Bodrum Mosque

Listen for a moment. Around you, the Laleli district hums with traffic, shop shutters, and the calls of traders hauling bundles of fabric. Yet in front of you sits a small building of narrow red brick and pale mortar. Its walls bulge outward in rounded ribs, like the folds of a heavy curtain. You are standing beside one of the oldest working places of worship in Istanbul, and almost nobody hurrying past gives it a second look.

This is Bodrum Mosque. For most of its long life, though, it was a Byzantine church. Its Greek name was the Myrelaion, which is usually explained as a place linked with myrrh, the fragrant resin once used in sacred oils. Today it stands in the district of Fatih, inside the old walled city. Fatih takes its name from Mehmed the Conqueror, the Ottoman sultan who took Constantinople in 1453.

The story begins in the early tenth century, with an unlikely emperor. Romanos Lekapenos was not born into the imperial family. He rose as a naval commander, then married his daughter to the young emperor and became co-ruler himself. Here, close to his own family property, he built a palace and this church beside it. The church was meant as a private foundation, a place for his household's prayers.

It was also meant as a family resting place. Historical sources record that Romanos's wife, Theodora, was buried here after her death in the 920s. Other members of the family were later laid to rest here as well. Think of it as a dynasty's chapel and tomb in one. That ambition is worth remembering, because Romanos was eventually removed from power by his own sons, and he ended his days as a monk in exile.

Now look closely at the shape of the building. This is what architects call a cross-in-square plan. Inside, four supports hold up a central dome, and the space around them forms the arms of a cross within a square outline. This layout became the standard design for middle Byzantine churches. The Myrelaion is one of the early, compact examples, so small that it feels almost domestic.

Here is the first surprise. The church you see does not sit on the ground. It stands on top of another church. Below the main floor is a lower level, a vaulted substructure that lifts the upper building to the height of the old palace terrace. The Turkish word bodrum means basement or vaulted cellar. So the mosque's name comes from this hidden storey beneath your feet.

The second surprise lies just a few steps away. Near the church, archaeologists studied a huge round building, a rotunda that is older than the church itself. Scholars date it to around the fifth century. When Romanos built his palace, the rotunda was turned into a vast cistern to store water under the new residence. Istanbul sits on a dry peninsula, and Byzantine engineers built hundreds of these underground reservoirs.

After the Ottoman conquest, the church slowly changed hands. Around the turn of the sixteenth century, it was converted into a mosque by Mesih Pasha. He was an Ottoman grand vizier who, according to the usual account, came from the old Byzantine Palaiologos family and converted to Islam. There is a quiet irony here. A descendant of the last Byzantine dynasty turned an emperor's family church into a mosque.

The conversion followed a familiar pattern. A prayer niche, the mihrab, was set into the wall facing Mecca. A minaret rose beside the building. Where Christian images had decorated the walls, plain surfaces took their place. Inside, the frescoes and mosaics that once covered the dome are gone. What remains is the bare logic of the space — dome, arches, light from small windows.

The building did not have an easy life. Fires swept through this crowded neighbourhood many times over the centuries, and the mosque was damaged and repaired more than once. For long periods it stood ruined and unused. In the twentieth century, a major restoration and archaeological study brought it back. Much of the brickwork you see today comes from that careful rebuilding, which is why some surfaces look so clean and even.

Step back and study the walls again. Those rounded ribs running up the outside are a distinctive feature of this church. They break the flat surface into rhythm and shadow, and they change character as the sun moves. Notice the bands of brick laid with thick lines of mortar between them. This was a common Byzantine technique. The builders used the mortar almost as much as the brick itself.

If the mosque is open, you are welcome to go inside, as long as you respect prayer times. Remove your shoes at the entrance. Women should cover their hair, and everyone should cover shoulders and knees. The interior is small and calm. Stand under the dome, look up, and imagine the gold mosaics that once glittered there by candlelight. Then think of the vaulted rooms lying silent directly beneath you.

When you walk back out, the street will rush in again — the engines, the voices, the bright shop windows. Take one last look at the red brick ribs before you go. This modest building has served an emperor, a grand vizier, and generations of neighbourhood worshippers. As you move on through Fatih, keep an eye on the ground and the old walls around you. Much of the Byzantine city is still here, just a little below the surface.