found his new home in those tunnels, in an old cellar relinquished hundreds of years ago. Ten years and, then, twenty years passed. Apparently, Theo's lifespan was more than that of a weasel's. One winter day, he visited a bakery to steal some bread. Hunger had numbed his senses, and he walked so recklessly that the baker's cat noticed him. The big, fat cat lunged at him and bit into Theo's fragile body, shaking it with fury. After the beast had heard the weasel's shattered bones rattle, it left Theo to die. Theo was barely alive and thought that it was the end. He was buried in the snow, could not feel his legs, and could hardly breathe. Soon after, fatigue enveloped him like a warm blanket, and he cherished the thought. He began to lose consciousness, but he felt happy. The next day, however, he woke up and found that he was totally and miraculously healed. There was no sign of last night's fatal attack — no lacerations and broken bones. His body was totally regenerated.
Understanding that he was immortal, Theo could not decide if it was a gift or a curse.
He was able to hold a pen and write again after decades of practice with his small hands. Watching the primary school children studying, Theo learned the Turkish alphabet based on Arabic letters. In the first fifty years, he went to the church, then to the synagogue and then to the mosque. When the German Lutherans and Anglicans visited his hometown, Theo listened to them, too. However, in the end, he decided to go wherever free food was handed out.
He evaded most of the earthquakes, plagues and firestorms, and when he got caught, Theo was lucky enough to get away without any permanent harm. During a fire that consumed half of Istanbul, he found himself in the middle of the blazes and burned to the bone. The day after, he walked on the ashes unharmed and went home carrying some well-cooked bologna with him.
Theo's interaction with humans was limited. It did not take a long time to experience the people's fear of the supernatural. Regardless of their race and religion, people got petrified on occasion at seeing a talking weasel. Their first reaction was always fear, and fear often triggered violence. He decided not to directly interact with the people unless it was necessary.
However, Theo was neither an eremite nor a fool who turned his face away from the world and hence found indirect ways of communication to accommodate his needs. Yes, Theo was a weasel, but he had his needs. He did not like stealing and preferred to earn his daily bread through hard and honest work.
He was skilful, alright. To put his skills to use, the weasel had to find a person or a family in distress. Locating the individuals in need was not a hard job for Theo. He could easily sneak into the houses and listen to the private conversations.
On finding such a home, the weasel wrote an elegant letter to the dwellers, stating that he had heard the household's problem from one of his friends and how it made him sore. Then, he always added that he is ready to help and use his skills to fix the situation in return for a small favour. If the stricken person were to write back, affirm that he would like to get some help from the good Samaritan Detective Theo and hang the letter to a designated tree, a trained weasel would pick up the letter and bring it to to the detective. It was to no avail to catch the swift weasel, Theo pointed. After the deal had stricken, Theo was in business.
Mostly, he had to deal with the landlords trying to scare the renters away by playing tricks, petty thieves and vermin. However, occasionally, a forgotten ghost, a restless spirit or a mischievous genie was the cause of the problem. In that case, Theo consulted the books of the arcane knowledge that he could access anytime, thanks to his tiny corpus and the tendency of the old walls' nature to crack. Through these cracks, Theo wormed his way into any library he wanted to.
Theo charged his clients variably — books, newspaper subscriptions and alchemy ingredients but mostly bologna. Bologna was his Achilles heel, and he could accept it as a form of payment anytime.
Five hundred years passed.
In that period, Theo had written 20 books in Latin, 25 in Greek and 30 in Turkish, on various subjects. He used a pen name and made lots of money from them. His best seller was titled "what women do at home when you are away?" Some of his books were on magic, demon hunting and cloak-and-dagger.
Theo and the thousand-year hometown changed complementing each other.
This is their story.