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    To those who make it all possible...

    My research trip to Turkey was several years in the making. Along the way, I was fortunate enough to get the help of some truly amazing, generous, thoughtful people, many of whom asked absolutely nothing in return, providing assistance out of simple enthusiasm for the project or the goodness of their hearts. 

    Many of the connections I made along the way were made possible by the fantastic people at Peter SommerTravels, including and above all Peter himself. I exchanged emails with Peter and his team off and on for several years as I planned the trip. They helped me identify potential sites to visit, introduced me to several useful contacts, and pointed me in the direction of a number of experts in various fields. Along the way, they were always gracious, always happy to help. Peter and his astonishingly qualified team of historians, archaeologists, and professional travel guides did all this without any benefit to themselves, aside from the pleasure of sharing their passion for their work with someone (me) who could appreciate it. I can't thank them enough. If I can convince Felicia that Turkey's Mediterranean coast really is a bit of heaven on earth, I hope to drag her along on one of Peter's gulet cruises. Missing out on that experience was one of my few regrets about the trip.

    It was Peter who introduced me to Cem Yucesoy, the man who, in the end, helped me assemble all the disparate pieces of my jigsaw puzzle of an itinerary into a functional whole. If you've ever wondered how all those fantastic documentaries on The History Channel and the like get made, how all those film crews and actors and scholars and experts are assembled in these exotic places often out in the middle of nowhere (and believe me, many of these archaeological sites are truly, today, in the middle of nowhere) - well, Cem is your answer. Is it a coincidence that his name rhymes with "gem"? I think not. Sadly (for me), Cem was away on one of his many film and TV projects while I was in country, and was thus only able to point me in the direction of people I could meet on the ground. I was sorry to miss him. He was invaluable, and the trip would not have come together as it did without his intimate knowledge of the resources that could be tapped to get it all done.

    Through Cem, in turn, I met Inci Turkoglu, guide extraordinaire, who steeered me through the maze that is modern Istanbul so I could find the historical treasures I was seeking beneath the sometimes thin veneer of the 21st century city. On my first morning in Istanbul, Inci sat with me over breakfast in my hotel and went over my much-marked-up map of the city, helping orient my research-driven conception of 8th-century Constantinople against the reality of modern-day Istanbul. She then organized a day-long outing that fulfilled all my history-nerd dreams, the geekish equivalent of arranging a front-row courtside seat at a Lakers game for a sports nut. She was also instrumental in hooking me up with several of the other people who gave me so much insight into my period later in the trip. Inci's energy and humor were a joy. It didn't hurt that she seemed to know every last person who has ever done archaeological work in or around Istanbul, at least by name. 

    It was Inci who took me to visit the Bathonea Project, where Haldun Aydingün and his team of archaeologists spent the better part of a morning showing me around one of the most astonishing sites in Turkey. On the shores of Lake Küçükcekmece, west of modern-day Istanbul, lies a peninsula that has thus far escaped the rampant development that surrounds it on all sides. Beneath the topsoil of the farms and the lush overgrowth along the lakeshore is layer upon layer of evidence of human habitation going back to the Paleolithic period. Only a tiny fraction of the site has been excavated to date, and there is all too much likelihood that the discoveres that lie in wait may be obliterated in favor of concrete-block high rise apartments. Haldun showed me two of the major digs from the previous season, enormous cisterns and market structures and roadways from the early Roman period and earlier. Almost as wonderful was the lunch the team shared with me, and their kindness toward this completely random historical novelist who walked into their trailers on a fine morning in early August. Amazing people, for whose generosity I am deeply grateful.

    That same afternoon, Inci took me into the somewhat sketchy harborfront neighborhoods of Yenikapı, in the south and west of Istanbul, where the project to build a tunnel under the Marmara between Europe and Asia had uncovered an unexpected treasure trove. The Yenikapı Harbor Excavations, led by the Istanbul Archaeological Museums with technical expertise provided by the Department of Conservation of Marine Archaeological Objects at Istanbul University, have thus far uncovered more than 35 ships from the 5th to 11th centuries, in what was once the Byzantine Port of Theodosius at the mouth of Lykos Creek. The fresh water intermingled with the salt of the harbor helped to preserve the ships in a remarkably intact state - including at least two naval warships, dromon, the first examples of these archetypal vessels ever recovered.

    The graduate students doing the delicate work of preserving these finds, under the auspices of the Istanbul University Yenikapı Shipwrecks Project, showed me around a warehouse chock full of tanks, work tables, and vats. I touched a 1500-year-old fragment of planking and saw the 3D rendering being developed to recreate the likely structure and layout of one of the vessels, based upon a careful analysis of the bits that have been recovered. Evren Türkmenoğlu and Namık Kiliç, two of the graduate research assistants who were hard at work that day, were gracious enough to share their findings with me. Their enthusiasm was infectious. The work is still at a very early stage - each of those 35+ ships represents someone's PhD thesis - and already the early discoveries have had a significant impact on our understanding of maritime trade and ship construction in the early to middle medieval period. Yenikapı may well be one of the most important sites ever found in the still-young field of nautical archaeology. I, for one, eagerly await further insights from these brilliant, dedicated people.

    It was also thanks to Inci that I met up with Mark Wilson, founder and director of the Asia Minor Research Center and author of dozens of books and articles on the Biblical history of Turkey. Despite the fact that my research was several centuries outside Mark's strike zone, he spent an evening doing much as Inci had done, going over my Master Map of Turkey (with its many post-its and sticky notes) and helping me figure out which sites might have been prominent in the early 8th century and whose remains would be worth visiting in the early 21st. Mark's guidance was invaluable in my exploration of the area between Antalya and Eğirdir, a region that could easily have profitably absorbed weeks, if not months, of my time.

    Mark also, more dubiously, introduced me to the best Mexican food in Antalya - which, I'm sad to say, left much to be desired. I suppose if you're thousands of miles away from home for months or years at a time, you learn to make do. I'm tempted to send Mark a care package full of tortillas, ancho chiles, and maybe menudo. If only it would make it through customs.

    I'm grateful to all these wonderful people, and many more who showed me gratuitous kindness and unexpected generosity along the way. I made many new friends. Turkey's reputation for hospitality did not disappoint.



    The Islamic State - the original vs. ISIS

    One of the elements that drew me to the task of writing a novel about the clash between Islam and the Byzantine Empire in the early 8th century, at the apogee of the Caliphate at the end of the first century of Islam, was that the topic resonated so deeply with current events.

    I know, it's not obvious to anyone but me, but bear with me.

    The germ of my novel was planted by an encounter in Puri, on the shore of the Bay of Bengal in India, in 1998. I met a man by chance, walking down the street, just a random encounter. He was a local, spoke excellent English, and apparently was intrigued to find an American wandering around his town - one who was not Hare Krishna, anyway. We talked for some time. He was curious about my take on geopolitics, relations between India and the West (versus those between India and Russia), the stance of the US toward Islam as a whole, and, of course, Monica Lewinsky. 

    It was a fascinating conversation. He was well-read, and though his position on virtually every issue was very different from mine, I found the challenge to my world-view refreshing. The idea of growing up thinking of Soviet Russia as an idyll, rather than a tyrannical police state, was mind-bending. Seeing American foreign policy through the eyes of someone who had watched it closely from a very different vantage point - in many ways, had watched it more closely than most Americans do - was likewise enlightening. 

    I told a local friend about this encounter a few days later. He grew increasingly alarmed. He asked me a number of questions about this guy I had met. Then he said, "You need to be careful. That man is Al Queda."

    At the time, this meant little to me. This was shortly after the bombings in Kenya and Tanzania, but years before 9/11. All I knew was that Al Queda was an extremist group, one of many that disliked America, but I felt no particular worry. I did resolve to be more careful, however. From that point on, I often pretended to be Canadian with anyone whose politics was doubtful. (I'm from Michigan. Playing Canadian isn't hard, especially when it isn't Canadians I'm trying to fool.)

    Then 9/11 happened. And London, and Bali, and Madrid - all of them, places I had been and knew reasonably well. Daniel Pearl was murdered. And it went on. A confrontation between the West and Islam loomed. 

    I had spent much of my time in India, and thereafter, trying to learn more about the history of the country, which led me into the history of Islam, since it's difficult to delve too deeply into India's past without encountering the Mughals, which leads inevitably into the great waves of Muslim expansion. I was largely ignorant up to that point about Central and South Asia, about the Umayyads and the Abbasids, about Sunnis and Shi'a and all the rest. I hate being ignorant. And the more I dug, the farther back I went, the more I realized that this clash between East and West goes back millenia. It's not Israel versus the Palestinians, or Iran versus the US, or even the Crusaders against Islam. This has been going on since the Persians fought the Romans - hell, since the Persians fought the Greeks. Perhaps longer. 

    You could argue, and I do, that there is a mindset that is influenced by the particular geography and social fabric of the great Asian landmass, a continental way of thinking that is very different from the Greco-Roman tradition. The Mediterranean/European worldview has clashed with the Central Asian/Persian/Islamic for centuries. 

    The clash came to a head in 717-18, when Islam threw all its might against Constantinople, the last remaining bastion standing between the Muslim armies and the weak, disorganized states in Europe beyond. Islam lost, resoundingly. It would be nearly 700 years before they came back in force. 

    The conflict continues. Nothing has been settled, because there is nothing to be settled. These are not worldviews that are mutually exclusive, but neither is one going to defeat the other, no matter how hard they try. It's human nature to take the sea of information that overwhelms our capacity to understand, and assemble meaning and "story" out of those pieces that we are predisposed to find most resonant. Depending on the cultural, social, economic, geographical, ethnic, and other factors that surround us, we will select different sets of "facts" (or cultural myths, bogeymen, biases, blind spots, what have you) with which to build our understanding of the way the world works. And the way in which those worldviews interact can either enrich the vast span of human knowledge, or start wars. 

    This was brought home to me by that encounter on the streets of Puri, 16 years ago. It's brought home to me again, tragically, when I watch the news today. Hamas and Israel, Russia and Ukraine, and most powerfully, today, when a second American journalist was beheaded by brutal thugs claiming to represent a new "caliphate" that should rule all of Islam. 

    I've been studying the caliphate. The real one, the original one, the one that goes back to the Prophet. I know its early history. I know what made it grow, and what brought it down - or at least, I know of the various theories and competing arguments. These people in Syria and Iraq have it all wrong. All. Wrong.

    The reason the early Islamic Caliphate grew so rapidly, spread so widely, became such a megalithic force in the world of the 7th and 8th centuries (1st and 2nd centuries A.H.), was not because of its unbending insistence on moral righteousness, its intolerance of dissent, or its brutality toward non-Muslims. On the contrary. Relatively small Muslim armies conquered virtually everywhere they went, for 100 years, because for the most part they rarely needed to fight. They were conquering people who wanted to be conquered, because they were ruled by regimes that were already unpopular. For the religious and ethnic minorities within, say, the Persian empire, or in Roman Egypt - to pick the most obvious examples - life under a tolerant, light-handed, broad-minded Islamic caliphate promised to be better than what they had known under the Persians, or the Romans. To the Monophysites, Copts, Nestorians, Jews, and other "heretical" sects, Islam offered protection instead of persecution. All they had to do was pay a tax and maintain order within their own communities, and they were given relative autonomy. 

    Islam spread because it was tolerant, not because it was brutal. Far from crushing dissent, the early Caliphs largely followed a live-and-let-live policy. Muslims, practicing Muslims (as opposed to those who merely recited the Shahada and otherwise went on their way), were likely a minority in many parts of the Caliphate well into the second and third centuries A.H. Indeed, conversion was often discouraged - non-Muslims paid higher taxes, after all, so mass conversions created economic crisis. 

    The only minorities that were systematically persecuted were those who threatened the Caliphate - and those were almost uniformly internal rebels within Islam, not Christians, Jews, or other non-Muslims. Most notably, the Kharijites, who engaged in a ruthless and ultimately losing war against the Caliphate because the Kharijites refused to accept interpretations of Islam that differed from their own. 

    ISIS, in my view, does not represent a renewal of the original, unified, all-embracing Caliphate of the Prophet and his immediate successors. It represents a modern-day version of the Kharijites. Brutally intolerant, socially and religiously ruthless, inflexibly dogmatic, and, ultimately, self-defeating. 

    It's important to remember, in this context, that it was not external enemies who brought down the Caliphate - not the Byzantines, or the Crusaders, or even the Mongols. What destroyed the unified Caliphate was internal dissolution. Rebellion from within, by other Muslims against their own. 

    As long as the clash can be represented as a defense of Islam against the cultural or military incursions by the West, a renewal of the Crusades against Muslim lands, a heroic stand against un-Islamic forces that would tear apart the fabric of Muslim belief, the forces of intolerance and hatred will hold sway. As evidence, just look at how the continued existence of Israel has served as a rallying force around which the most brutal of dictators could rally their people, distracting them from conditions at home by pointing them toward the perceived plight of the Palestinians and all the hyped-up injustices, real and imagined, the Palestinian people have suffered. When comparisons can be made, unquestioned, between the bulldozing of apartment buildings (traumatic to those who live in them or are hurt or killed resisting the destruction as this surely is) and the systematic, mechanized, fully conscious mass murder of millions of Jews and other minorities in the Holocaust, there are some mental synapses being shorted out. This kind of meta-hyperbole is only possible when a cultural archetype is under threat, something so powerful that it messes with people's minds. 

    Without the external threat, or perceived threat, the rallying point dissolves. That's when people like ISIS, or Hamas, can be seen for what they are - brutal, ruthless, inhuman thugs. More deadly by far to their own people than they are to the people they claim to hate. And that's when the forces of moderation and peace that are otherwise so inherent to the Islamic faith can take a stand and reassert sanity. 

    I suspect that had I confronted this alleged Al Queda affiliate in the streets of Puri that day, engaged him in heated rebuttals of his worldview in a head-on argument, the outcome might have been different. I chose, instead, to listen and learn, to engage in dialogue, and ultimately to write a book that delves into what happens when vastly different worldviews, and the cultures that embrace them, collide. 

    I'm not sure what I'm saying this might imply for geopolitics in today's world, except that I'm very glad I'm not a diplomat, a politician, or (God help them) a journalist. I ache for the people caught in the middle of the catastrophes that seem to be sprouting like fungus all over the nebulous border between Europe and Asia, from one end to the other. All I can say for sure is that I, for one, will keep trying to learn, listen, and understand. I still hate ignorance, after all these years. A hundred fifty books and counting, and I still can't say I have a good grasp on this whole East/West culture clash thing, on either the meta or the micro level, whether we're talking 1300 years or 13 days ago. But I'm still trying.


    The end of the adventure approacheth

    The journey is nearly over.

    In the past three weeks, I’ve visited more than 40 Roman and Byzantine-era sites. Driven more than 2500The Alahan Monastery, high in the Taurus Mountains near Mut kilometers. Taken at least 3,000 pictures, and filled a 300-page journal and most of a college composition book with notes on what I’ve seen. Spoken to archaeologists, historians, nautical preservationists, and many, many Turks and foreign travelers. It’s been a phenomenal adventure.

    Rarely have I found direct evidence of life in the Byzantine world of the early 8th century. For the most part, what remnants of the deep past are still evident are either much earlier – Roman, Greek, even Hittite – or later, Seljuk and Ottoman. The Byzantines of the early 8th century were in a period of profound instability and retrenchment. They had little time to build great monuments or establish new settlements. For the most part, they reused and repurposed the great works that came before them. Later, when their civilization recovered some of its former glory and established secure borders, they would again create astounding works of art and architecture – the mosaics of Chora Monastery, for example, or the frescoes in the Dark Church in Göreme. To judge by the remaining archaeological evidence – what has been unearthed to date, at least – the Byzantines of the early 8th century lived in a time when economic disaster, plague, invasion, loss of territory, and a series of massive earthquakes in the 6th and 7th centuries had reduced their world to a state of constant instability.

    Part of the ongoing excavations at Amorium, capital of the Byzantine Anatolikon themeAnd yet… I’ve come to believe – and some emerging archaeological and multi-disciplinary research on complex adaptive systems seems to support this view – that the so-called Dark Ages of Byzantium were not completely dark. Constantinople, for example, may have had a much smaller population in the early 8th century than it did in, say, the early years of Justinian I’s reign, 150 or so years before. Large areas of the city had been given over to orchards and vegetable gardens, the great monumental buildings were sometimes not maintained, little new building was going on aside from repairs to the defensive walls, and the mansions of earlier generations of the aristocracy may have been subdivided into smaller apartments. Yet this makes sense for a city adapting to vastly different circumstances – we just have to look at Detroit for a contemporary comparison. Over time, the Byzantines repurposed the structures of the great city Constantine had built and made them relevant to their new circumstances. In the process, they made the city more self-sufficient and resilient in the face of threat. A city with a smaller population and its own resources for food production – orchards, gardens, fisheries – is much more able to withstand external threat than is one bursting at the seams with overpopulation, dependent upon distant provinces for its basic sustenance, with sprawling suburbs outside the city walls whose people would swell the already overwhelming numbers of hungry mouths inside the defenses in times of crisis.

    What ruins I did find that were directly attributable to my period or that would clearly have been in continuousThe ancient citadel at Afyon (Akroinon), which goes back at least as far as the Hittites occupation throughout it – say, the great city of Amorium, or Syllaeum (Syllium) on the Pamphylian plain – show that the Byzantines had not lost the ability to thrive and build upon the inheritance of their forebears, where the circumstances allowed. Elaborate stonework is in evidence at Amorium, a city built in the early Byzantine period that was the capital of the Anatolikon theme – the strongest and most strategically vital of all the Byzantine provinces – throughout the period I’m researching. Syllaeum awaits serious excavation, which may reveal many heretofore hidden secrets about its progression from Hittite stronghold to Greek city-state to Roman town to Byzantine fortress, and onward. Even inside Constantinople, sites like the Yenikapı harbor excavations reveal that maritime trade may have continued to thrive, albeit perhaps on a more regional scale compared to the height of the Roman era. Other sites relevant to the early Byzantine period, such as the church of St. Mary of Chalkoprateia in Istanbul, have yet to be retrieved from their currently neglected state – in this case, hidden behind a sidewalk café, used as a lighting backdrop and otherwise left to crumble into further ruin – remain to be explored.

    A half-buried inscription at AmoriumI’m certain that if the same kind of passion and resources that the archaeological and historical communities have devoted to the Greek and Roman eras were applied to Byzantine sites, we could learn much about the lives of these people struggling to adapt to rapid changes in their economic, social, religious, geopolitical, and even ecological environments. I have no doubt that much of what we’d find would challenge pre-existing assumptions about the “Dark Ages” of Byzantium.

    Meanwhile, for lack of the wealth of evidence that I would have found were my book set, say, 7 centuries earlier, I must rely on my own imagination and the work of a few pioneers in early Byzantine studies to re-create the world in which my characters might have lived. This journey has provided invaluable fuel for that leap of the imagination. All that’s left now is to tell the story.

    “All.” As if that weren’t everything.

    As of today, I have a complete draft of Part One. Part Two awaits when I return home. Onward.

    Some of the better pictures I've taken over the course of my 2500km journey from Antalya to Cappadocia can be found here.



    Over the past few days, since leaving Istanbul, I've covered something like 700km by road all across the Pamphyian plain, the Pisidian highlands and the passes through the Tauros Mountains, and on into the Central Plateau. Except while sleeping, I've barely sat still. My great "rest stop" was an afternoon in Eğirdir, a pretty little town on the gorgeous lake of the same name, napping and catching up on my trip planning and emails. Other than that, it's been dawn to dusk exploration. Time is growing short. In eight days, I catch a flight back to the States, and I still have the entire stretch of the old Royal Road from here (Afyon) to Cappadocia and the Cilician Gates beyond to cover.

    I've spent a morning scrambling up the steep escarpment at Sillyon (Sillaeon), one of the major fortified towns near Attaleia (modern Antalya), in 44-degree C heat. I've gotten thoroughly lost trying to find the ruins of Milyos and Cremna, which are a good 10 km away from where the Michelin maps show them, on crazy one-lane rural roads that wind through the mountains. (I got found again. I thank my Viking ancestors for my navigational sense.) I spent two hours trekking around the magnificent pre-Hellenistic, Hellenistic, Roman and early Byzantine city of Sagalassos, high in the mountains in what should have been a nearly impregnable position, though its strategic location stopped neither Alexander the Great nor a series of earthquakes and plagues that ultimately doomed the city.

    I spent a couple hours in the impossibly confusing and traffic-crazy town of Yalvaç trying to find the ruins of Antioch in Pisidia, a major crossroads city that was besieged by the son of Caliph al-Walid I in 713 and never fully recovered. (The remaining ruins are unimpressive, once found.) I've followed both the western route (Via Sebaste) and central route of the old Roman roads through the Taurus mountains to the central highlands, trying to retrace the ways travelers and/or armies might have made it from the coast to the strategic cities in the Anatolikon theme during the time of my novel. 

    Today comes the highlight of this part of the trip: Amorium, the Byzantine fortress city that was the capital of the Anatolikon theme. The city was sacked by the Arabs in 838 and never fully recovered, but at the time of my book, it was a relatively thriving crossroads city, well fortified and crucial to the defense of west-central Anatolia and the approaches to the strategically vital cities farther to the west and northwest. Here, the future Leo III, newly appointed strategos of the Anatolikon theme, played a game of cat-and-mouse with the Arab armies in the summer of 716, holding out to them the possibility that he might be their bought man in Constantinople if they would only help him attain the throne, while buying time and pinning the bulk of the Arab army in place through an entire campaign season while he frustrated them through sheer diplomatic wiles. From here, he raced to Constantinople as soon as the campaign season was over and, with the help of Artavasdos, the strategos of the vital Armenian theme, made his ultimately successful bid for the Imperium.

    Amorium is crucial to my story, so I hope the site will whisper to my imagination whatever secrets it has left to tell. Sadly, the team that has been excavating the site for the past 25 years or more did not obtain their permit to dig this year, so there will likely be no archaeologists on site. I'll have to go by the articles and maps that I brought with me, and then bombard Christopher Lightfoot and Zeliha Demirel Gökalp, the former and current directors of the Amorium Project, with questions about the state of the city in 715. 

    It will be a big day.

    And then, tomorrow, on to Cappadocia, via the ancient roads (or the closest approximation I can manage on the current road system), to see what an army invading from the Cilician Gates would have seen as they crossed the Anatolian Plateau. I look forward to Cappadocia both as a capstone of my journey and as a chance to take a (relative) rest. Assemble my notes, catch up on my actual writing, and explore the remaining areas in south-central Turkey that would have played a role in the story of the Siege of 717-18 and its buildup. 

    I've uploaded several new batches of photos from my journey - so far untagged, but organized by site, to make it easier to identify what you're seeing. When time permits, I'll try to go through and describe each photo and provide further detail.



    Istanbul, farewell

    My last day in Istanbul. A city of deep history, bewildering diversity, a multi-layered heritage going back to ancient times, and a vigorous embrace of modernity. I’ve learned so much since I’ve been here that it feels like much more than a week has passed. I’ve learned what the city can still teach about the life and surroundings of its inhabitants thirteen centuries ago – an effort of imagination, given the vast accumulation of relics from later times that stand atop the city the Byzantines would have known. Long before the population explosion and resulting relentless development of the past twenty years, Istanbul was never especially sentimental about its pre-Ottoman history. Yet enough remains to enable an imaginative historian – or writer – to assemble a mosaic of what early Byzantine Constantiople would have looked like. I’ve filled two notebooks and taken hundreds of pictures. I have what I came for.

    As a traveler, Istanbul astounds. In the Old City, from Sultanahmet to Eminönü, you can hear dozens of languages spoken. At any restaurant in the main tourist areas, you will find waiters who are fluent in half a dozen tongues in addition to their own. Alongside families from the Emirates and Saudi Arabia with women in burkas and children in strollers, you will see burly Aussie men in sleeveless tank tops, Frenchwomen in halter tops and short-shorts, backpackers loaded front and back with their essentials who haven’t showered for days, and modernity-craving young Turks in spray-on jeans and t-shirts with logos from Old Navy and Victoria’s Secret. You can’t walk a step without being approached by a would-be “tour guide” or carpet seller or the owner of a shop selling the famous Iznik ceramics, who will follow you trying guess where you’re from, in several languages if you don’t immediately respond to their first approach. It’s impossible to avoid walking through someone’s snapshot of their family against the backdrop of the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia, still staring each other down across the plaza after all these centuries.

    I suppose it’s possible to find bad food in Istanbul. So far, however, I haven’t. I could live on the desserts alone, quite happily. Even the ice cream is sprinkled with ground pistachios. You can stand a spoon in the coffee – the key is to know when to stop, before you ingest the mud at the bottom. Avoid the Nescafe. But you knew that.

    Heaven must be something like sitting on a rooftop terrace at sundown, white tablecloths under a plate of meze, eating olives cured with herbs and munching baklava after your meal, while watching the lights come on across the city and the tankers sailing majestically through the blue, blue waters of the Bosphorus. Even a non-believer can be transported by the haunting calls to prayer ululating from the muezzin’s loudspeakers, a call and response that echoes back and forth across the entire city five times a day. The prayer schedule can be inconvenient for those who like to sleep in or go to bed early. But you certainly know you are in a place that stands poised between continents, self-consciously aware of its unique place in the world. Neither Europe nor Asia, neither Middle East nor Mediterranean, but a mélange of all the above. It’s a heady mixture.

    While I’ve been here, I’ve walked virtually the entire length of the ancient Theodosian Walls, from the Marmara to the south to the Golden Horn in the north. I’ve walked along the Golden Horn itself from Blachernae to Topkapı, and around to Sultanahmet again. I’ve visited with archaeologists at the Bathonea Project west of the city, who were incredibly kind and generous with their time and their knowledge, showing me a site that could easily be at the beginning stages of a hundred-year dig on the scale of Troy and Ephesus, if only budget issues and pressures from developers spare their 700,000-year relics that lie under corn fields and thick underbrush.

    I’ve had the rare privilege of visiting the well-hidden work area, buried in an industrial wasteland near the international ferry terminal, where archaeologists and conservationists and maritime experts try to piece together the enormous treasure trove discovered when the Marmara Tunnel project uncovered a vast array of perfectly preserved ships and their cargoes from the 5th to the 8th centuries. I touched the planking of a 1500-year-old ship. I met the young archaeologists working feverishly to catalog and preserve thousands of artifacts, from fragments of ship’s hulls to pottery shards to jars of peaches and olives that sank into the harbor mud in Roman and early Byzantine times. I sat with a nautical reconstruction specialist at his computer and saw how the team has used precise digital measurement and advanced 3D modeling to recreate the exact dimensions and construction methods of one of the few intact Byzantine dromon ever found.

    The enthusiasm and generosity of these young archaeologists and academics was humbling. Their willingness to share their work and talk about their findings with a random American historical novelist left me feeling honored. It also gave me a profound sense of obligation to tell the story, not only of the work these incredible people are doing but of the lives and times they are piecing together, bit by bit, out of the soil and mud beneath a rapidly growing city voracious for land to build on.

    Profound thanks to Haldun Aydingün and the team of the Istanbul Prehistoric Research Project; Namik Kiliç, Evren Türkmenoğlu, and the team of the Istanbul University Yenikapı Shipwrecks Project; and Inci Türkoğlu, PhD, who was gracious enough to arrange for me to visit these precious sites and the dedicated people who are working to uncover their secrets. My thanks too to the wonderful staff of the Blue House Hotel, who have been as welcoming and helpful as any visitor 10,000 miles from home could wish.

    Tomorrow I will fly to Antalya. There, I hope to visit the ruins of many of the most prosperous cities of Roman and Byzantine times along the Mediterranean coast of Asia Minor. Thus will begin the more free-roaming stage of my journey, as I attempt to retrace the paths and places that might be crucial to my story. I’ll also need to start working hard on my Turkish. Once I leave Antalya, I’ll be traveling to areas that are not quite so accustomed to tourists. At a bare minimum, I hope to learn how to ask how to find the bathroom.