Winter break came faster than Mehmet expected.
The English preparatory program had no final exam in December—just a progress report and a list of recommended reading for the holiday. Gülseren Hoca wished them well and told them to rest, because the spring semester would be harder.
Mehmet did not go home to Erzurum. There was too much to do in Istanbul, and the flight was expensive. He called his mother instead, late on the last day of classes, and listened to her tell him about the new calf—a healthy female, born two weeks ago, already standing on her own.
"Your father named her Medipol," Hatice said, and Mehmet could hear the smile in her voice.
"That's a terrible name for a cow."
"Your father thought it was funny."
They talked for twenty minutes. Belkis got on the phone and described her school play, in which she had played a talking tree. Hasan said little, as always, but at the end he took the phone and said, "Come home when you can. But not before you're ready."
Mehmet promised he would.
---
Rıza called on the morning of December 28th.
"We leave tomorrow," he said. "The Ministry has arranged everything. We'll take the high‑speed train from Söğütlüçeşme to Ankara. Be at the station by eight."
"How long will we stay?"
"Two nights. Three days. We'll visit the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, meet with the authentication team, and—if the schedule holds—visit the Presidential Complex."
Mehmet paused. "The Presidential Complex?"
"The artifacts are significant enough that the President has taken an interest. He wants to see them personally." Rıza's voice was calm, as if meeting the President was an ordinary occurrence. "Don't be nervous. Just be yourself."
---
The high‑speed train left Istanbul at 8:30 AM.
Mehmet had never ridden a train before. The carriage was clean and modern, with wide seats and large windows. Rıza sat across from him, reading a thick book on Seljuk metalwork. A young woman from the Ministry—Ayşe, a文物保护 specialist in her thirties—sat beside Rıza, typing on her laptop.
The train moved through the city, then the suburbs, then the open countryside. Factories gave way to farms, farms to hills, hills to the endless brown plateau of Central Anatolia. The sky was wide and pale, the clouds thin.
"Ankara is different from Istanbul," Rıza said, without looking up from his book. "Less romantic. More serious."
"I've never been."
"You'll see. Istanbul is a city of merchants and artists. Ankara is a city of civil servants and soldiers. Both are necessary. Neither understands the other."
Ayşe looked up from her laptop. "That's a little cynical, Professor."
"It's accurate." Rıza turned a page. "But I'm old. I'm allowed to be cynical."
---
The train arrived at Ankara YHT Station at 11:15 AM.
The station was vast and modern, all glass and steel, filled with the sound of announcements and rolling suitcases. A driver from the Ministry was waiting outside—a young man in a dark suit, holding a tablet with Rıza's name.
They drove through the streets of Ankara. Mehmet watched from the window. The city was spread across low hills, its buildings a mix of old stone and new glass. Wide boulevards lined with apartment blocks. Parks with statues of Atatürk. Government buildings with Turkish flags flying from every pole.
"This is the real capital," Rıza said. "Not the pretty one you see on postcards. The working capital. The one that runs the country."
They passed the old parliament building, the Anıtkabir visible on a distant hill, the sprawling complexes of ministries and directorates. The streets were busy but not chaotic—organized, purposeful.
Their hotel was in the Kızılay district, a mid‑range business hotel with a clean lobby and a small restaurant. Rıza handled the check‑in while Mehmet waited with the bags.
"We have an appointment at the museum at two," Rıza said, handing him a room key. "Rest for an hour. We'll meet in the lobby."
---
The Museum of Anatolian Civilizations was built into two Ottoman-era buildings near the Ankara Castle. The entrance was unassuming—a stone doorway, a small ticket booth—but inside, the museum opened into a series of vaulted halls filled with treasures from every civilization that had called Anatolia home.
Mehmet walked slowly through the galleries, Rıza beside him. They passed Hittite reliefs, Phrygian artifacts, Urartian bronze work, Lydian jewelry. The collection was staggering—thousands of years of history compressed into a single building.
"This is where your artifacts will come," Rıza said quietly. "If the authentication team approves them."
They were met at the end of the gallery by a woman in her fifties—Professor Gülseren Öktem, the museum's chief curator. She had gray hair pulled back in a bun and sharp, assessing eyes.
"Professor Kaya," she said, shaking his hand. "It's been too long."
"Gülseren. This is Mehmet Aydemir, the young man I told you about."
Professor Öktem turned to Mehmet. "You found the artifacts?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Where?"
"In a caravanserai near my village. East of Güzelyurt, in Erzurum."
She nodded slowly. "The Saltukid region. That fits." She gestured toward a door at the back of the gallery. "Come. Let's see what you've brought."
---
The authentication lab was a small, windowless room filled with equipment—microscopes, scales, cameras, chemical analyzers. A young technician sat at a desk, waiting.
Mehmet opened his bag and carefully placed the wooden box on the table. He lifted the lid.
The ring. The coin. The cylinder. The dagger.
Professor Öktem picked up the ring first. She held it under a magnifying lamp, turning it slowly. She examined the carnelian, the carving, the patina of the bronze.
"Saltukid," she said. "Late twelfth century. The star‑and‑circle motif is consistent with their court seals." She set it down and picked up the coin. "Alâeddin Keykubad. The silver content is high. This is a treasury issue, not a common circulation coin."
She examined the dagger next, running a gloved finger along the blade. "Turkish workmanship. The turquoise is from the Erzurum region—there are old mines there. The lion's head pommel is unusual. Most Seljuk daggers have geometric hilts."
Finally, she picked up the cylinder. She held it to the light, then set it down without comment.
"The cylinder will need to be X‑rayed," she said. "The wax seal is intact, but we need to know what's inside before we attempt to open it."
She looked at Mehmet. "These are genuine. There's no question. You've done your country a significant service."
Mehmet felt something loosen in his chest. "Thank you, Professor."
"Don't thank me. Thank your eyes." She turned to Rıza. "The Ministry will want to announce this. The timing will need to be coordinated."
"I'll handle that," Rıza said.
---
That evening, Rıza took Mehmet to a small restaurant near the hotel. The food was simple—grilled meat, rice, salad, ayran—but it was the first real meal Mehmet had eaten all day.
"You handled yourself well," Rıza said, cutting his meat. "Professor Öktem is not easy to impress."
"She seemed professional."
"She is. That's why her approval matters." Rıza took a bite, chewed, swallowed. "Tomorrow, we go to the Presidential Complex. The President wants to meet you."
Mehmet set down his fork. "Why?"
"Because you're a young man from a village in Erzurum who found national treasures and brought them to the state instead of selling them on the black market. That's rare. That's worth recognizing."
"I didn't do it for recognition."
"I know. That's why the President wants to meet you."