The Emperor had resolved that the proportions of the new church should be much greater than those of the old one, and therefore the extension of the site was the first requirement of his undertaking. On the south side the ground was clear, but the open space of the Augusteum barred any encroachment in that direction. On the other three sides, however, the area was hemmed in by various buildings, and several of these were private property. Some of the difficulties encountered at the outset, therefore, arose from the obstinacy of adjacent owners, who refused to sell their lots at a reasonable price or to part with them on any terms whatever. Obstacles of this class were the origin of a crop of stories which obtained currency among the populace, who were amused by hearing of the ruses adopted to defeat the wilfulness of certain occupants. Their truth cannot now be tested, and in general they may be disbelieved; but there seems to be some foundation for the anecdote related of a widow named Anna, who stubbornly declined to negotiate for the sale of her house. Nobles waited on her without result, and at length the Emperor came in person and begged of her to name her terms. Upon this she fell on her knees and declared that she would accept no money for her freehold, but entreated him to take it as a gift to St. Sophia on condition that she should be buried in the corner of the church whereon her dwelling had stood. Her proposal was agreed to, and in after ages the area in question continued to be pointed out as the "widow Anna's lot."[1] That trouble of this kind might be real
- [Footnote: marvels, some of which read like an extract from the New Testament
and others like an episode from the Arabian Nights.]*
- ↑ The place was shown to a Russian pilgrim, Anthony of Novogorod (twelfth century; Soc. Orient. Latin. Sér. Géog., v). Other tales in the
