A complex tapestry of interwoven themes spanning many centuries, Istanbul is a kaleidoscopic patchwork, a city of polar contrasts, and we are not lost for ways to explore the city and its denizens of times past. Istanbul is a city of the mind, an imaginary space that spurred writers and poets to document it in not only Turkish literature but also literature from many other cultures. Ottoman-Turkish literature alone portrays the rich andheterogeneous imagery of Istanbul ina variety of genres, including poems, plays, chronicles, memoirs and novels, and this article explores that literary tradition. It draws upon selected works that range from the Ottoman conquest of the city in 1453 up until the early 19th century, and then beyond that time when a burgeoning print culture grew, when new literary forms arose such as novels, plays and short stories. Authors of the selected texts comprise writers and poets such as Latifi, Zaifi, Fikri Çelebi, Gelibolulu Ali, Veysi, Evliya Çelebi, Nedim, Badr al-Din al-Ghazzi, Muhammad Kibrit, Tevfik Fikret, Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar, İlhan Berk and Orhan Pamuk. Most of these authors’ works suggest that, unlike other great cities of the world, one’s perception of Istanbul is rooted somewhere within one’s soul.

Completing the trajectory of the book through text, illustration, recitation, architecture, and iconography, this final chapter looks at a case study for the intersection of text, image, and sound in Hagia Sophia. By looking at a sixth-century plaque from the church’s original construction and its afterlife over the centuries, the chapter studies how iconographies develop and change through various uses and contexts of display, and how these shifts alter the resonances with which the reading of the Gospel in the church was understood. The chapter seeks to unsettle our expectations of iconography and how ritual and space intersect with one another.

In considering the uses of the lectionary by readers, this chapter focuses on the effect that the sound and acoustics of the readings’ chanting had in the space of a church like Hagia Sophia. By looking not only at ritual but also the architecture and decoration of the church, the chapter argues that the decoration of churches and the uses of the Gospel lectionaries responded to one another. Focusing on the plaque above the Imperial Doorway, for example, we see a place where an abridged lectionary is depicted, citing Gospel readings and also omitting key words, which the manuscripts show us were to be given sonic emphasis by chanters. Therefore, the argument is that architectural decorations in the church played with the impact and delivery of the chanted Gospels in order to reflect on the salvation that the readings conveyed and guaranteed to the faithful.

Justinian turned the greatest domestic challenge of his reign (the Nika riots) into a spectacular opportunity for promoting his gloria. He constructed the last imperial forum in Constantinople on the ruins and foundations of the old Augoustaion. Hagia Sophia was the first major element of the new vision to be constructed (532–37 CE), while the triumphal column was the last (ca. 543 CE). No ruler in the premodern era would surpass Justinian’s spectacular accomplishments of either Hagia Sophia or the triumphal column. Justinian deliberately appropriated a colossal equestrian sculpture from the forum of Theodosios. While rulers before him commissioned great equestrian monuments, only he chose to place an equestrian monument at the top of a triumphal column. Like the colossal statues of his predecessors, Constantine and Theodosios, the equestrian Justinian also faced east. The bronze horseman came to command the city’s skyline and define the image of Constantinople. This awesome statement of power became a towering reminder of Justinian and his seemingly boundless might.

The physical destruction of the bronze horseman did not cause it to vanish from the Ottoman imperial imagination. Key sixteenth-century Ottoman manuscripts testify to its afterlife as a curious artefact and historical marvel. Even though the bronze horseman lost its association with Justinian, it continued to be seen as an important symbol of the pre-Ottoman past. Its physical absence could even magnify its stature. In the fascinating illustrated version of the prophetic manuscript of Al-Bistami's “Translation of the key to the comprehensive prognostication,” the reader encounters the horseman among a diachronic, curated display of the city’s monumental wonders: Hagia Sophia, the obelisk of Theodosios, the serpent column, and the masonry obelisk. They shared pre-Ottoman origins, they stood in the spaces of power associated with Byzantine culture, and they exercised power over the contemporary Ottoman imagination. Justinian’s monument stood for a discursively complicated and inconvenient past. Even though its physical presence was eliminated, its memory could not be completely erased. It continued to haunt Ottoman imagination in narratives of wonders and apocalyptic scenarios, populating an unnerving landscape of a marvelous foreign past, which lurked everywhere in the great city.

Justinian was an outsider who became the ultimate insider thanks to family connections and steely political acumen. During the decade of his uncle’s rule, Justinian patiently and persistently elevated himself in power and dignity. He collected titles and honors, wooed supporters, strengthened his network, and initiated building projects. Already at the inception of his reign in 527 he articulated a competitive desire to outshine and elevate himself above his imperial predecessors. Encountering the Theodosian city must have convinced Justinian of the significance of Constantinople’s spaces of display and public stages for the commemoration of power. His intense competition for glory began before he ascended to the throne. The church of SS. Sergius and Bacchus foreshadowed his crowning achievements – Hagia Sophia and his triumphal column. These would transcend his lifespan, keep generations spellbound, and exercise powerful agency far beyond the boundaries of the empire.

This chapter explores the liturgical world of compunction – the sacred space of the Byzantine liturgy. It focuses on the cathedral of Hagia Sophia, which was the epicentre of worship in Constantinople, and investigates the liturgical significance of Novella 137, the sixth-century edict of Emperor Justinian that betokened the compunctious character of the Byzantine Eucharist. It also examines the liturgical commentaries of Dionysius the Areopagite, Maximus the Confessor and Germanos of Constantinople for further evidence of experiencing sacred song in Byzantium, before briefly touching upon affective mysticism and its significance for Byzantine hymnody. Finally, it probes the liturgical and hermeneutical framework for compunction in Byzantium – Great Lent and the Triodion.

This chapter reconstructs the liturgical context of two chronicle entries about Princess Olga of Kiev: the account of her baptism in Constantinople in 955 and the panegyric following her death in 969. The chapter demonstrates that the tale of the princess’ baptism derives, in part, from the tenth-century baptismal rubrics of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. In the liturgical manuscripts, every word and action for the baptismal ritual is spelled out for the priest performing the service. In the chronicle, the prelate and princess act out these ritual behaviours between baptiser and baptised, precisely as they are prescribed in the church books. The chapter also uncovers the liturgical typologies in the text. In 955, Princess Olga is depicted as a ‘Slavic Mary’ using hymns from the major feasts of the Mother of God, and in 969 she is cast as the ‘Slavic Forerunner’ using hymns from a series of feasts surrounding the conception and birth of major sacred figures, such as Saint John the Baptist. The ‘blessed Olga’ is thus best understood not as a biblical or hagiographical creation but rather as a liturgical one. She is a textual figure fashioned from the songs, prayers, and readings of the Byzantine rite.