Free The Colour of Heaven by James Runcie Page A

saints, Paula and Uncumber, had both escaped being ravished by spontaneously growing miraculous moustaches.
    By the time they reached Constantinople, Paolo’s beard was in positive sprout and he had almost begun to enjoy the adventure. He had never seen such a majestic array of buildings: the city laid out in splendour across the waterfront, its mosques and minarets glistening in the evening light as if created by a single wave of God’s hand.
    Once they had disembarked the two men found themselves in a maze of narrow streets filled with strolling musicians, itinerant jugglers, sudden crowds, and intense heat. There were pickle sellers, spice merchants, halvamakers, and children hawking cherries and pistachios. There were barbers, bakers, butchers, and babies; prophets and priests, hajjis and hojas, judges and jewellers. Gem cutters and glyptographers worked turquoise from Anatolia, amber from the Baltic, agate and amethyst from beyond the seas. Jacopo stopped at each stall, measuring each of the stones, weighing and judging, pressing them to the side of his cheek to feel their temperature, continually assessing the validity of each sample on offer.
    Constantinople, he told Paolo, was a place of glory and of crime, where the best and the worst in human nature combined: the holiest men meditated amongst criminals; the most saintly women were forced to walk past murderers and whores. Paolo looked at the women who stood in the streets with their breasts exposed and wondered how much it might cost to touch them. It was hard for him to discern either their age or beauty, and every time they came close, Jacopo ushered them quickly away in disgust.
    He warned Paolo that this was a city of heat, noise, and strangeness, so loud, so crowded, and so confused that none could trust their sight or hearing, such was the nature of its blast and din. If the trumpet announcing the Day of Judgment were sounded he swore that it would pass unnoticed.
    Nothing was permanent, as if the city could never be stilled. Each person travelled for fear they might miss the end of the world, the solution to misery, or the key to happiness. They were looking for miracles, journeying in desperation to find somewhere, anywhere, other than where they were. Stalls and benches were laid out to soothe fears and answer any question a man or woman might choose to ask: ‘How long will I live?’ ‘Will I stay healthy?’ ‘How will I die?’ Others were more specific. ‘Shall I buy a farm?’ ‘Should I marry my cousin?’ ‘Am I the father of my wife’s child?’ There were fortune-tellers, palm-readers, and soothsayers all seeing into the future by different means: by contemplation, trance, or divine inspiration; by holding a piece of clothing or jewellery; by feeling muscles, drawing lots, turning cards; or by the simple observation of a flight of doves.
    Hour after hour people gave up their secrets and then listened as their personalities were revealed and confirmed: their weaknesses, hopes, and fears; their loves and losses, dreams and disasters. Charlatan after charlatan confirmed that although their clients could be outwardly confident they could be as vulnerable as children; that women were dissatisfied with their hair and men feared losing theirs; that some had been afraid of dogs as children, some needed to live near water, and others had a scar on their left knee. Christians were told that a woman called Maria had been, or would one day be, important to them. Jews were informed that a distant relative, David probably, was often in their thoughts. And it was confirmed to Mahometans that the Prophet was ever watchful.
    As they ate sweets of halva and fried dough, marzipan and sugar, Paolo asked if he too could find out about his future, and even his past. Would he ever meet his true mother or father? Would he find the blue stone? Would he ever know love?
    ‘It is not good to know of the future,’ Jacopo answered. ‘It is for God alone.’
    ‘But