‘Isn’t that why we’re standing here? Isn’t that the wellspring of your hatred that has flowed through the years, poisoning us all?’
Abbas was trembling. His knuckles were white on the balustrade of the balcony. ‘My father left the Order,’ he said. ‘He would never have killed himself.’
‘He killed himself, Abbas. He killed himself with the dagger that you have concealed within your robe. He killed himself because he had more honour than you will ever know, and because he wouldn’t be pitied. He wouldn’t be pitied as you will be, by all, as you rot in the citadel dungeon.’
‘Never!’ roared Abbas. He pointed a trembling finger at Altaïr. ‘You claim you can retake the Order without loss of Assassin life. Let’s see you try. Kill him.’
And suddenly the men in the hall were surging forward, when …
The sound of the explosion echoed around the hall and silenced everyone – the crowds in the courtyard, the Assassins, the loyalists. All stared in shock at Altaïr, who stood with his arm held up as if pointing at Abbas – as though he had been engaging his blade in the direction of the steps. But instead of a blade at his wrist there was a curl of smoke.
From the steps came a short, strangled cry, and all watched as Abbas stared down at his chest, where a small patch of blood on his robe was gradually spreading. His eyes were wide with shock. His jaw worked as he tried to form words that wouldn’t come.
The loyalist Assassins had stopped. They stared open-mouthed at Altaïr who moved his arm, pointing at them so that now they could see the wrist mechanism he wore.
It was a single shot, and he had used it, but they didn’t know that. None had ever seen such a weapon before. Only a few even knew of its existence. And seeing it turned in their direction the loyalists cowered. They laid down their swords. They moved past Altaïr and to the door of the tower to join the crowd, their arms held out in surrender, just as Abbas was pitching forward, tumbling down the steps and landing with a messy thud in the hall below.
Altaïr crouched over him. Abbas lay breathing heavily, one of his arms at an odd angle as though it had snapped in the fall; the front of his robe was wet with blood. He had moments left.
‘You want me to ask forgiveness of you?’ he asked Altaïr. He grinned, looking skeletal all of a sudden. ‘For taking your wife and son?’
‘Abbas, please, don’t let your dying words be malicious.’
Abbas made a short scoffing sound. ‘Still he tries to be virtuous.’ He lifted his head a little. ‘The first blow was struck by you, Altaïr. I took your wife and son, but only after your lies had taken much more from me.’
‘They were not lies,’ said Altaïr, simply. ‘In all these years, did you never doubt?’
Abbas flinched and squeezed his eyes shut with pain. After a pause he said, ‘Did you ever wonder if there is a next world, Altaïr? In moments I shall know for sure. And if there is, I shall see my father, and we will both be there to meet you when it is your time. And then – then there will be no doubt.’
He coughed and gurgled and a bubble of blood formed at his mouth. Altaïr looked into his eyes and saw nothing of the orphan boy he had once known; saw nothing of the best friend he had once had. All he saw was a twisted creature who had cost him so much.
And as Abbas died Altaïr realized that he no longer hated or pitied him. He felt nothing – nothing but relief that Abbas was no longer in the world.
Two days later the brigand Fahad appeared with seven of his men on horseback and was met at the village gates by a party of Assassins, led by Altaïr.
They pulled up at the edge of the marketplace, confronted by a line of men wearing white robes. Some stood with their arms folded, others with their hands on their bows or the hilt of their swords.
‘So it is true. The great Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad has resumed control of Masyaf,’ said Fahad. He looked weary.
Altaïr bowed his head, yes.
Fahad nodded slowly, as if mulling this fact over. ‘I had an understanding with your predecessor,’ he said at last. ‘I paid him a great deal in order that I might enter Masyaf.’
‘Which you have done,’ said Altaïr, pleasantly.
‘Ah, yes, but for a specific reason, I’m afraid,’ replied Fahad, with a cloudy smile. He shifted on his saddle a little. ‘I am here to find my son’s killer.’
‘Which you have done,’ said Altaïr, just as pleasantly.
The cloudy smile slid slowly from Fahad’s face. ‘I see,’ he said. He leaned forward. ‘Then which of you is it?’ His eyes moved along the line of Assassins.
‘Have you no witness to identify your son’s killer?’ said Altaïr. ‘Can he not point out the culprit among us?’
‘I did,’ sighed Fahad ruefully, ‘but my son’s mother had his eyes put out.’
‘Ah,’ said Altaïr. ‘Well, he was a weasel. You may console yourself that he did little to protect your son or, indeed, to avenge him once he was dead. As soon as he had two old men to face, instead of one, he turned tail and ran.’
Fahad darkened.
‘You?’
Altaïr nodded. ‘Your son died as he lived, Fahad. He enjoyed administering pain.’
‘A trait he inherited from his mother.’
‘Ah.’
‘And she insists, incidentally, that his name be avenged.’
‘Then there is nothing left to say,’ said Altaïr. ‘Unless you intend to make your attempt at this very moment, I shall expect you presently with your army.’
Fahad looked wary. ‘You intend to let me leave? No archers to stop me? Knowing that I will return with a force to crush you?’
‘If I killed you I would have the wrath of your wife to contend with,’ smiled Altaïr, ‘and, besides, I have a feeling that you will change your mind about attacking Masyaf by the time you have returned to your camp.’
‘And why might that be?’
Altaïr smiled. ‘Fahad, if we were to do battle then neither of us would give ground. Both of us would put more at stake than the grievance deserved. My community would be devastated, perhaps irreparably so – but so would yours.’
Fahad seemed to consider. ‘It is for me to decide, surely, the price of the grievance.’
‘Not long ago I lost my own son,’ said Altaïr, ‘and because of that I came close to losing my people. I realized it was too high a price to pay, even for my son. If you take up arms against us you risk making such a forfeit. I’m sure that the values of your community differ greatly from mine, but that they are just as prized as they are reluctantly surrendered.’
Fahad nodded. ‘You have a wiser head than your predecessor, Altaïr. Much of what you say makes sense, and I shall indeed consider it on the ride back. Also I shall endeavour to explain it to my wife.’ He gathered up his reins and turned his horse to go. ‘Good luck, Assassin,’ he said.
‘It’s you who will need luck by the sound of it.’
The brigand gave another of his crooked, cloudy smiles, then left. Altaïr chuckled and looked up at the citadel on the promontory.
There was much work to do.
58
12 August 1257
So. We were too late to escape Masyaf before the Mongols arrived. Indeed, they have arrived. As a result we leave for Constantinople in a matter of hours and I’m scribbling these words as our possessions are removed by helpers to be loaded on to the carts. And if Maffeo thinks that the sharp looks he insists on throwing my way will be enough to make me lay down my quill and lend a hand then he is mistaken. I know now that these words will be of vital importance to future Assassins. They must be written down at once.
It’s a small skirmishing party, or so we’re told. But the main force is not far away. In the meantime the skirmishing party seems to want to make a name for itself and has been launching small but fierce attacks, scaling the walls of the village and fighting on the ramparts before retreating. I know little of warfare, thank goodness, but it occurs to me that these short assaults may be a way of gauging our st
rength, or lack of it. And I wonder if the Master ever regrets his decision to weaken the citadel by disbanding the Assassins. Just two short years ago no mere skirmishing party would have come within ten paces of the castle before falling to the Assassin archers, or beneath the blades of the defenders.
When he had wrested control of the Order from Abbas, Altaïr’s first task was to send for his journals: the Master’s work was to be a totemic force in the rebuilding of the Order, essential for providing the foundations to stop the rot at Masyaf. Under Abbas’s corrupt reign they had had none of the skills or training of old: the Brotherhood had been Assassin in name only. Altaïr’s first task was to restore the discipline that had been lost: once again the training yard echoed with the ring of steel and the shouts and curses of the instructors. No Mongol would have dared a skirmish then.
But just as the Brotherhood had been restored in name and reputation, Altaïr decided that the base at Masyaf should no longer exist and removed the Assassin crest from the flagpole. His vision for the Order was that the Assassins should go out into the world, he said. They should operate among the people, not above them. Altaïr’s son Darim arrived home in Masyaf to find just a few Assassins left, most of whom were occupied in the construction of the Master’s library. When it was complete, Darim was dispatched to Constantinople to locate my brother and me.
Which brings us to our entrance into the story, some eighty years after it began.
‘But it is not over yet, I feel,’ Maffeo said. He stood waiting for me. We were due to see the Master in the main courtyard. For what was surely the last time, we wound our way through the fortress to the courtyard, led by Altaïr’s faithful steward, Mukhlis.
As we arrived I thought, What sights it has seen, this courtyard. Here was where Altaïr first saw Abbas, standing in the dead of night, pining for his stricken father. Here was where the two had fought and become enemies; where Altaïr had been shamed in front of the Order by Al Mualim; where Maria had died, Abbas, too.
None of this would have been lost on Altaïr, who had gathered most of the Assassins to hear what he had to say. Darim was among them, with his bow, the young Malik, too, and Mukhlis, who took his place beside the Master on the dais outside his tower. Nerves fluttered like moths in my stomach and I found myself taking short, jagged breaths to try to control them, finding the background noise of battle disconcerting. The Mongols, it seemed, had chosen this moment to launch another of their attacks on the castle, perhaps aware that its defences were temporarily depleted.
‘Brothers,’ said Altaïr, standing before us, ‘our time together was brief, I know. But I have faith that this codex will answer any questions you have yet to ask.’
I took it and turned it over in my hands, in awe of it. It contained the Master’s most important thoughts, distilled from decades of studying the Apple.
‘Altaïr,’ I said, barely able to form words, ‘this gift is … invaluable. Grazie.’
At a sign from Altair, Mukhlis stepped forward with a small bag that he handed to the Master.
‘Where will you go next?’ asked Altaïr.
‘To Constantinople for a time. We can establish a guild there before returning to Venice.’
He chuckled. ‘Your son Marco will be eager to hear his father’s wild stories.’
‘He is a little young for such tales. But one day soon, sì.’ I grinned.
He passed the bag to me and I felt several heavy objects inside it shift.
‘A last favour, Niccolò. Take these with you, and guard them well. Hide them if you must.’
I raised my eyebrows, implicitly asking his permission to open the bag and he nodded. I peered inside, then reached in and removed a stone, one of five: like the others it had a hole in its centre. ‘Artefacts?’ I asked. I wondered if these were the artefacts he had found during his exile at Alamut.
‘Of a kind,’ said the Master. ‘They are keys, each one imbued with a message.’
‘A message for whom?’
‘I wish I knew,’ said Altaïr.
An Assassin came hurrying into the courtyard and spoke to Darim, who moved forward. ‘Father. A vanguard of Mongols has broken through. The village is overrun.’
Altaïr nodded. ‘Niccolò, Maffeo. My son will escort you through the worst of the fighting. Once you reach the valley, follow its course until you find a small village. Your horses and provisions are waiting for you there. Be safe, and stay alert.’
‘Likewise, Master. Take care of yourself.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll consider it.’
And with that the Master was gone, already barking orders to the Assassins. I wondered if I would ever see him again as I shouldered the bag of strange stones and held the priceless codex tight. What I remember then is an impression of bodies, of shouting, of the ringing of steel, as we were hurried to a residence, and there I huddled in a corner to scribble these words, even as the battle raged outside – but now I shall have to go. I can only pray that we will escape with our lives.
Somehow I think we will. I have faith in the Assassins. I only hope that I am worthy of Altair’s faith. In that respect, only time will tell.
1 January 1258
The first day of a new year, and it is with mixed emotions that I wipe the dust from the cover of my journal and begin a clean page, unsure whether this entry marks a fresh beginning or acts as a postscript to the tale that precedes it. Perhaps that is for you, the reader, to decide.
The first news I have to impart I deliver with a heavy heart. We have lost the codex. That which was given to us by Altaïr on the day of our departure, entrusted to our care, is in the hands of the enemy. I shall always be tortured by the moment that I lay bleeding and weeping in the sand, watching the dust kicked up by the hoofs of the Mongol attacking party, one of whom brandished the leather satchel in which I kept the codex, its strap cut. Two days out of Masyaf, with our safety assured – or so it had seemed – they had struck.
Maffeo and I escaped with our lives, though only just, and we took a little solace from the fact that our time with the Master had given us, if not the learning we might have taken from the codex, the faculties to seek out and interpret knowledge for ourselves. We resolved that soon we should go east and retrieve it (and thus, alas, delay my earliest opportunity to return to Venice and see my son Marco), but that first we should attend to business in Constantinople, for there was much to do. Ahead of us lay at least two years’ work, which would be even more demanding without the wisdom of the codex to guide us. Even so, we decided that, yes, we had lost the book, but in our heads and hearts we were Assassins, and we were to put our freshly acquired experience and knowledge to good use. Thus we have already chosen the site for our trading post, a short jaunt north-west of Hagia Sophia, where we aim to supply the highest quality goods (but of course!). Meanwhile, we shall begin to spread and disseminate the creed of the Assassin, just as we pledged to do.
And at the same time as we begin the process of starting the new guild we have also set about hiding the five stones given to us by Altaïr. The keys. Guard them well, he had said, or hide them. After our experiences with the Mongols we had decided that the keys should be hidden so we set about secreting them around and about Constantinople. We are due to hide the last one today, so by the time you read this, all five keys will be safely hidden from the Templars, for an Assassin of the future to find.
Whoever that may be.
Epilogue
From above him on deck the Assassin heard the sounds of a commotion, the familiar drumming of feet that accompanies the approach to land, crew members rushing from their posts to the prow, shimmying up the rigging or hanging off ropes, shielding their eyes to stare long and hard at the shimmering harbours towards which they were sailing, anticipating adventures ahead.
The Assassin, too, had adventures ahead of him. Of course, his would likely be markedly different from the escapades fondly imagined by the crew, which no doubt consisted primarily of visiting taverns and consortin
g with whores. The Assassin almost envied them the simplicity of their endeavours. His tasks would be more complicated.
He closed Niccolò’s journals and pushed the book away from him on the desk, his fingers running across the ageing cover, mulling over what he had just learned, the full significance of which, he knew, would take time to make itself known. And then, with a deep breath, he stood, pulled on his robe, secured the mechanism of the blade to his wrist and pulled up his cowl. Next, he opened the hatch of his quarters to appear on deck where he, too, shielded his eyes to cast his gaze upon the harbour as the ship sliced through the sparkling water towards it, people gathered there already to welcome them.
Ezio had arrived in the great city. He was in Constantinople.
Dramatis Personae
Niccolò Polo, the narrator
Maffeo Polo
The Assassins
Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad
Maria, his wife (née Thorpe)
Darim and Sef, their sons
Al Mualim, the Master
Faheem al-Sayf
Umar Ibn-La’Ahad, Altaïr’s father
Abbas Sofian
Ahmad Sofian, Abbas’s father
Malik Al-Sayf
Tazim, Malik’s son, also known as Malik
Kadar, Malik’s brother
Rauf
Jabal
Labib
Swami
Farim
Masyaf villagers
Mukhlis, his wife, Aalia, and daughter, Nada
The Crusades
Richard I of England, ‘the Lionheart’
Salah Al’din, Sultan of the Saracens
Shihab Al’din, his son
Altaïr’s Nine Targets
Tamir, black-market merchant
Abu’l Nuqoud, the Merchant King of Damascus
Garnier de Naplouse, the Grand Master, the Knights Hospitalier
Talal, a slave trader
Majd Addin, regent of Jerusalem
William de Montferrat, lord of Acre
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