Revelations

by Oliver Bowden

  Then Ezio remembered. Three centuries earlier, Cyprus had been the property of the Templars.

  SIX

  The Venetian authorities—or someone behind them—were clearly blocking his onward passage. This became clear to him as soon as he had confronted them. Florentines and Venetians might have been rivals, might have looked down on one another, but they shared the same country and the same language.

  That cut no ice at all with the governor there. Domenico Garofoli was like a pencil—long, thin, and grey. His black robes, exquisitely cut in the most costly damask, nevertheless hung from him like rags from a scarecrow. The heavy gold rings, set with rubies and pearls, clattered loosely on his bony fingers. His lips were so narrow that you could hardly say they were there at all, and when his mouth was closed, you could not see where it was in his face.

  He was, of course, unfailingly polite—Ezio’s action had done much to warm Ottoman-Venetian relations in the region—but he was clearly unwilling to do anything. The situation on the mainland eastward—beyond the coastal towns that clung to the shore of the Mediterranean like the fingertips of a man hanging from a precipice—was fraught with danger. The Ottoman presence in Syria was mighty, and further Ottoman ambitions westward much feared. Any mission not sanctioned by official diplomacy could trigger an international incident of the most dire proportions. That, at least, was Garofoli’s excuse.

  There was no way Ezio was going to find allies among his countrymen on Crete.

  Ezio listened, and listened, sitting politely, with his hands on his knees, as the governor droned on in a desiccated voice. And decided to take matters into his own hands.

  That very evening, he made his first reconnaissance of the docks. There were ships aplenty moored there, dhows from Araby and North Africa bumping against Venetian roccafortes, galleys, and caravels. A Dutch fluyt looked promising, and there were men working aboard, loading thick bales of silk under an armed guard. But once Ezio had recognized the cargo, he knew that the fluyt would be homeward bound, not outward, and he needed a ship sailing east.

  He wandered farther, keeping to the shadows, a dark form still as lithe and fluid as a cat. But his search yielded him nothing.

  Several days and nights passed in reconnoitering. He always took all his essential equipment with him, in case he struck it lucky and could get away there and then. But each foray ended with the same result. Ezio’s notoriety had marked him, and he had to go to some lengths to keep his identity secret; but even when he succeeded, he found that no ship’s master was headed in precisely the direction he wanted, or that they were—for some reason—unwilling to take him, no matter how big the bribe offered. He considered returning to Bekir but resisted this in the end. Bekir already knew too much about his intentions.

  The fifth night found him again at the docks. Fewer ships by then, and apart from the Night Watchmen and their crews, who passed seldom, their lanterns swinging on long poles and their swords or truncheons always at the ready, no one else was about. Ezio made his way to the most distant quaysides, where smaller vessels were tied up. The distance to the mainland was not that great. Perhaps if he could . . . acquire . . . some boat of his own, he might be able to sail the seventy-five leagues or so alone.

  Cautiously, he set foot on a wooden jetty, its black boards shiny with seawater, along which five small single-sail dhows were ranked, fishing boats from the smell of them, but sturdy, and two of them had all their gear stowed aboard, as far as Ezio could see.

  Then the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  Too late. Before Ezio had time to turn, he was knocked flat on his face by the force of the weight of the man who’d thrown himself on him. Big man, that much Ezio could sense. Very big. He was pinning Ezio down by the size of his body alone; it was like struggling under a massive, muscular eiderdown. Ezio wrenched his right hand free so that he could unleash his hidden-blade, but his wrist was instantly grasped in a grip of iron. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the hand that held his wrist was cuffed with a manacle from which two broken chain links dangled.

  Gathering his strength, Ezio twisted violently and suddenly to his left, digging his left elbow hard into a part of the eiderdown that he hoped was tender. He was fortunate. The man pinioning him grunted in pain and relaxed his hold a fraction. It was enough. Following through, Ezio heaved with his left shoulder and managed to roll the body off his own. Like lightning, he was up on one knee, his left hand on the man’s throat, his right poised to strike.

  Ezio’s moment of triumph was short. The man knocked his right hand away, the iron manacle on the man’s left hand, similarly adorned with a couple of chain links, striking Ezio’s wrist painfully despite the protection of the hidden-blade’s harness, and Ezio found his left wrist now caught in another viselike grip, which slowly but inexorably forced his hold on the man’s throat to weaken.

  They rolled over, each trying to get the better of the other, putting in blows where they could, but although his assailant was bulky, he was quick, and Ezio’s blade never found a mark. At last they separated and stood, grunting, out of breath, hunched, facing each other. The man was unarmed, but the iron manacles could do a lot of damage used as weapons.

  Then, from a short distance away, there was a flash of light from a lantern and a cry.

  “The Watch!” said the man. “Down!”

  Instinctively, Ezio followed the big man’s lead as they dived into the nearest dhow, flattening themselves in its bottom. Ezio’s mind was racing. In the flash of light from the lantern, he had seen the man’s face and recognized him. How could it be?

  But there was no time to worry about that. They could hear the footfalls of the Watch scurrying toward the jetty.

  “They saw us, may Allah blind them,” said the man. “Better see to them. You ready?”

  Astonished, Ezio nodded mutely in the dark.

  “I’ll finish you off once we’ve seen to them,” the man added.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  There was no time for any more talk as the five men of the Watch were already upon them. Fortunately, they hesitated before throwing themselves down into the dark well of the boat, where Ezio and his unlikely ally now stood, and contented themselves with standing on the jetty, waving their weapons and yelling threats.

  The big man regarded them. “Easy meat,” he said. “But we’d better take them now, before they attract too much attention.”

  In reply, Ezio braced himself, crouched, and leapt up to the jetty, catching its edge and hauling himself onto it in one—these days—not-quite-fluid movement. In the moment it took him to catch his breath, three of the Watch were upon him, bludgeoning him to the ground with heavy truncheons, while a fourth man approached, swirling a short but wicked-looking sword. He raised it for the coup de grace, but in that instant he was lifted bodily by the scruff of the neck from behind and hurled, howling, backward and upward, to land with a sickening crash a long way farther down the jetty, where he lay moaning, several of his bones broken.

  At the moment that Ezio’s three other attackers were distracted by this, Ezio sprang to his feet and snapped out his hidden-blade, slicing down two of them in two quick, efficient strokes. Meanwhile, the big man was struggling with the lampholder, another giant, who had thrown his pole aside and drawn a massive Damascus, which he waved threateningly over the head of his opponent, who held him in a wrestler’s body grip. Ezio could see that at any moment the thick blade would come down square into the broad back of the big man. He cursed himself for not having strapped on his gun, but it was too late for that. He grabbed a fallen truncheon and, shoving the remaining watchman aside with his elbow, hurled it at the head of the lanternman.

  His aim had—thank God!—been true. The truncheon struck the lanternman square between the eyes and he staggered back, falling to his knees. Then Ezio felt a sharp pain in his side. The surviving member of the Watch had drawn a dagger and stabbed him. He sank, and before his world went black, he saw
the big man running toward him.

  SEVEN

  When Ezio came to, he was lying on his back somewhere, and the world was rocking beneath him. Not violently, but steadily. It was almost comforting. He stayed where he was for a moment, eyes still closed, feeling a breeze on his face, not quite wanting to come back to whatever reality was waiting to confront him, smelling the sea air.

  The sea air?

  He opened his eyes. The sun was up, and he could see an unbroken expanse of blue sky. Then a dark shape came between the sky and him. A head and shoulders. A concerned face, looking down at him.

  “You’re back. Good,” said the big man.

  Ezio started to sit up, and as he did so the pain from his wound hit him. He groaned and put a hand to his side. He felt bandages.

  “Flesh wound. Not too deep. Nothing to make a fuss about.”

  Ezio raised himself. His next thought was for his kit. He looked around swiftly. There it was, neatly stashed in his leather bag, and it looked untouched. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Where do you think? At sea.”

  Painfully, Ezio stood and looked about him. They were in one of the fishing dhows, cutting steadily through the water, the sail above his head fat with wind. He turned, and could see Larnaka, a speck on the coastline of Cyprus, on the distant horizon behind them.

  “What happened?”

  “You saved my life. I saved yours.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the Law. Pity though. After what you did to me, you had it coming.”

  The man had had his back to him, working the tiller, but now he turned to Ezio. For the first time Ezio had a good look at his face and recognized him instantly.

  “You wrecked my ships, curse you. I’d been stalking the Anaan for days. That prize would have taken me back to Egypt a rich man. Instead, thanks to you, they made a galley slave of me. Me!” The big man was indignant.

  “Egypt? You’re not a Berber then?”

  “Berber be damned. I’m a Mamluk though I may not look like one dressed in these rags. Soon as we get there, I’m treating myself to a woman, a decent plate of kofta, and a good suit of clothes.”

  Ezio looked around him again, stumbling then regaining his balance as an unexpected wave chopped aslant the bow.

  “Not much of a seaman, are you?”

  “Gondolas are more my line.”

  “Gondolas? Pah!”

  “If you wanted to kill me—”

  “Can you blame me? It was the only reason I hung around in that cesspool of a Venetian port after I’d escaped. I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw you. I’d almost given up—I was looking for a way out myself, down there.”

  Ezio grinned. “I don’t blame you.”

  “You chucked me in a tank and left me to drown!”

  “You could swim well enough. Any fool could see that.”

  It was the big man’s turn to grin. “Ah! I might have known I couldn’t appeal to your compassion by pretending that I couldn’t.”

  “You repaid your debt to me, you saved my life. But why did you bring me with you?”

  The big man spread his hands. “You were wounded. If I’d left you, they’d have come for you, you wouldn’t have lasted the night. And what a waste of my effort that would have been. Besides, you can make yourself useful on this tub, landlubber though you are.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  The big man’s eyes grew serious. “I know you can, effendi. Maybe I just wanted your company—Ezio Auditore.”

  ‘You know my name.”

  “You’re famous. Vanquisher of pirates. Not that that would have saved you after killing a team of watchmen and trying to escape.”

  Ezio thought about that. Then he said, “What do they call you?”

  The big man drew himself up. His dignity belied the galley slave’s rags he still wore. “I am Al-Scarab, scourge of the White Sea.”

  “Oh,” said Ezio wryly. “Pardon me.”

  “Temporarily on my back foot,” Al-Scarab added ruefully. “But not for long. When we get there, I’ll have a new ship and crew within a week.”

  “When we get where?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? The nearest port worth anything, that’s also in Mamluk hands—Acre.”

  EIGHT

  The time had come.

  It was hard to leave, but his mission was imperative, and it called Ezio urgently onward. His time in Acre had been one of rest and recuperation, forcing himself to be patient as his wound healed, for he knew his quest would come to nothing of he were not fully fit for it. And meeting Al-Scarab, disastrous as it would have been if things had gone differently, had shown him that if any guardian angel existed, he had one.

  The big pirate, whom he had bested in the battle aboard the Anaan, had proved himself to be more than just a lifesaver. Al-Scarab had extended family in Acre, and they welcomed Ezio as the rescuer of their cousin and as his brother-in-arms. Al-Scarab said nothing of his defeat in the Anaan incident and enjoined Ezio on pain of unmentionable retribution to follow suit. But the escape from Larnaka was boosted into a fight of epic proportions.

  “There were fifty of them . . .” Al-Scarab would start his story, and the number of perfidious Venetian assailants they’d been obliged to fight off had reached ten times that number by his tenth telling of the tale. Openmouthed and wide-eyed, his cousins listened spellbound, and never breathed a word about any of the inconsistencies that crept in. At least he didn’t throw in a sea monster, Ezio thought, drily.

  One thing that was not invention were the warnings that came from Al-Scarab’s family of the dangers Ezio would have to be prepared for in his onward journey. They tried hard to persuade him to take an armed escort with him, but this Ezio steadfastly declined to do. He would ride his own road. He would not subject others to the perils he knew he must face.

  Soon after his arrival at Acre, Ezio took the opportunity to write a long-overdue letter to his sister. He chose his words with care, conscious that this might be the last time he would ever communicate with her.

  Acre

  xx novembre MDX

  My dearest sister Claudia—

  I have been in Acre a week now, safe and in high spirits, but prepared for the worst. The men and women who have fed and sheltered me here also give me warning that the road to Masyaf is overrun by mercenaries and bandits not native to this land. What this could mean, I fear to guess.

  When I first set out from Roma ten months ago, I did so with a single purpose: to discover what our father could not. In the letter you know of, written the year before my birth, he makes a single mention of a library hidden beneath the floors of Altaïr’s former castle. A sanctum full of invaluable wisdom.

  But what will I find when I arrive? Who will greet me? A host of eager Templars, as I fear most strongly? Or nothing but the whistling of a cold and lonely wind? Masyaf has not been home to the Assassins for almost three hundred years now. Does it remember us? Are we still welcome?

  Ah, I am weary of this fight, Claudia . . . Weary not because I am tired but because our struggle seems to move in one direction only . . . toward chaos. Today I have more questions than answers. That is why I have come so far: to find clarity. To find the wisdom left behind by the Great Mentor, so that I may better understand the purpose of our fight and my place in it.

  Should anything happen to me, dear Claudia . . . should my skills fail me, or my ambition lead me astray, do not seek revenge or retribution in my memory but fight to continue the search for truth, so that all may benefit. My story is one of many thousands, and the world will suffer if it ends too soon.

  Your brother, Ezio Auditore da Firenze

  Al-Scarab, in the course of fitting out for his own new ventures, had also seen to it that Ezio had the attention of the best doctors, the best tailors, the best chefs, and the best women Acre could provide. His blades were honed and sharpened, his kit was fully cleaned, repaired, replaced where necessary, and thoroughly overhauled.

/>   As the day approached for Ezio to leave, Al-Scarab presented him with two fine horses—“A present from my uncle—he breeds them—but I don’t have much use for them in my trade”—tough little Arabs, with soft leather tack and one fine, high-ended, tooled saddle. Ezio continued to refuse any escort but accepted supplies for his journey, which from now on would carry him overland, through what had once, long ago, been the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem.

  And now the time of parting had come. The last leg in a long journey, and whether it would it be completed or not, Ezio had no way of telling. But for him there was only the journey. It had to be made. Old men ought to be explorers. At its end, he would see.

  “Go with your God, Ezio.”

  “Barakallah feek, my friend,” Ezio replied, taking the big pirate’s hand.

  “We’ll meet again.”

  “Yes.”

  Both men wondered in their hearts if they were telling the truth, but the words comforted them. It didn’t matter. They looked each other in the eye and knew that in their different ways they were part of the same fellowship.

  Ezio mounted the larger of the two horses, the bay, and turned her head around.

  Without a backward glance, he headed out of the city, north.

  NINE

  Masyaf was two hundred miles—as the crow flies—away from Acre. The seemingly gentle desert land that lay between the two points was very far from gentle in fact. The great Ottoman outward thrust from its original core had been going on relentlessly for two hundred years, and had culminated in the taking of Constantinople by the twenty-year-old Sultan Mehmed II in 1453. But still the Turkish tentacles extended, reaching westward as far as Bulgaria and beyond, and south and east into Syria and what had once been the Holy Land. The eastern coastal strip of the White Sea, with its vital ports and its access by water westward, was a jewel in the crown, and the Ottoman grip on it was as yet fragile. Ezio was under no illusions about what battles he would have to face as he made his lonely way north. He followed the coast for most of the way, keeping the sparkling sea in view to his left, riding the high cliffs and the tattered scrublands that topped them, traveling in the hours of dawn and dusk, hiding for four hours when the sun was at its highest and resting again for four hours at night under the stars.