They had arrived at the pyre, and Altaïr ascended the steps to it, placing the body of his late Mentor reverently at its top. As he did so, Abbas looked aghast. It was his first sight of the pyre.
‘I cannot believe you really intend to go through with this!’ he said in a shocked voice. Behind him, the assembled Brotherhood of the Assassins rippled like corn in a breeze.
‘I must do what I must do,’ Altaïr replied.
‘No!’
But Altaïr had already taken one of the torches that stood ready lit by the pyre, and thrust it into the base of the woodpile. ‘I must know that he cannot return.’
‘But this is not our way! To burn a man’s body is forbidden!’
A voice from the crowd behind him cried out suddenly, in rage, ‘Defiler!’
Altaïr turned to face the restive crowd below him. ‘Hear me out! This corpse could be just another one of Al Mualim’s phantom bodies. I must be certain!’
‘Lies!’ Abbas yelled. As the flames took hold on the pyre, he stepped in close to Altaïr’s side, raising his voice so all could hear him. ‘All your life you have made a mockery of our Creed! You bend the rules to suit your whims, while belittling and humiliating those around you!’
‘Restrain Altaïr!’ yelled an Assassin in the crowd.
‘Did you not hear what he said?’ a comrade next to him responded. ‘Al Mualim was bewitched!’
The first Assassin’s reply was to fly out with his fists. A general fight ensued which escalated as rapidly as the flames rose.
On the ledge next to Altaïr, Abbas pushed him violently down from it, into the midst of the melee. As Abbas furiously made his way back to the castle, Altaïr struggled to find his feet among his clashing fellow Assassins, now with their swords drawn. ‘Brothers!’ he shouted, striving to restore order. ‘Stop! Stay your blades!’ But the fight continued, and Altaïr, who had just risen to his feet in time to see Abbas returning to the fortress, was forced to struggle amongst his own men, disarming them where he could, and exhorting them to desist. He did not know for how long he battled, but the strife was suddenly interrupted by a searing flash of light, which caused the combatants to stagger back, shielding their eyes.
The light came from the direction of the castle.
Altaïr’s worst fears were realized.
There, on the parapet of a tall tower, stood Abbas, and the Apple was in his hand.
‘What did I tell you, Altaïr?’ Abbas yelled down to him.
‘Abbas! Stop!’
‘What did you think would happen when you murdered our beloved Mentor?’
‘You loved Al Mualim less than anyone! You blamed him for all your misfortune, even your father’s suicide!’
‘My father was a hero!’ Abbas screamed defiantly.
Altaïr ignored him and turned hastily to the Assassins grouped questioningly round him.
‘Listen!’ he told them. ‘This is not the time to quarrel over what’s been done. We must decide now what is to be done with that weapon!’ He pointed to where Abbas was standing, holding the Apple aloft.
‘Whatever this artefact is capable of, Altaïr,’ he cried, ‘you are not worthy to wield it!’
‘No man is!’ Altaïr hurled back.
But Abbas was already staring into the Apple’s glow. The light, as he looked, intensified. He seemed mesmerized. ‘It is beautiful, is it not?’ he said, only just loudly enough to be heard.
Then a change came over him. His expression was transformed from a smile of amused triumph to a grimace of horror. He began to shake violently, as the power of the Apple swept into him, taking him over. Assassins still sympathetic to him were running to his aid, when the unearthly instrument he still held in his hand threw out an all but visible pulse wave, which threw them savagely to their knees, clutching their heads in agony.
Altaïr raced towards Abbas, scaling the tower with supernatural speed, driven by desperation. He had to get there in time! As he approached his former friend, Abbas began to scream as if his very soul was being ripped out of him. Altaïr made one final leap forward, disabling Abbas and knocking him down. Abbas crumpled to the ground with a despairing cry, as the Apple tumbled from his grasp, sending a final violent shockwave out from the tower as it did so.
Then there was silence.
The Assassins spread out below gradually pulled themselves together and got to their feet. They looked at one another in wonderment. What had happened continued to resound in their bodies and their minds. They looked up to the ramparts. Neither Altaïr nor Abbas was visible.
‘What was that?’
‘Are they dead?’
And then Altaïr appeared alone on the parapet of the tower. The wind blew his white robes about him. He raised his hand. In it, secure, was the Apple. It crackled and pulsated like a living thing, but it was under his control.
‘Forgive me,’ Abbas was gasping from the flagstone floor behind him. He could barely form the words. ‘I did not know.’
Altaïr turned his gaze back from the man to the Apple resting in his hand. It sent curious sensations, like shocks, the length of his extended arm.
‘Have you anything to teach us?’ said Altaïr, addressing the Apple as if it were a sensate thing. ‘Or will you lead us all to ruin?’
The wind then seemed to blow up a dust storm – or was it the return of the swirling fumes of cloud that had heralded this vision? With it came the blinding light which had preceded it, growing and growing until all else was blotted out. And then it dimmed once more, until there was just the gentle glow of the key in Ezio’s hand.
Exhausted, Ezio lowered himself to the floor and rested his back against the stone wall of the chamber. Outside, dusk would be falling. He longed for rest but could afford none.
After a long moment, he raised himself again and, carefully stowing both the key and the copy of Empedocles in his satchel, made his way to the streets above.
35
At dawn the next day, Ezio made his way to the Grand Bazaar. It was time he saw for himself what talk there might be among the Janissaries, and he was impatient to be on the trail of their captain, Tarik Barleti. But it was impossible, once there, entirely to avoid the importunate traders, who were all past masters of the hard sell. Ezio had to pass himself off as just another tourist for fear of arousing suspicion either among Ottoman officials or Byzantine Templars.
‘You see this rug!’ A merchant accosted him, plucking at his sleeve and, as Ezio had found to be the case so often here, getting too close to him, invading his body space. ‘Your feet will love you more than your wife does!’
‘I am not married.’
‘Ah,’ continued the merchant, seamlessly, ‘you are better off. Come! Just feel it!’
Ezio noticed a group of Janissaries standing not far away. ‘You have sold well today?’ he asked the merchant.
The man spread his hands, nodding to his right at the Janissaries. ‘I have not sold a thing! The Janissaries confiscated most of my stock, just because it was imported.’
‘Do you know Tarik Barleti, their captain?’
‘Eh, he’s around here somewhere, no doubt. An arrogant man, but—’ The merchant was about to go on, but interrupted himself, freezing up before reverting to his sales patter, his eyes focused not on Ezio, but well beyond him. ‘You insult me, sir! I cannot take less than 200 akçe for this! That is my final offer.’
Ezio turned slightly, and followed the man’s gaze. Three Janissaries were approaching, not fifty feet away.
‘When I find him, I will ask him about your rugs,’ Ezio promised the merchant quietly, as he turned to go.
‘You drive a hard bargain, stranger!’ the merchant called after him. ‘Shall we compromise at 180? A hundred and eighty akçe, and we part as friends!’
But Ezio was no longer listening. He was following the group, shadowing them at a safe distance, hoping they might lead him to Tarik Barleti. They were not walking idly – they had the look of men going to some kind of appoi
ntment. But he had to be vigilant – not only to keep his quarry in sight, but to avoid detection himself, and the crowded lanes of the souk both helped and hindered him in this. The merchant had said the captain would be somewhere in the Bazaar, but the Bazaar was a big place – a confusing labyrinth of stalls and shops, a small city in itself.
But at length his patience paid off, and the men he was following arrived at a crossroads in the lanes which broadened out into a little square with a coffee shop on each corner. In front of one stood the big captain with the grizzled beard. The beard was as much a mark of his rank as his resplendent uniform. He was clearly no slave.
Ezio crept as close as he could, to hear what was being said.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked his men, and they nodded their assent. ‘This is an important meeting. Make sure I am not being followed.’
They nodded again and split up, disappearing into the Bazaar in different directions. Ezio knew they would be looking for any sign of an Assassin in the crowds, and for one heart-stopping moment one of the soldiers seemed to catch his eye, but then the moment passed and the man was gone. Waiting as long as he dared, he set off in pursuit of the captain.
Barleti hadn’t gone far before he came to another Janissary, a lieutenant, who to the casual eye would have just seemed to be window-shopping in front of an armourer’s establishment. Ezio had already noticed that Janissaries were the only people not to be badgered by the traders.
‘What news?’ Barleti said, as he drew level with the soldier.
‘Manuel has agreed to meet you, Tarik. He’s waiting by the Arsenal Gate.’
Ezio pricked up his ears at the name.
‘An eager old weasel, isn’t he?’ Tarik said flatly. ‘Come.’
They set off, out of the Bazaar and into the city streets. It was a long way to the Arsenal, which was situated on the north side of the Golden Horn further to the west, but they showed no sign of taking any kind of transport, and Ezio followed them on foot. A matter of a couple of miles – he would have to be careful when they took the ferry across the Horn. But his task was made easier by the fact that the two men were engrossed in conversation, most of which Ezio managed to catch. It was not hard to blend in, in these streets crowded with people from all over Europe and Asia.
‘How did Manuel look? Was he nervous? Or cagey?’ Tarik asked.
‘He was his usual self. Impatient and discourteous.’
‘Hmn. I suppose he has earned that right. Have there been dispatches from the Sultan?’
‘The last news was a week ago. Bayezid’s letter was short, and full of sad tidings.’
Tarik shook his head. ‘I could not imagine being at such odds with my own son.’
36
Ezio followed the two Janissaries to a building close by the Arsenal Gates. Waiting for Tarik and his lieutenant was a large, plump, expensively dressed man in his late fifties, sporting a full grey beard and waxed moustaches. His feathered turban was encrusted with jewels, and there was a jewelled ring on each of his podgy fingers. His companion was thinner, sparely built, and, to judge from his dress, hailed from Turkmenistan.
Ezio, having selected a suitable place to make himself invisible, hiding himself discreetly among the heavy branches of a tamarind tree which grew nearby, paid close attention as preliminary greetings were exchanged, and learned that the plump dandy was – as he’d suspected – Manuel Palaiologos. Given what he’d heard from Yusuf about Manuel’s ambitions, this meeting would be an interesting one to listen in on. Palaiologos’ companion, also his bodyguard, as became apparent as the introductions were made, went by the name of Shahkulu.
Ezio had heard of him. Shahkulu was a rebel against the Ottoman rulers of his country, and the rumours were that he was fomenting revolution among his people. But he also had a reputation for extreme cruelty and banditry.
Yes, this meeting would indeed be interesting.
Once the niceties – always elaborate, in this country, Ezio had noticed – had been dealt with, Manuel gestured to Shahkulu, who entered the building behind them – a kind of guard post, now evidently deserted – and from it brought a small, but heavy, wooden chest, which he placed at Tarik’s feet. The Janissary lieutenant opened it and began counting the gold coins with which it was filled.
‘You may verify the amount, Tarik,’ Manuel said in a voice as plummy as his body. ‘But the money stays with me until I have seen the cargo for myself, and ascertained its quality.’
Tarik grunted. ‘Understood. You are a shrewd man, Manuel.’
‘Trust without cynicism is hollow,’ intoned Palaiologos, unctuously.
The Janissary had been counting fast. Soon afterwards, he closed the chest. ‘The count is good, Tarik,’ he said. ‘It’s all here.’
‘So,’ said Manuel to Tarik. ‘What now?’
‘You will have access to the Arsenal. When you are satisfied, the cargo will be delivered to a location of your choosing.’
‘Are your men prepared to travel?’
‘Not a problem.’
‘Poi kalà,’ the Byzantine princeling relaxed a little. ‘Very good. I will have a map drawn up for you within a week.’
They parted company then, and Ezio waited until the coast was clear before he climbed down the tree and made his way with all possible haste to the Assassins’ headquarters.
37
It was dusk when Ezio returned to the Arsenal, and found Yusuf already there waiting for him.
‘One of my men claims he saw a shipment of weapons brought in here earlier. So we got curious.’
Ezio pondered this. It was as he had suspected. ‘Weapons.’ He paused. ‘I would like to see them for myself.’
He scanned the outer walls of the Arsenal. They were well guarded. The main gate looked impregnable.
‘Short of killing everyone in sight,’ Yusuf said, following his Mentor’s thoughts, ‘I’m not sure how you will get inside.’
The square behind them was still teeming with life – people hurrying home after work, coffee bars and restaurants opening their doors. Suddenly their attention was drawn to an altercation which had broken out near the main gate in the Arsenal walls between a trader and three Janissaries, who were harassing him.
‘You have been warned twice,’ one of the Janissaries, a sergeant, was saying. ‘No merchants near the Arsenal walls!’ He turned to his men. ‘Take this stuff away!’
The privates started to pick up the trader’s crates of fruit and carry them away.
‘Hypocrites!’ the man grumbled. ‘If your men didn’t buy my produce, I wouldn’t be selling it here in the first place!’
The sergeant ignored him and the soldiers went on with their work, but the trader hadn’t finished. He went right up to the sergeant and said, ‘You are worse than the Byzantines, you traitor!’
By way of reply, the Janissary sergeant whacked him with a hard fist. He collapsed, groaning, holding his bleeding nose.
‘Hold your tongue, parasite!’ growled the sergeant.
He turned away to supervise the continuing confiscation of the fruit, while a woman from the crowd rushed up to help the injured trader. Yusuf and Ezio watched as she assisted him to his feet, staunching his bloody face with a handkerchief.
‘Even in times of peace,’ said Yusuf grimly, ‘the poor are always under siege.’
Ezio was thoughtful, thinking of similar circumstances in Rome not so long ago. ‘Perhaps if we inspire them to vent their anger, that will help our cause.’
Yusuf looked at him. ‘You mean – recruit these people? Incite them to rebel?’
‘It need only be a demonstration. But, with enough of them on our side …’
The two men watched as the Janissaries, unimpeded, proceeded to carry off what was left of the man’s stock, leaving his stall completely bare. They disappeared through a wicket in the main gate.
‘Feigning solidarity to push your own agenda,’ said Yusuf, with a hint of contempt. ‘What a gentleman!’
�
�It’s not pretty, I know. But it will work, believe me.’
‘Whatever works.’ Yusuf shrugged. ‘And I see no other way of effecting a break-in here.’
‘Come – there’s a big crowd here, and it looks as if that trader is pretty popular. Let’s go and do some canvassing among the people.’
For the next half an hour and more, Ezio and Yusuf worked the crowd, hinting and persuading, cajoling and inspiring the ordinary working people around them, whom they found to be very biddable to the idea of putting an end to their oppression. All they had needed, it seemed, was someone to fire them up. Once a sufficient number had gathered into a mob, Ezio addressed them. The fruit trader stood by his side, defiant now. Yusuf had seen to it that most of the men and women had armed themselves in one way and another. The fruit trader held a large curved pruning knife.
‘Fight with us, brothers,’ Ezio declaimed, ‘and avenge this injustice. The Janissaries are not above the law! Let’s show them we won’t stand for their tyranny.’
‘Yes!’ several voices roared.
‘It makes me sick to see the kind of abuse they hand out,’ Ezio continued. ‘Doesn’t it you?’
‘Yes!!’
‘Will you fight with us?’
‘Yes!!!’
‘Then – let’s go!’
By now, a detachment of armed Janissaries had issued forth from the Arsenal gate, which was firmly closed behind them. They took up positions in front of it, swords drawn, and faced the mob, whose mood had reached boiling-point. Undaunted by the soldiers’ show of strength – indeed, incensed by it – the crowd, whose volume grew by the minute, surged forwards towards the gate. Whenever a Janissary was rash enough to close with people in the front rank, he was overcome by the sheer weight of numbers and either hurled aside or crushed under advancing feet. Soon afterwards, the crowd was milling about at the gate itself, with Ezio and Yusuf keeping just enough command to direct their improvised strike-force to batter it open.
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