Ahmet took a step back, though his tone remained level and affable. ‘What have I done to earn such contempt from the Janissary Corps? What has my brother done for you that I have not?’
Tarik hesitated, then said, ‘May I speak freely?’
Ahmet spread his hands. ‘You’d better, I think.’
Tarik faced him. ‘You are weak, Ahmet. Pensive in times of war and restless in times of peace. You lack passion for the traditions of the ghazi – the Holy Warriors, and you speak of fraternity in the company of infidels.’ He paused. ‘You would make a decent philosopher, Ahmet, but you will be a poor sultan.’
Ahmet’s face darkened. He snapped his fingers and his own bodyguard came to attention behind him.
‘You may show yourself out,’ he told the Janissary captain, and his voice was like ice.
Ezio was still watching, as, a few minutes later, Ahmet himself swept out of the Divan. A moment later, Ezio was joined by Prince Suleiman.
‘Quite a family, eh?’ said the prince. ‘Don’t worry. I was listening too.’
Ezio looked worried. ‘Your uncle lacks sway over the very men he will soon command. Why did he not cut that man down where he stood for such insolence?’
‘Tarik is a hard man,’ replied the prince, spreading his hands. ‘Capable, but ambitious. And he admires my father greatly.’
‘But he failed to safeguard this palace against a Byzantine attempt on your life in its inner sanctum! That alone is worthy of investigation.’
‘Precisely.’
‘So – where should we begin?’
Suleiman considered. Ezio watched him. An old head on very young shoulders, he thought with renewed respect.
Suleiman said, ‘For now, we’ll keep an eye on Tarik and his Janissaries. They spend much of their free time in and around the Bazaar. Can you handle that – you and your … associates?’ He phrased the last words delicately.
At the back of Ezio’s mind was the memory of Yusuf’s admonition not to get involved in Ottoman politics, but somehow his own quest and this power struggle looked connected. He made his decision.
‘From now on, Prince Suleiman, none of them will purchase so much as a handkerchief without our knowledge.’
32
Having ensured that Yusuf and the Assassins of Constantinople were fully briefed in shadowing all movements of off-duty Janissaries in the Grand Bazaar, Ezio, accompanied by Azize, made his way down to the southern docks of the city to collect bomb-making materials from a list compiled for him by Piri Reis.
He had completed his purchases and dispatched them with Azize to the Assassins’ headquarters in the city, when he noticed Sofia in the crowd thronging the quays. She was talking to a man who looked as if he might be an Italian, a man of about his own age. As he drew closer, he not only saw that she was looking more than a little discomfited, but recognized who she was talking to. Ezio was amused, but also not a little discomfited himself. The man’s unexpected appearance evoked a number of memories and a number of conflicting emotions.
Without revealing his presence, Ezio drew closer.
It was Duccio Dovizi. Decades earlier, Ezio had come close to breaking his right arm, since Duccio had been two-timing Claudia, to whom he was engaged. The arm, Ezio noticed, still had a kink in it. Duccio himself had aged badly and looked haggard. But that clearly hadn’t cramped his style. He was evidently smitten by Sofia, and was pestering her for attention.
‘Mia cara,’ he was saying to her, ‘the strings of Fate have drawn us together. Two Italians lost and alone in the Orient. Do you not feel the magnetismo?’
Sofia, bored and annoyed, replied: ‘I feel many things, Messer – nausea, above all.’
With a sense of déjà vu, Ezio thought it was time to make his move. ‘Is this man bothering you, Sofia?’ he asked, approaching.
Duccio, fuming at this interruption, turned to face the newcomer. ‘Excuse me, Messer, but the lady and I are …’ He trailed off as he recognized Ezio. ‘Ah! Il diavolo in person!’ His left hand went involuntarily to his right arm. ‘Stay back!’
‘Duccio, what a pleasure to see you again.’
Duccio didn’t reply, but stumbled away, tripping over the cobblestones as he did so, and crying, ‘Run, buona donna! Run for your life!’
They watched him disappear along the jetty. There was an awkward pause.
‘Who was that?’
‘A dog,’ Ezio told her. ‘He was engaged to my sister, many years ago.’
‘And what happened?’
‘His cazzo was engaged to six others.’
‘You express yourself very candidly.’ Sofia sounded mildly surprised by Ezio’s use of the word ‘dick’, but not offended.
‘Forgive me.’ He paused for a moment, then asked, ‘What brings you to the docks?’
‘I took a break from the shop to collect a package, but the customs people here claim that the ship’s papers are not in order. So, I wait.’
Ezio glanced around the well-guarded harbour, getting a sense of its layout.
‘It’s such a bother,’ Sofia continued. ‘I could be here all day.’
‘Let me see what I can do,’ he said. ‘I know a few ways of bending the rules.’
‘Do you now? Well, I must say I admire your bravado.’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll meet you back at your shop.’
‘Well then,’ she rummaged in her bag, ‘here is the paperwork. The parcel is quite valuable. Please take care of it – if you manage to get it away from them.’
‘I will.’
‘Then – thank you.’ She smiled at him and made her way back towards the city.
Ezio watched her go for a moment, then made his way to the large wooden building which held the customs offices. Inside, there was a long counter and, behind it, shelves containing a large number of packages and parcels. Near the front of one of the lower shelves closest to the counter he could see a wooden map tube with a label attached to it: SOFIA SARTOR.
‘Perfetto,’ he said to himself.
‘May I help you?’ said a portly official, coming up to him.
‘Yes, if you please. I’ve come to collect that package over there.’ He pointed.
The clerk looked across. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s out of the question! All those parcels and packages have been impounded pending paperwork clearance.’
‘And how long will that take?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say.’
‘Hours?’
The clerk pursed his lips.
‘Days?’
‘That all depends. Of course, for a consideration … something might be arranged.’
‘To hell with that!’
The clerk became less friendly. ‘Are you trying to impede me in my duties?’ he barked. ‘Get out of the way, old man! And don’t come back, if you know what’s good for you!’
Ezio swept him aside and bounded over the counter. He seized the wooden map tube and turned to leave. But the clerk was frantically blowing a whistle and several of his colleagues, some of them members of the heavily armed dockyard guard, responded instantly.
‘That man,’ yelped the clerk, ‘tried to bribe me, and when that failed he resorted to violence!’
Ezio took a stand on the counter as the customs men surged forward to grab him. Swinging the weighty wooden map tube round, he cracked a few skulls with it and leapt over the heads of the rest of them, running towards the exit and leaving confusion in his wake.
‘That’s the only way to deal with petty officialdom,’ he said to himself, contentedly. He had disappeared into the twisting labyrinth of streets north of the docks before his pursuers had had time to collect themselves. Without Sofia’s papers, which he still had safely stowed in his tunic, they’d never be able to trace her.
33
Towards noon, he entered the bookshop west of Hagia Sofia.
She looked up as he came in. The shelves were far more orderly now than they had been when he’d first visited. In the back r
oom, he could see her worktable, with his map from the cisterns neatly laid out alongside a number of thick books of reference.
‘Salute, Ezio,’ she said. ‘That was a lot quicker than I expected. Any luck?’
Ezio held up the wooden map tube and read from the label: ‘Madamigella Sofia Sartor, libraia, Costantinopoli. Is that you?’
He handed her the tube with a smile. She took it gladly, then examined it closely, her face turning sour. ‘Oh, no! Look at the damage! Did they use this to fight off pirates, do you suppose?’
Ezio shrugged, a little sheepishly. Sofia opened the tube and withdrew the map within. She inspected it. ‘Well, so far, so good.’
Taking it over to a table, she spread it out carefully. It was a copy of a map of the world.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she said.
‘Indeed.’ Ezio stood next to her and they both pored over it.
‘It’s a print of a map by Martin Waldseemüller. It’s still quite new – he only published four years ago. And look – here on the left! The new lands Navigatore Vespucci discovered and wrote about only four or five years before the map was drawn.’
‘They work fast, these Germans,’ said Ezio. ‘I see he’s named the new lands after Vespucci’s Christian name – Amerigo.’
‘America!’
‘Yes … Poor Cristoforo Colombo. History has a strange way of unfolding.’
‘What do you make of this body of water here?’ She pointed to the oceans on the far side of North and South America. Ezio leant forward to look.
‘A new ocean, perhaps? Most of the scholars I know claim the size of the globe has been underestimated.’
Sofia sounded wistful. ‘It’s incredible. The more we learn about the world, the less we seem to know.’
Quite taken with the thought, they both fell silent for a moment. Ezio considered the new century they were in – the sixteenth. And only near its beginning. What would unfold during it, he could only guess; he knew that, at his age, he would not see very much more of it. More discoveries, and more wars, no doubt. But essentially the same play repeating itself – and the same actors, only with different costumes and different props for each generation that swallows up the last, each thinking that it would be the one to do better.
‘Well, you honoured your promise,’ said Sofia. ‘And here is mine fulfilled.’
She led the way to the inner room and picked up a piece of paper from the table. ‘If I am correct, this should show you the location of the first book.’
Ezio took the paper from her and read what was on it.
‘I must admit,’ Sofia went on, ‘my head is swimming at the prospect of actually seeing these books. They contain knowledge the world has lost and should have again.’ She sat at the table and cupped her chin in her hands, daydreaming. ‘Perhaps I could have a few copies printed to distribute myself. A small run of fifty or so … That should be enough.’
Ezio smiled, then laughed.
‘What’s there to laugh about?’
‘Forgive me. It is a joy to see someone with a passion so personal and so noble. It is … inspiring.’
‘Goodness,’ she replied, a little embarrassed. ‘Where is this coming from?’
Ezio held up the piece of paper. ‘I intend to go and investigate this immediately,’ he said. ‘Grazie, Sofia – I will return soon.’
‘I’ll look forward to that,’ she replied, watching him go with a mixture of puzzlement and concern.
What a mysterious man, she thought, as the door closed after him and she returned to the Waldseemüller map, and her own dreams of the future.
34
Sofia’s calculations had been correct. Hidden behind a wooden panel in an old, deserted building in the Constantine District of the city, Ezio found the book he was looking for.
It was an ancient but well-preserved copy of On Nature, the poem written over 2000 years earlier by the Greek philosopher Empedocles outlining the sum of his thoughts.
Ezio lifted the book from its hiding place and blew the dust from the small volume. Then he opened it to a blank page at its front. As he watched, the page began to glow and, within the glow, a map of Constantinople revealed itself. As he looked more closely and concentrated, he discerned a pinpoint on the map. It showed the Maiden Tower, the lighthouse on the far side of the Bosphorus, as Ezio peered closer still, a precise spot within the cellars built into its foundations.
If all went well, this would be the location of the second key to Altaïr’s library at Masyaf.
He made his way in haste through the teeming city to the Maiden Tower. Slipping past the Ottoman guards, and crossing over in a ‘borrowed’ boat, he saw a doorway from which steps led downwards into the cellars. He held the book in his hand and found that it was guiding him through a maze of corridors lined with innumerable doorways. It didn’t seem possible that there could be so many in such a relatively confined space. But at last he came to a door, identical to all the others, but through whose cracks a faint light seemed to emanate. The door opened at his touch, and there, on a low stone plinth before him, a circular stone was placed, slim as a discus, and, like the first he had discovered, covered with strange symbols, as mysterious as the first set, but different. The form of a woman – a goddess, perhaps – who looked vaguely familiar, indentations which might either have been formulae, or possibly notches which might slot into pegs – maybe pegs within the keyholes in the library door at Masyaf.
As Ezio took the key in his hands, the light coming from it grew and grew, and he braced himself to be transported – he knew not where – as it engulfed him, and whirled him back down centuries. Down 320 years. To the Year of Our Lord, 1191.
Masyaf.
Within the fortress, a time long ago.
Figures in a swirling mist. Emerging from it, a young man and an old. Evidence of a fight, which the old man – Al Mualim – had lost.
He lay on the ground, the young man knelt astride him.
His hand, losing its strength, let go of something which rolled from his grasp and came to rest on the marble floor.
Ezio drew in a breath as he recognized the object – it was, surely – the Apple of Eden. But how? And the young man – the victor – in white, his cowl drawn over his head, was Altaïr.
‘You held fire in your hand, old man,’ he was saying. ‘It should have been destroyed.’
‘Destroyed?’ Al Mualim laughed. ‘The only thing capable of ending the Crusades and creating true peace? Never.’
‘Then I will destroy it.’
The images faded, dissolved, like ghosts, only for another scene to replace them.
Within the Great Keep at Masyaf, Altaïr stood alone with one of his captains. Near them, laid out in honour on a stone bier, lay the body of Al Mualim, peaceful now in death.
‘Is it truly over?’ the Assassin captain was saying. ‘Is that sorcerer dead?’
Altaïr turned to look at the body. He spoke calmly, levelly, ‘He was no sorcerer. Just an ordinary man, in command of – illusions.’
He turned back to his comrade. ‘Have you prepared the pyre?’
‘I have.’ The man hesitated. ‘But, Altaïr, some of the men … they will not stand for such a thing. They are restive.’
Altaïr bent over the bier. He stooped, and took the old man’s body in his arms. ‘Let me handle it.’ He stood erect, his robes flowing about him. ‘Are you fit to travel?’ he asked the captain.
‘Well enough, yes.’
‘I have asked Malik al-Sayf to ride to Jerusalem with the news of Al Mualim’s death. Will you ride to Acre and do the same?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then go, and God be with you.’
The captain inclined his head and departed.
Bearing the dead Mentor’s body in his arms, his successor strode out to confront his fellow members of the Brotherhood.
At his appearance, there was an immediate babble of voices, reflecting the bewilderment in their minds. Some asked themsel
ves if they were dreaming. Others were aghast at this physical confirmation of Al Mualim’s passing.
‘Altaïr! Explain yourself!’
‘How did it come to this?’
‘What has happened?’
One Assassin shook his head. ‘My mind was clear, but my body … it would not move!’
In the midst of the confusion, Abbas appeared. Abbas. Altaïr’s childhood friend. Now, that friendship was far less sure. Too much had happened between them.
‘What has happened here?’ asked Abbas, his voice reflecting his shock.
‘Our Mentor has deceived us all,’ Altaïr replied. ‘The Templars corrupted him.’
‘Where is your proof of that?’ Abbas responded, suspiciously.
‘Walk with me, Abbas; and I will explain.’
‘And if I find your answers wanting?’
‘Then I will talk until you are satisfied.’
They made their way, Altaïr still bearing Al Mualim’s body in his arms, towards the funeral pyre which had been prepared for it. Beside him, Abbas, unaware of their destination, remained testy, tense and combative, unable to disguise his mistrust of Altaïr.
And Altaïr knew with what reason, and regretted it. But he would do his best.
‘Do you remember, Abbas, the artefact we recovered from the Templar Robert de Sable, in Solomon’s Temple?’
‘You mean the artefact you were sent to retrieve, but others actually delivered?’
Altaïr let that go. ‘Yes. It is a Templar tool. It is called the Apple of Eden. Among many other powers, it can conjure illusions and control the minds of men – and of the man who thinks he controls it. A deadly weapon.’
Abbas shrugged. ‘Then better, surely, that we have it than the Templars.’
Altaïr shook his head. ‘That makes no difference. It seems to corrupt all who wield it.’
‘And you believe that Al Mualim fell under its spell?’
Altaïr made a gesture of impatience. ‘I do. Today he used the Apple in an attempt to enslave Masyaf. You saw that for yourself.’
Abbas looked doubtful. ‘I do not know what I saw.’
‘Listen, Abbas. The Apple is safe in Al Mualim’s study. When I am finished here, I will show you all I know.’
Assassin’s Creed® Page 117