“Where are you hurt?” asked the young man, urgently.
“Broken foot. You arrived in the nick of time.”
The young man bent under his comrade and helped him to his feet, placing one of his arms round his shoulders and helping him to a bench against the wall of a stone outbuilding.
The injured Assassin looked up at him. “What is your name, brother?”
“Altair. Son of Umar.”
The injured Assassin’s face brightened in recognition. “Umar. A fine man, who died as he had lived-with honor.”
A third Assassin was staggering toward them from the main part of the battle, bloodied and exhausted. “Altair!” he cried. “We have been betrayed! The enemy has overrun the castle!”
Altair Ibn-La’Ahad finished dressing his fallen comrade’s wound. Patting him on the shoulder, he reassured him: “You’ll live.” Then he turned to address the newcomer. No friendly look was exchanged between them. “Grave news, Abbas. Where is Al Mualim?”
Abbas shook his head. “He was inside when the Crusaders broke through. We can do nothing for him now.”
Altair didn’t reply immediately but turned to face the castle, rising among its rocky crags a few hundred yards away. He was thinking.
“Altair!” Abbas interrupted him. “We must fall back!”
Altair turned back to him calmly. “Listen. When I close the castle gates, flank the Crusader units in the village and drive them into the canyon to the west.”
“Same foolhardiness,” growled Abbas angrily. “You don’t stand a chance!”
“Abbas!” retorted Altair sternly. “Just-make no mistakes.”
Remounting, he rode toward the castle. As he cantered along the familiar roadway, he was grieved at the scenes of destruction that met his eye. Villagers were straggling along the side of the path. One raised her head as she was passing, and cried: “Curse these Crusaders! May they fall beneath your sword, every one of them!”
“Leave prayers to the priests, my sister.”
Altair spurred his horse on, his progress slowed by pockets of Crusaders engaged in looting, and preying upon those denizens of Masyaf attempting to regain the village from the beleaguered fortress. Three times he had to expend precious time and energy in defending his people from the depredations of these surly Franks, who styled themselves Soldiers of Christ. But the words of gratitude and encouragement rang in his ears as he rode on, and spurred his purpose:
“Bless you, Assassin!”
“I was certain I’d be killed! Thank you!”
“Drive these Crusaders back into the sea, once and for all!”
At last he reached the gate. It yawned open. Looking up, Altair could see a fellow Assassin frantically working at the winch mechanism on the gatehouse, some hundred feet above. A platoon of Assassin foot soldiers were grouped at the foot of one of the nearby towers.
“Why is the gate still open?” Altair called to him.
“Both winches are jammed. The castle is swarming with the enemy.”
Altair looked into the courtyard of the castle to see a group of Crusaders making for him. He addressed the lieutenant in charge of the platoon. “Hold this position.”
Sheathing his sword and dismounting, he started to climb the outer wall of the gatehouse and, shortly afterward, arrived at the side of the comrade who was working to free the winches. Frantically, they worked on them, and their combined strength prevailed-at least, enough to free the gate partially, and it slipped down a few feet, juddering and groaning.
“Nearly there,” said Altair, through gritted teeth. His muscles bulged as he and his fellow Assassin struggled to dislodge the cogs of the second winch. At last it gave, and the gate came crashing down on the melee between Assassins and Crusaders taking place below. The Assassins managed to leap clear, but the Crusaders’ troop was divided by the falling gate, some inside the castle, others trapped outside.
Altair made his way down the stone steps that led from the top of the gatehouse to the central courtyard of Masyaf. The scattered bodies of Assassins attested to the fierce fighting that had only recently taken place there. As he looked around, scanning the ramparts and battlements, a door in the Great Keep opened, and from it emerged a group of people who made him draw in his breath sharply. A company of elite Crusader infantrymen surrounded the Mentor of the Brotherhood-A l Mualim. The old man was semiconscious. He was being dragged along by two brutal-looking troopers. With them was a figure with a dagger, whom Altair recognized. A big, tough man with dark, unreadable eyes, and a deep, disfiguring scar on his chin. His thin hair was tied up in a black ribbon.
Haras.
Altair had long wondered where Haras’s true loyalties had lain. An Assassin adept, he had never seemed satisfied with the rank assigned to him within the Brotherhood. He was a man who sought an easy route to the top rather than one that rewarded merit. Though a man with a well-deserved reputation as a fighter, chameleon-like, he had always managed to worm his way into other people’s confidence by adapting his personality to suit theirs. His ambitions had clearly got the better of him, and, seeing an opportunity, he had traitorously thrown in his lot with the Crusaders. Now he even dressed in Crusader uniform.
“Stand back, Altair!” he cried. “Another step, and your Mentor dies!”
At the sound of the voice, Al Mualim rallied, stood proud, and raised his own voice. “Kill this wretch, Altair! I do not fear death!”
“You won’t leave this place alive, traitor!” Altair called to Haras.
Haras laughed. “No. You misunderstand. I am no traitor.” He took a helmet, which was hanging from his belt, and donned it. A Crusader helmet! Haras laughed again. “You see? I could never betray those I never truly loved. ”
Haras started to walk toward Altair.
“Then you are doubly wretched,” said Altair. “For you have been living a lie.”
Things happened quickly then. Haras drew his sword and lunged toward Altair. At the same moment, Al Mualim managed to break free of his guards and, with a strength that belied his age, wrested the sword from one of them and cut him down. Profiting from Haras’s momentary distraction, Altair unleashed his hidden-blade and struck at the traitor. But Haras squirmed out of the way and brought his own sword down in a cowardly stroke while Altair was off balance.
Altair rolled to one side, springing back to his feet quickly as a knot of Crusaders rushed to Haras’s defense. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Al Mualim fighting another group.
“Kill the bastard!” snarled Haras, stepping out of harm’s way.
Altair tasted fury. He surged forward, slicing through the throats of two Crusader assailants. The others fell back in fear, leaving Haras isolated and petrified. Altair cornered him where two walls met. He had to make haste and finish the job, to go to his Mentor’s assistance.
Haras, seeing Altair momentarily distracted, cut at him quickly, ripping the cloth of his tunic. Altair lashed back in retaliation and plunged his hidden-blade straight into the base of Haras’s neck, just above the sternum. With a strangled cry, the traitor fell back, crashing against the wall. Altair stood over him.
Haras looked up as Altair’s figure blocked the sun. “You put too much faith in the hearts of men, Altair,” he said, barely getting the words out as the blood bubbled from his chest. “The Templars know what is true. Humans are weak, base, and petty.” He didn’t know he could have been describing himself.
“No, Haras. Our Creed is evidence to the contrary. Try to return to it, even now, in your last hour. I beg you out of pity to redeem yourself.”
“You will learn, Altair. And you will learn the hard way.” Nevertheless, Haras paused in thought for a moment, and even as the light in his eyes slowly died, he fought for speech. “Perhaps I am not wise enough to understand, but I suspect the opposite of what you believe is true. I am at least too wise to believe such rubbish as you do.”
Then his eyes became marble, and his body leaned to one side, a long, rattlin
g sigh escaping from it as it relaxed in death.
The doubt he’d seeded in Altair’s mind didn’t take root immediately. There was too much to be done for there to be time for thought. The young man wheeled round and joined his Mentor, fighting shoulder to shoulder until the Crusader band was routed, either sprawled in the bloody dust or fled.
Around them, meanwhile, the signs were that the battle had turned in the Assassins’ favor. The Crusader army was beating a retreat from the castle though the battle beyond it continued. Messengers soon arrived to confirm that.
Recovering from their exertions, Altair and Al Mualim paused for a moment’s respite under a tree by the side of the gate of the Great Keep.
“That man-that wretch, Haras-you offered him a last chance to salvage his dignity, to see the error of his ways. Why?”
Flattered that his Mentor should seek his opinion, Altair replied: “No man should pass from this world without knowing some kindness, some chance of redemption.”
“But he shunned what you proffered him.”
Altair shrugged mildly. “That was his right.”
Al Mualim watched Altair’s face closely for a moment, then smiled, and nodded. Together, they started to walk toward the castle gate. “Altair,” Al Mualim began, “I have watched you grow from a boy to a man in a very short time-and I have to say that this fills me with as much sadness as pride. But one thing is certain: You fit Umar’s shoes as if they had been made for you.”
Altair raised his head. “I did not know him as a father. Only as an Assassin.”
Al Mualim placed a hand on his shoulder. “You, too, were born into this Order-this Brotherhood.” He paused. “Are there ever times when you-regret it?”
“Mentor-how can I regret the only life I have ever known?”
Al Mualim nodded sagely, looking up briefly to make a sign to an Assassin lookout perched high on the parapet wall. “You may find another way, in time, Altair. And if that time comes, it will be up to you to choose the path you prefer.”
In response to Al Mualim’s signal, the men in the gatehouse were winching up the castle gate again.
“Come, my boy,” the old man said. “And ready your blade. This battle is not won yet.”
Together, they strode toward the open gate, into the bright sunshine beyond.
Bright sunshine, a white light so strong, so all-encompassing, that Ezio was dazzled. He blinked to rid his eyes of the multicolored shapes that appeared before them, shaking his head vigorously to escape from whatever vision had him in its grip. He squeezed them tight shut.
When he opened them, his heartbeat had begun to settle to its normal rhythm, and he found himself once again in the subterranean chamber, the soft light returned. He found that he was still holding the stone disc in his hand, and now he was in no doubt at all about what it was.
He had found the first key.
He looked at his candle. He had seemed to be away for a long time, yet the flame burned steadily and had eaten up scarcely any tallow.
He stowed the key with the map in his pouch and turned to make his way back to the daylight, and to Sofia.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Excitedly, Sofia put down the book she’d been trying to read and ran over to him, but drawing the line at taking him in her arms. “Ezio! Salve! I’d thought you were gone forever!”
“So did I,” said Ezio.
“Did you find anything?”
“Yes, I did. Something that may interest you.”
They walked over to a large table, which Sofia cleared of books as Ezio produced the map he’d found and spread it out.
“ Dio mio, how beautiful!” she exclaimed. “And look-there’s my shop. In the middle.”
“Yes. It’s on a very important site. But look at the margins.”
She produced a pair of eyeglasses and, bending over, examined the book titles closely.
“Rare books, these. And what are the symbols surrounding them?”
“That’s what I hope to find out.”
“Some of these books are really extremely rare. And a few of them haven’t been seen for-well-more than a millennium! They must be worth a fortune!”
“Your shop is on the very site of the trading post once run by the Polo brothers-Niccolo and Maffeo. Niccolo hid these books around the city. This map should tell us where if we can find out how to interpret it.”
She took off her glasses and looked at him, intrigued. “Hmmn. You are beginning to interest me. Vaguely.”
Ezio smiled and leaned forward. He pointed to the map. “From what I can see, from among the twelve titles, I need to find these three first.”
“What of the others?”
“That remains to be seen. They may be deliberate red herrings. But I am convinced that these are the ones to concentrate on. They may contain clues about the locations of the rest of these -”
He produced the round stone from his satchel. She donned her glasses again and peered at it. The she stood back, shaking her head. “Molto curioso.”
“It’s the key to a library.”
“Doesn’t look like a key.”
“It’s a very special library. Another has been found already-beneath Topkapi Palace. But, God willing, there is still time to find the others.”
“Found-by whom?”
“Men who do not read.”
Sofia grinned at that. But Ezio remained earnest. “Sofia-do you think you could try to decipher this map? Help me find these books?”
Sofia studied the map again for a few minutes, in silence. Then she straightened and looked at Ezio, smiling, a twinkle in her eye. “There are plenty of reference books in this shop. With their help, I think I can unravel this mystery. But on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“May I borrow the books when you’ve finished with them?”
Ezio looked amused. “I daresay we can work something out.”
He took his leave. She watched him go, then closed the shop for the day. Returning to the table, after collecting a number of tomes from the shelves nearby to help her, and a notebook and pens, she pulled up a chair and settled down at once to examining the map in earnest.
TWENTY-NINE
The next day, Ezio met Yusuf near the Hippodrome in the southeast quarter of the peninsula. He found him conferring with a group of younger associates over a map they were studying. The meeting broke up as Ezio arrived, and Yusuf folded up his map.
“Greetings, Mentor,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, there’s a pleasant surprise in store. And if I’m not dead by this time tomorrow, we should have some good stories to trade.”
“Is there a chance of your being dead?”
“We’ve had wind of a plan the Byzantines are hatching. Now that the young Prince Suleiman has returned from the hajj, they plan to infiltrate Topkapi Palace. They’ve chosen this evening to make their move.”
“What’s special about this evening?”
“There’s an entertainment at the palace. A cultural event. An exhibition of paintings-people like the Bellini brothers-and Seljuk artists, too. And there’ll be music.”
“So what’s our plan?”
Yusuf looked at him gravely. “My brother, this is not your fight. There is no need for you to ensnare yourself in Ottoman affairs.”
“Topkapi concerns me. The Templars found one of the keys to Altair’s library beneath it, and I’d like to know how.”
“Ezio, our plan is to protect the prince, not interrogate him.”
“Trust me, Yusuf. Just show me where to go.”
Yusuf looked unconvinced, but said: “The rendezvous is at the main gate of the palace. We plan to disguise ourselves as musicians and walk right in with the authentic players.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“You’ll need a costume. And an instrument.”
“I used to play the lute.”
“We’ll see what we can do. And we’d better place you with the Italian musicians. You don’t look Turkish enough
to pass for one of us.”
By dusk, Ezio, Yusuf, and his picked team of Assassins, all dressed in formal costumes, had assembled near the main gate.
“Do you like your getup?” asked Yusuf.
“It’s fine. But the sleeves are cut tight. There was no room for any concealed weapon.”
“You can’t play a lute in loose sleeves. And that’s what you are-a lute player. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“True.”
“And we are armed. You mark any targets and leave it to us to take them out. Here’s your instrument.” He took a fine lute from one of his men and passed it to Ezio, who tried it, tentatively.
“By Allah, you’ll have to make a better sound than that!” said Yusuf.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Are you sure you know how to play that thing?”
“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 over 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 kudums, 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?”
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