The Column of Constantine is a scarred stone shaft standing on Divan Yolu, the old imperial avenue, and it has held this spot since the city's first day in 330. You look up some thirty-five metres of deep-purple porphyry drums, cracked by earthquakes, blackened by fire and clamped together with iron hoops. The fires gave it the English name Burnt Column; the hoops gave it the Turkish one, Çemberlitaş, the hooped stone. It once stood at the centre of Constantine's round forum, on the Mese, the processional spine of the city.
The centuries have not been kind, and that is much of its power: what you see is a monument mended by two empires and still standing. A gilded statue of Constantine crowned it until a gale brought it down nine centuries ago, killing passers-by; a cross later took its place, and that too came down. The column now rises from a walled Ottoman base, trams pass at its foot, and most of the city hurries by without looking up.