‘Down with the Janissaries!’ shouted a hundred voices.
‘You are not above the law!’ yelled a hundred more.
‘Open the gate, you coward, before we tear it down!’
‘That gate won’t stay closed for long,’ said Ezio to Yusuf.
‘The people are doing you a favour, Mentor. Return it, and keep them safe from harm.’
As Yusuf spoke, two detachments of Janissary reinforcements bore down on the crowd from right and left, having emerged from side gates in the north and south walls.
‘This calls for close fighting.’ Ezio said as, accompanied by Yusuf, he unleashed his hookblade and his hidden blade, and threw himself into the fray.
Encouraged by the professional skills of the two Assassins, the men and women on each flank of the crowd turned bravely to face the Janissary counter-attack. As for the Janissaries, they were taken aback to encounter such firm resistance from such an unexpected quarter, and they hesitated – fatally – and were repulsed. In the meantime, those working on the gate were rewarded to see the firm planks of its doors first groan, then give, then buckle, then smash. With a mighty crack the main crossbeam holding the gate shut from within, snapped like matchwood, and the gate fell back, its doors hanging drunkenly from its massive iron hinges.
The crowd roared with one voice, like a great triumphant beast, and as they poured into the Arsenal, individual voices could be heard raised above the rest:
‘Push through!’
‘We’re inside!’
‘Justice or death!’
The defending Janissaries within were powerless to prevent the onrush, but with their greater discipline managed to hold it in check as ferocious fighting broke out in the Arsenal’s main quadrangle. Through it all, Ezio slipped like a wraith, into the inner confines of the fortress-like edifice.
38
Far from the shattered gate, deep within the western sector of the Arsenal, Ezio came at last to the place he was looking for. It was quiet here, for most of the fighting men in the Arsenal garrison were engaged in the quadrangle, and the handful of guards he did encounter, if he could not slip past them unnoticed, he swiftly despatched. He would have to sharpen his hookblade once his work here was done.
He made his way down a long stone corridor, so narrow that no one could enter the chamber at its end with any hope of surprising those within. Ezio approached slowly, soft-footed, until he came to an iron ladder fixed to the wall near the chamber’s entrance, which led to a gallery overlooking it. Strapping his sword scabbard to his leg so that it would not clatter, he climbed up swiftly and with as little noise as a flower makes when it opens. From his vantage point, he stared grimly at the scene taking place below him.
Manuel and Shahkulu stood in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by a jumble of large crates, some of them open. A small Janissary guard unit stood at attention just inside the door. If Ezio had tried to enter, he would have fallen victim to an ambush. Softly, he breathed a sigh of relief. His instincts and experience had saved him, this time.
Manuel paused in his examination of the contents of the crates. The angle of vision available to Ezio did not allow him to see what they were, though he could guess.
‘Twenty years in this city, living like a cipher,’ Manuel was saying, ‘and now, at last, everything is falling into place.’
Shahkulu replied, a note of menace in his voice, ‘When the Palaiologos line is restored, Manuel, do not forget who it was that helped you bring it back.’
Manuel looked at him keenly, his small eyes glittering coldly amidst the folds of flesh. ‘Of course not, my friend! I would not dream of betraying a man of your influence. But you must be patient. Nova Roma was not built in a day!’
Shahkulu grunted noncommittally, and Manuel turned to the captain of his escort. ‘I am satisfied. Take me to my ship.’
‘Follow me. There is a passage to the west gate by which we can avoid the fighting,’ said the captain.
‘I hope and expect you will soon have that under control.’
‘As we speak, Prince.’
‘If one single item here is damaged, the money stays with me. Tell Tarik that.’
Ezio watched them go. When he was satisfied that he was alone, he descended to the chamber and made a quick inspection of the crates, lifting the lid of one which had been unsealed.
Rifles. One hundred or more.
‘Merda!’ Ezio breathed.
His thoughts were interrupted by a brazen clang – surely the west gate banging shut after Manuel’s departure. Immediately afterwards, he heard the sound of boots on stone approaching. The Janissaries would be returning to reseal the opened crates. Ezio pressed himself against the wall and as the soldiers entered, cut them down. Five of them. If they’d been able to come in together, instead of one at a time, the story might have been different. But the narrow corridor had turned out to be his friend.
He went back the way he had come. In the quadrangle the battle was over, leaving the usual vile aftermath of combat. Ezio walked slowly past a sea of bodies, mostly still, some writhing in their last agonies. The only sound was the keening of women as they knelt by the fallen, in the pitiless wind that blew through the yawning gateway.
With his head bowed, Ezio strode from the place. The price paid for the knowledge he had gained seemed very high indeed.
39
It was high time to return to Sofia’s bookshop. He hurried there straight away.
The shop was still open and lights within burned brightly. When she saw Ezio enter, Sofia took off her eyeglasses and got up from the worktable in the inner room, where the map he’d discovered in Yerebatan was spread out amid several open books.
‘Salute,’ she greeted him, closing the door behind him and pulling down the blinds. ‘Time I closed for the day. Two customers all afternoon. I ask you? It’s not worth staying open for the evening trade.’ Then she saw the expression on Ezio’s face and led him to a chair, where he sat heavily. She fetched him a glass of wine.
‘Grazie,’ he said gratefully, glad she didn’t start asking questions.
‘I’m closing in on two more books – one near Tokapi Saray and the other in the Bayezid District.’
‘Let’s try the Bayezid first. The Topkapi will be a dead end. It was there that the Templars discovered the key they have.’
‘Ah – sì. They must have found it by chance or by other means than ours.’
‘They had Niccolò’s book.’
‘Then we must thank the Mother of God that you rescued it from them before they could use it further.’
She returned to the map, seated herself before it, and resumed writing. Ezio leant forward, produced the copy of Empedocles and placed it on the table by her. The second key that he had found had already joined the first, under secure guard, at the Assassins’ HQ in Galata.
‘What do you make of this?’ he said.
She picked it up carefully, turning it over reverently in her hands. Her hands were delicate but not bony and the fingers were long and slender.
Her jaw had dropped in wonder. ‘Oh, Ezio! È incredibile! ’
‘Worth something?’
‘A copy of On Nature in this condition? In its original Coptic binding? It’s fantastic!’ She opened it carefully. The coded map within no longer glowed. In fact, Ezio could see that it was no longer visible.
‘Amazing. This must be a third-century transcription of the original,’ Sofia was saying, enthusiastically. ‘I don’t suppose there’s another copy like this in existence.’
But Ezio’s eyes were restlessly scanning the room. Something had changed, and he could not yet put his finger on what it was. At last his gaze came to rest on a boarded-up window. The glass was gone from its panes.
‘Sofia,’ he said, concerned, ‘what happened here?’
Her voice took on an irritated tone, though clearly overridden by her excitement. ‘Oh, that happens once or twice a year. People try to break in, thinking they will find money.’ She paused. �
�I do not keep much here, but this time they succeeded, and made off with a portrait of some value. No more than three hours ago, when I was out of the shop for a short time.’ She looked sad. ‘A very good portrait of me, as it happens. I shall miss it, and not just for what it is worth. I’m certainly going to find a very safe place for this,’ she added, tapping the Empedocles.
Ezio was still suspicious that there might be more behind this painting theft than met the eye. He roamed through the room looking for any clues it might afford him. Then he came to a decision. He was rested enough for the moment and he owed this woman a favour. But there was more to it than that. He wanted to do whatever he could for her.
‘You keep working,’ he said. ‘I will find your painting for you.’
‘Ezio, the thief could be anywhere by now.’
‘If the thief came for money, found none, and took the portrait instead, he should still be in this district, close by, eager to get rid of it.’
Sofia looked thoughtful. ‘There are a couple of streets near here where a number of art dealers do business.’
Ezio was already halfway to the door.
‘Wait!’ she called after him. ‘I have some errands in that direction. I’ll show you the way.’
He waited as she locked On Nature carefully in an ironclad chest by one wall, then followed her as she left the shop, locking the door firmly behind her.
‘This way,’ she said. ‘But we part company at the first turning. I’ll point you in the right direction from there.’
They walked on in silence. A few dozen yards down the street, they came to a crossroads and she halted.
‘Down there,’ she said, pointing. Then she looked at him. There was something in her clear eyes which he hoped he wasn’t imagining.
‘If you happen to find it within the next couple of hours, please come and meet me by Valens’ Aqueduct,’ she said. ‘There’s a book fair I need to attend, but I’d be so glad to see you there.’
‘I will do my best.’
She looked at him again, and then away, quickly.
‘I know you will,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Ezio.’
40
The picture dealers’ quarter wasn’t hard to find – a couple of narrow streets running parallel to one another, the little shops glowing in the lamplight which shone on the treasures they held.
Ezio passed slowly from one to another, looking at the people browsing the art more than the art itself. Before too long he saw a shifty-looking character in gaudy clothes coming out of one of the galleries, engrossed in counting out coins from a leather purse. Ezio approached him. The man was immediately on the defensive.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, nervously.
‘Just made a sale, have you?’
The man drew himself up. ‘If it’s any business of yours—’
‘Portrait of a lady?’
The man took a swipe at Ezio, and prepared to duck and run, but Ezio was a little too quick for him. He tripped him up and sent him sprawling. Coins scattered all over the cobbles.
‘Pick them up and give them to me,’ said Ezio.
‘I have done nothing,’ snarled the man, obeying nevertheless. ‘You can’t prove a damn thing!’
‘I don’t need to,’ Ezio snarled back. ‘I’ll just keep hitting you until you talk.’
The man’s tone changed to a whine. ‘I found that painting. I mean – someone gave it to me.’
Ezio whacked him. ‘Get your story straight before you lie to my face.’
‘God help me!’ the man wailed.
‘He has much better things to do than answer your prayers.’
The thief finished his task and handed the full purse meekly to Ezio, who pulled him upright and pinned him to a nearby wall. ‘I do not care how you got the painting,’ said Ezio. Just tell me where it is.’
‘I sold it to a merchant here. For a lousy 200 akçe.’ The man’s voice broke as he indicated the shop. ‘How else will I feed myself?’
‘Next time find a nicer way to be a canaglia.’
Ezio let the man go, and he scampered off down the lane, cursing. Ezio watched him for a moment, then made his way into the gallery.
He looked carefully among the pictures and sculptures on sale. It wasn’t hard to spot what he was after because the gallery owner had just finished hanging it. It wasn’t a large painting, but it was beautiful – a head and shoulders, three-quarter-profile portrait of Sofia, a few years younger, her hair in ringlets, wearing a necklace of jet and diamonds, a black ribbon tied to the left shoulder of her bronze satin dress. Ezio guessed it must have been done for the Sartor family when Meister Dürer was briefly resident in Venice.
The gallery owner, seeing him admiring it, came up to him. ‘That’s for sale, of course, if you like the look of it.’ He stood back a little, sharing the treasure with his prospective client. ‘A luminous portrait. You see how lifelike she looks. Her beauty shines through!’
‘How much do you want for it?’
The gallery owner hummed and hawed. ‘Hard to put a price on the priceless, isn’t it?’ He paused. ‘But I can see you are a connoisseur. Shall we say … five hundred?’
‘You paid two hundred.’
The man held up his hands, aghast. ‘Efendim! As if I would take such advantage of a man like you! In any case – how do you know?’
‘I’ve just had a word with the vendor. Not five minutes ago.’
The gallery owner clearly saw that Ezio was not a man to be trifled with. ‘Ah! Indeed. But I have my overheads, you know.’
‘You’ve only just hung it. I watched you.’
The gallery owner looked distressed. ‘Very well … four hundred, then?’
Ezio glared.
‘Three hundred? Two fifty?’
Ezio placed the purse carefully in the man’s hand. ‘Two hundred. There it is. Count it if you like.’
‘I’ll have to wrap it.’
‘I hope you don’t expect extra for that.’
Grumbling sotto voce, the man unhooked the picture and wrapped it carefully in cotton sheeting which he drew from a bolt by the shop counter. Then he passed it to Ezio. ‘A pleasure doing business with you,’ he said, drily.
‘Next time, don’t be so eager to take stolen goods,’ said Ezio. ‘You might have had a customer who wanted the provenance on a painting as good as this one. Luckily for you, I’m prepared to overlook that.’
‘And why, might one ask?’
‘I’m a friend of the sitter.’
Flabbergasted, the gallery owner bowed him out of the shop, with as much haste as politeness permitted.
‘A pleasure doing business with you, too,’ said Ezio, aridly, in parting.
41
Unable to keep a rendezvous with Sofia that evening, Ezio sent her a note arranging to meet the following day at the Bayezid Mosque, where he would give her back the picture.
When he arrived, he found her already there, waiting for him. In the dappled sunlight, he thought her so beautiful that the portrait scarcely did her justice.
‘It’s a good likeness, don’t you think?’ she said, as he unwrapped it and handed it to her.
‘I prefer the original.’
She elbowed him playfully. ‘Buffone,’ she said, as they began walking. ‘This was a gift from my father when we were in Venice for my twenty-eighth birthday.’ She paused in reminiscence. ‘I had to sit for Messer Albrecht Dürer for a full week. Can you imagine? Me sitting still for seven days? Doing nothing?’
‘I cannot.’
‘Una tortura! ’
They stopped at a nearby bench and she sat down. Ezio suppressed a laugh at the thought of her posing, trying not to move a muscle, for all that time. But the result had certainly been worth it – even though he really did prefer the original.
The laughter died on his lips as she produced a slip of paper; his expression immediately became serious, as did hers.
‘One good turn …’ she said. ‘I’ve found you ano
ther book location. It’s not far from here, actually.’
She handed him the folded slip.
‘Grazie,’ he said. The woman was a genius. He nodded gravely to her, and made to go, but she stopped him with a question.
‘Ezio – what is this all about? You’re not a scholar, that much is clear.’ She eyed his sword. ‘No offence, of course!’ She paused. ‘Do you work for the Church?’
Ezio gave an amused laugh. ‘Not the Church, no. But I am a teacher … of a kind.’
‘What then?’
‘I will explain one day, Sofia. When I can.’
She nodded, disappointed, but not – as he could see – actually devastated. She had sense enough to wait.
42
The decoded cipher led Ezio to an ancient edifice barely three blocks distant, in the centre of the Bayezid District. It seemed to have been a warehouse once, now in disuse, and looked securely shut, but the door, when he tried it, was unlocked. Cautiously, looking up and down the street for any sign of either Ottoman guards or Janissaries, he entered.
Following the instructions on the paper he held in his hand he climbed a staircase to the first floor, and went down a corridor, at the end of which he found a small room, an office, covered in dust; but its shelves were still full of ledgers, and on the desk lay a pen set and a paperknife. He examined the room carefully but its walls seemed to hold no clue at all about what he sought, until at last his keen eyes noticed a discrepancy in the tile work which surrounded the fireplace.
He explored this delicately with his fingers, finding that one tile moved under his touch. Using the paperknife from the desk, he dislodged it, listening all the time for the sound of any movement from below – though he was certain no one had noticed him enter the building. The tile came away after only a moment’s work, revealing behind it a wooden panel. He removed this and saw in the faint light behind it a book, which he withdrew carefully. A small, very old book. He peered at the title on its spine: it was the version of Aesop’s Fables put into verse by Socrates while he was under sentence of death.
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