‘I learned a few chords when I was young.’
‘Were you really ever young?’
‘A long time ago.’
Yusuf twitched at his own costume, a green and yellow satin number. ‘I feel ridiculous in this outfit. I look ridiculous!’
‘You look just like all the other musicians, and that’s the important thing. Now, come on – the orchestra’s assembling.’
They crossed to where a number of Italian instrumentalists were milling about, impatient to gain entry to the palace. Yusuf and his men were equipped as Turkish musicians, with tanburs, ouds, kanuns and kudüms, all instruments which, between them, they could play passably. Ezio watched them being ushered through a side entrance.
Ezio found it agreeable to be among his fellow countrymen again, and dipped in and out of conversation with them.
‘You’re from Florence? Welcome! This should be a good gig,’ one told him.
‘You call this a good gig?’ a viol player chipped in. ‘You should try playing in France! They’ve got all the best people. I was there not six months ago and heard Josquin’s Qui Habitat. It’s the most beautiful chorale I’ve ever listened to. Do you know his work, Ezio?’
‘A little.’
‘Josquin,’ said the first musician, a sackbut player. ‘Yes, he’s a treasure. There’s certainly no man in Italy to match his talent.’
‘Our time will come.’
‘I see you’re a lutenist, Ezio,’ a man carrying a chitarra said to him. ‘I’ve been experimenting with alternative tunings lately. It’s a wonderful way to spark new ideas. For example, I’ve been tuning my fourth string to a minor third. It gives a very sombre sound. By the way, did you bring any extra strings with you? I must have broken six this month.’
‘Josquin’s music’s too experimental for me,’ said a citternist. ‘Believe me, polyphony will never catch on.’
‘Remind me,’ said the chitarra player, ignoring his colleague’s remark. ‘I’d like to learn a few eastern tunings before we leave.’
‘Good idea. I must say this is a great place to work. The people here are so kind, too. Not like Verona. You can hardly cross the street there these days without getting mugged,’ a musician carrying a shawm put in.
‘When do we go on?’ Ezio asked.
‘Soon enough,’ replied the cittern player. ‘Look, they’re opening the gates now.’
The man with the viol plucked critically at his strings and then looked pleased. ‘It’s a splendid day for music, don’t you think, Ezio?’
‘I hope so,’ Ezio replied.
They made their way to the gate, where Ottoman officials were checking people through.
Unluckily, when Ezio’s turn came, one of them stopped him.
‘Play us a tune,’ he said. ‘I like the sound of a lute.’
Ezio watched helplessly as his fellow musicians filed past. ‘Perdonate, buon signore, but I’m part of the entertainment for Prince Suleiman.’
‘Any old gerzek can carry an instrument around, and we don’t remember you being part of this particular band. So play us a tune.’
Taking a deep breath, Ezio started to pluck out a simple ballata he remembered learning when they still had the family palazzo in Florence. He twanged awfully.
‘That’s – forgive me – terrible!’ said the official. ‘Or are you into some new experimental music?’
‘You might as well be strumming a washboard as strings, the racket you’re making,’ said another, coming over, amused.
‘You sound like a dying cat.’
‘I can’t work under these circumstances,’ Ezio said huffily. ‘Give me a chance to get warmed up.’
‘All right! And get yourself in tune while you’re at it.’
Ezio willed himself to concentrate, and tried again. After a few initial stumbles, this time he managed to make a fair fist of a straightforward old piece by Landini. It was quite moving, in the end, and the Ottoman officials actually applauded.
‘Pekala,’ said the one who had first challenged him. ‘In you go, then, and bother the guests with that noise.’
Once inside, Ezio found himself in the midst of a great throng. A wide marble courtyard, partially covered, like an atrium, glittered with light and colour under the boughs of tamarinds. Guests were wandering about as servants made their way between them with trays loaded with sweetmeats and refreshing drinks. There were plenty of Ottoman gentry present, as well as diplomats, high-profile artists and businessmen from Italy, Serbia, the Peloponnese, Persia and Armenia. It was hard to detect any possible Byzantine infiltrators in this sophisticated assembly.
Ezio decided that his best course of action would be to try to rejoin the Italian musical troupe he’d been talking to, but took his time about it, getting the lie of the land.
But the royal guards were vigilant, and before long, one of them accosted him.
‘Excuse me, sir, are you lost?’
‘No.’
‘Musician are you? Well, you’re being paid to play not to mingle!’
Ezio was furious, but had to contain his anger in order not to blow his cover. Fortunately for him, he was rescued by a group of wealthy-looking locals, four sleek men and four heart-stoppingly beautiful women.
‘Play us something,’ they entreated, forming a circle round him.
Ezio ran through the Landini again, remembering some other pieces by that composer and praying that his audience wouldn’t find them too old-fashioned. But they were entranced. And, as his confidence increased, Ezio was pleased that his musicianship also improved. He even dared to improvise a little. And to sing.
‘Pek güzel,’ commented one of the men, as he finished a set.
‘Indeed – quite beautiful,’ agreed his partner, in whose deep violet eyes Ezio would quite happily have died.
‘Hmn. Technique’s not quite what it might be,’ commented one of the other men.
‘Oh, Murad, you are such a pedant. Think of the expression! That’s the main thing.’
‘He plays almost as well as he dresses,’ said a second woman, eyeing him.
‘A sound as beautiful as rainfall,’ said a third.
‘Indeed, the Italian lute is every bit as lovely as our oud,’ conceded Murad, pulling his partner away from Ezio. ‘But now, alas, we must mingle.’
‘Tesekkür ederim, efendim,’ the women chirruped as they departed.
Ezio, his credentials confirmed, was left unmolested by the guards from now on, and was able to make contact with Yusuf and his team.
‘Brilliant, Mentor,’ said Yusuf, when they’d made contact. ‘But don’t be seen talking to us – it’ll look suspicious. Try to make your way to the second courtyard – the inner one – through there. I’ll join you.’
‘Good thinking,’ Ezio agreed. ‘But what may we expect there?’
‘The inner circle. The entourage of the Prince. And, if we are fortunate, Suleiman himself. But be on your guard, Mentor. There may be danger there too.’
30
It was considerably quieter in the second courtyard, but the decorations, the food and drink, and the quality of both music and art, were just that little bit more splendid.
Ezio and Yusuf, keeping in the background, scanned the guests.
‘I do not see Prince Suleiman,’ Yusuf said.
‘Wait!’ Ezio warned him.
The orchestra struck up a fanfare, and the guests all turned expectantly towards a gateway in the centre of the rear wall of the courtyard, draped with rich hangings. Costly silk Isfahan carpets were spread on the ground in front of it. Moments later, a small group of people emerged, clustered around the two men who led them – each clad in suits of white silk, their turbans stuck one with diamond pins, the other with emeralds. Ezio’s eyes were drawn to the younger of these, and his lips parted as he recognized him.
‘The young man?’ he asked his companion.
‘That is Prince Suleiman,’ Yusuf told him. ‘Sultan Bayezid’s grandson, and Governor of Kefe. An
d he’s only seventeen.’
Ezio was amused. ‘I met him on the ship, on the way here. He told me he was a student.’
‘I’ve heard that he likes to travel incognito. It’s also a security measure. He was returning from the hajj.’
‘Who is the other man? The one with emeralds in his turban?’
‘His uncle, Prince Ahmet. The Sultan’s favoured son. He is grooming himself for the succession as we speak.’
The two princes stood as favoured guests were presented to them. Then they accepted glasses of ruby-coloured liquid.
‘Wine?’ asked Ezio.
‘Cranberry juice.’
‘Serefe! Sagliginiza!’ Ahmet said, raising his voice with his glass, toasting the assembly.
After the formal toasts, Yusuf and Ezio continued to watch, as both guests and hosts became more relaxed, though as Suleiman mingled, Ezio noticed that his guards were discreetly but continually attentive. These guards were tall, and none of them looked Turkish. They wore a distinctive uniform of white robes, and their headgear was a high, white, tapering cap, like that of a dervish. All, equally, wore moustaches. None was either clean-shaven or had a beard. Ezio knew enough about Ottoman custom to realize that this meant they had the status of slaves. Were they some kind of private bodyguard?
Suddenly, Yusuf caught Ezio’s arm. ‘Look! That man over there!’
A thin, pale young man with fine, light-coloured hair and dark brown, expressionless eyes had sidled up close to Suleiman. He was expensively dressed and might have been a prosperous Serbian arms dealer, at any rate someone important enough to have made it onto the guest list for the second courtyard. As Ezio quickly scanned the crowd, he saw four more elegantly dressed men, none of them Turks, by their looks, taking up what could only be backup positions, and discreetly signalling to one another.
Before Yusuf or Ezio could react, the thin young man, by now at Suleiman’s elbow, had, with the speed of light, drawn a thin, curved janbiyah, and was plunging it down towards the prince’s chest. At the same instant, the closest guard to him noticed and sprang into the blade’s path.
There was instantaneous chaos and confusion. Guests were pushed roughly aside as guards ran to assist both princes and their fallen comrade, while the five Templar would-be killers tried to make their escape through the crowd now milling around in uproar and panic. The thin young man had vanished, but the guards had identified his companions and were pursuing them systematically, the Byzantine plotters using the confused and disoriented guests as obstacles to put between them and their hunters. Exits were sealed, but the conspirators attempted to climb out of the courtyard. In the confusion Prince Ahmet had disappeared and Prince Suleiman had been left isolated. Ezio saw that he had drawn a small dagger, but calmly stood his ground.
‘Ezio!’ Yusuf suddenly hissed. ‘Look there!’
Ezio followed the direction Yusuf was pointing and saw that the thin young man had returned. Now, breaking out of the crowd behind the prince, he was closing on him, his weapon poised.
Ezio was far closer than Yusuf and realized that only he could save the prince in time. But he had no weapon himself! Then he looked down at the lute which he was still holding in his hands and, with a grunt of regret, made his decision, and smashed it against a nearby column. It shattered, but left him with a sharp shard of spruce wood in his hand. In an instant, Ezio sprang forward, seizing the Byzantine by his bony wrist and forcing him backwards and, just as he was in the act of moving in for the kill, drove the shard four inches deep into the man’s left eye. The Byzantine stopped as if he had been frozen, then the janbiyah fell from his hand and clattered onto the marble floor. He crumpled to the ground immediately afterwards.
The crowd fell silent, forming a circle around Ezio and Suleiman at a respectful distance. The guards tried to intervene, but Suleiman stayed them with a gesture.
The prince sheathed his own dagger, and took a small breath. Then he took a step towards Ezio – a signal honour from a prince, which the crowd acknowledged with a gasp.
‘It is good to see you again, mio bel menestrello. Did I say that right?’
‘My handsome minstrel. Very good.’
‘It is a pity about your lute. So much more beautiful an instrument than a sword.’
‘You are right, but it does not save lives.’
‘Some would argue with that.’
‘Perhaps. In other circumstances.’ The two men exchanged a smile. ‘I hear you are a Governor as well as a Prince. Is there anything you do not do?’
‘I do not talk to strangers.’ Suleiman bowed – a slight inclination of the head only. ‘I am Suleiman Osman.’
‘Auditore, Ezio.’ Ezio bowed in his turn.
One of the white-clad guards approached then. A sergeant. ‘Forgive me, my Prince. On behalf of your uncle, we must have your assurance that you are uninjured.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He awaits you.’
Suleiman looked at him coldly. ‘Tell him that, thanks to this man, I am uninjured. But no thanks to you! You! The Janissaries! The elite guard, and you fail me, a prince of the royal house. Where is your captain?’
‘Tarik Barleti is away – on an errand.’
‘On an errand? Do you really wish to show yourselves such amateurs in front of this stranger?’ Suleiman drew himself up as the guard, a muscular giant who must have weighed all of 300 pounds, trembled before him. ‘Clear this body away and send the guests home. Then summon Tarik to the Divan!’
Turning back to Ezio as the man scuttled off, Suleiman said, ‘This is embarrassing. The Janissaries are the bodyguard of the Sultan.’
‘But not of his family?’
‘On this occasion, it would appear not.’ Suleiman paused, giving Ezio an appraising look. ‘Now, I don’t wish to impose on your time, but there is something I would like your opinion on. Something important.’
Yusuf was signalling to Ezio from the edge of the crowd now slowly dispersing.
‘Allow me simply the time to change out of this costume,’ Ezio said, nodding discreetly to his friend.
‘Very well. There’s something I need to arrange first in any case. Meet me by the Divan when you are ready. My attendants will escort you.’
He clapped his hands and departed the way he had come.
‘That was quite a performance,’ Yusuf said as they made their way out of the palace, in the company of two of Suleiman’s personal attendants. ‘But you’ve given us an introduction we would never have dreamt possible.’
‘The introduction.’ Ezio reminded him, ‘is mine.’
31
Suleiman was already waiting when Ezio joined him outside the Divan – the Council Chamber – of the palace, a short time later. The young man was looking composed, and alert.
‘I have arranged a meeting with my uncle, Prince Ahmet, and Captain Tarik Barleti,’ he announced without preamble. ‘There is something I should explain first. The Janissaries are loyal to my grandfather, but they have become angry over his choice for the next sultan.’
‘Ahmet.’
‘Exactly. The Janissaries favour my father, Selim.’
‘Hmn,’ said Ezio, considering. ‘You are in a tough spot. But tell me – how do the Byzantines fit into this?’
Suleiman shook his head. ‘I was hoping you might be able to give me some guidance on that. Would you be willing to help me find out?’
‘I am tracking them myself. As long as our interests do not conflict, it would be an honour to assist you.’
Suleiman smiled enigmatically. ‘Then I must accept what I can get.’ He paused. ‘Listen. There is a hatch at the top of the tower you see over there. Go up and lift the hatch. You will be able to see and hear everything that is said in the Divan.’
Ezio nodded, and immediately took his leave, while Suleiman turned and entered the Divan himself.
By the time Ezio had reached his vantage point, the discussion in the council chamber below him had already begun and was alr
eady becoming heated. The three men involved sat or stood around a long table, covered with Bergama carpets. Behind the table, a tapestry depicting Bayezid, flanked by his sons, hung on the wall.
Ahmet, a vigorous man in his mid-forties with short dark-brown hair and a full beard, bare-headed now and changed into rich garments of red, green and white, was in the middle of a tirade. ‘Heed my nephew, Tarik. Your incompetence borders on treason. To think that today your Janissaries were outshone by an Italian lute-player! It is preposterous!’
Tarik Barleti, the lower half of his battle-scarred face lost in a grizzled beard, looked grim. ‘An inexcusable failing, efendim. I will conduct a full investigation.’
Suleiman cut in. ‘It is I who will conduct the investigation, Tarik. For reasons that should be obvious.’
Barleti nodded shortly. ‘Evet, Shehzadem. Clearly you have your father’s wisdom.’
Ahmet shot the captain a furious glance at that, while Suleiman retorted, ‘And his impatience.’ He turned to his uncle, his tone formal. ‘Shehzad Ahmet, I am at least relieved to see that you are safe.’
‘Likewise, Suleiman. May God protect you.’
Suleiman, Ezio could see, was playing some kind of long game. As he watched, the young prince rose, and summoned his attendants.
‘I will take my leave of you now,’ he announced. ‘And I will make my report on this disgraceful incident very soon, you may be sure of that.’
Accompanied by his retinue and guard, he strode from the Divan. Tarik Barleti was about to follow suit, but Prince Ahmet detained him.
‘Tarik bey – a word?’
The soldier turned. Ahmet beckoned him to approach. His tone was cordial. Ezio had to strain to catch his words.
‘What was the purpose of this attack, I wonder? To make me look weak? To make me appear an ineffective steward of this city?’ He paused. ‘If that was your plan, my dear Captain; if you had a hand in this mess, you have made a grave mistake! My father has chosen me as the next sultan, not my brother!’
Tarik did not answer immediately, his face expressionless, almost bored. At last he said, ‘Prince Ahmet, I am not depraved enough to imagine the conspiracy you accuse me of.’
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