Revelations

by Oliver Bowden

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ezio arrived during a lull in the fighting and managed to slip into the Den without being seen. There, he was greeted by Dogan, one of the Assassin lieutenants he had briefly met earlier.

  “Mentor, it is an honor. Is Yusuf not with you?”

  “No—they’ve mounted another attack—on our Den by the Grand Bazaar. He’s on his way there now.” Ezio paused. “What is the situation here?”

  Dogan wiped his brow. “We’ve beaten back the vanguard, but they’re just fallen back to wait for reinforcements.”

  “Are your men ready for them?”

  Dogan gave Ezio a wry smile, encouraged by the Mentor’s enthusiasm and confidence. “Now you’re here, they are!”

  “Where’s the next attack likely to come from?”

  “The north side. They think that’s the weakest.”

  “Then we’d better make sure it’s the strongest!”

  Dogan redeployed his Assassins according to Ezio’s instructions, and by the time the Templars launched their counterattack, they were ready for them. The fight was as fierce as it was short, leaving fifteen Templar mercenaries dead in the square near the tower where the Den was located. The Assassin troop counted two men and one woman wounded, but no fatalities. It had been a rout of the Templars.

  “They will not be back soon,” Dogan told Ezio when it was all over.

  “Let’s hope so. From my experience of the Templars, they do not like to be bested.”

  “Well, if they try it again around here, they’ll have to learn to live with it.”

  Ezio smiled and clapped Dogan on the shoulder. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear!”

  He made to take his leave.

  “Where will you go now?” asked Dogan.

  “I’m going to join Yusuf at the Den of the Grand Bazaar. Send word to me there if the Templars do regroup.”

  “In that unlikely event, you will be the first to know.”

  “And tend to your wounded. That sergeant of yours took a bad cut to the head.”

  “It is being attended to as we speak.”

  “Can I get there by using the zipline system?”

  “Once you reach the south bank of the Horn. But you must cross that by ferry. It’s the fastest way to the peninsula.”

  “Ferry?”

  “There was to have been a bridge, but for some reason it was never built.”

  “Ah yes,” said Ezio. “I remember somebody mentioning that.” He put out his hand. “Allaha ismarladik,” he said.

  “Güle güle.” Dogan smiled back.

  The Den Ezio needed to reach was located not far from the Bazaar, in the Imperial District, between the Bazaar itself and the ancient church of Haghia Sofia, now converted by the Ottomans into a mosque.

  But the fighting Ezio reached was taking place a short distance to the southwest, close to the docks on the southern shores of the city. He stood for a moment on a rooftop, observing the battle, which was in full spate in the streets and on the quays below him. A rope from a wooden stake near him stretched down to a point near where he could see Yusuf, his back to the waters of the dock, in the thick of the fray. Yusuf was fending off a half dozen burly mercenaries, and his companions were too busy themselves to come to his aid. Ezio hooked onto the rope and swooped down, jumping from the rope at a height of twelve feet and spread-eagling himself, left-hand hidden-blade extended, to land on the backs of two of Yusuf’s attackers, sending them sprawling. They were dead before they could react, and Ezio stood over them as the remaining four in their group turned to face him, giving Yusuf enough respite to edge round to their flank. Ezio kept his hookblade extended.

  As the four Templar troopers fell roaring on Ezio, Yusuf rushed them from the side, his own hidden-blade brought quickly into play. One huge soldier was almost upon Ezio, having backed him up against a warehouse wall, when he remembered the hook-and-roll technique and used it to escape from, and fell, his opponent, stabbing the man’s writhing body with his hidden-blade to deliver the coup de grace. Meanwhile, Yusuf had dispatched two of the others, while the survivor took to his heels.

  Elsewhere, fierce fighting was simmering down as Yusuf’s brigade got the better of the Templars, who finally fled, cursing, into the depths of the city to the north.

  “Glad you arrived in time to meet my new playmates,” said Yusuf, wiping and sheathing his sword, and retracting his hidden-blade, as Ezio did likewise. “You fought like a tiger, my friend, like a man late for his own—wedding.”

  “Do you not mean funeral?”

  “You would not mind being late for that.”

  “Well, if we’re talking about a wedding, I’m twenty-five years late already.” Ezio pushed the familiar darkening mood aside and squared his shoulders. “Did I arrive in time to save the Bazaar Den?”

  Yusuf shrugged regretfully. “Alas, no. We’ve only managed to save our own skins. The Bazaar Den is taken. Unfortunately, I arrived too late to regain it. They were too well entrenched.”

  “Don’t despair. The Galata Den is safe. The Assassins we used there can join us here.”

  Yusuf brightened. “With my ‘army’ doubled in size, we’ll take the Bazaar back together! Come! This way!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  They made their way through the market streets and the massive, glittering maze of the souk itself, the splendid, frenetic, gold-and-red Grand Bazaar, with its myriad lanes of little shops selling everything from scents to spices to sheepskins to costly Persian carpets from Isfahan and Kabul, cedarwood furniture, swords and armor, brass and silver coffeepots with snaking spouts and elongated necks, tulip-shaped glasses for tea and larger, slender ones for sharbat—a cornucopia selling everything in the world a man could imagine or desire, amid a babel of traders’ voices raised in at least a dozen different languages.

  Once they’d passed out of the northeastern side, they came to streets nearer the Den. Here, the Templar presence was strong. The buildings were hung with their banners, and the merchants who did business there, Ezio could see, were not infrequently being harassed or otherwise bullied by Byzantine toughs.

  “As you can see,” Yusuf was telling him, “when the Templars take over a district, they like to flaunt it. It’s a constant battle to keep them at bay; they like nothing better than to rub our noses in every victory they enjoy.”

  “But why does the sultan do nothing? This is his city!”

  “Sultan Bayezid is far away. There aren’t enough Ottoman resources for the governor here to keep matters in check. If it weren’t for us . . .” Yusuf trailed off, then continued, following another train of thought. “The sultan is at war with his son, Selim, many leagues northwest of the city. He’s been away for years, at least since the great earthquake in 1509, and even before that he was almost always absent. He is blind to all this turmoil.”

  “The earthquake?” Ezio remembered news of that reaching Rome. Over a hundred mosques had been reduced to rubble, along with a thousand other buildings, and ten thousand citizens had lost their lives.

  “You should have seen it. We called it the Lesser Day of Judgment. The huge waves it caused in the Sea of Marmara almost brought down the southern walls. But the sultan’s eyes remained closed, even to that warning.”

  “Ah, but your eyes are open, sì?”

  “Like two full moons. Believe me.”

  They had reached a large open karesi, thronged with Templar mercenaries, who began to eye them suspiciously as they crossed the square.

  “Too many to engage directly,” Yusuf said. “We’d better use one of these.”

  He delved into the pouch at his side and produced a bomb.

  “What’s that—a smoke bomb?” Ezio said. “Hmn. I’m not confident that that will help us here.”

  Yusuf laughed. “Smoke bomb? Dear Ezio—Mentor—it’s really high time you Italians joined the sixteenth century. These bombs do not obscure—they distract. Watch.”

  Ezio stood back as Yusuf threw the bomb some
distance away from him. It exploded harmlessly, but sent a shower of small, apparently gold, coins into the air, which rained down over the mercenaries. Their attention was immediately distracted from Ezio and Yusuf as they hurried to pick up the coins, shouldering aside the civilians around who tried to join in.

  “What was that?” asked Ezio in astonishment, as they continued on their way, now in no fear of molestation.

  Yusuf smiled craftily. “That’s what we call a Gold Bomb. It’s filled with coins made of pyrite—they look exactly like gold coins but are very cheap to produce.”

  Ezio watched the troopers scatter, oblivious to anything but the Fool’s Gold.

  “You see?” said Yusuf. “They can’t resist. But let’s get a move on before they’ve picked them all up.”

  “You are full of surprises today.”

  “Crafting explosives is a new hobby of ours, one we’ve borrowed from the Chinese. We’ve taken to it with great passion.”

  “I’m obviously getting rusty. But a friend of mine once made me some bombs, in Spain, long ago, so I know something of the subject. You’ll have to teach me the new techniques.”

  “Gladly—but who is the Mentor here, Ezio? I’m beginning to wonder.”

  “That’s enough of your cheek, Assassin!” Ezio grinned, clapping Yusuf on the shoulder.

  A narrow street they’d been passing along gave way to another square, and there, again, in that Templar-infested district, was another large group of Byzantine mercenaries. They’d heard the commotion from the adjoining karesi and were looking restive. Yusuf drew a handful of small bombs from his pouch and handed them to Ezio. “Your turn,” he said. “Make me proud. The wind’s behind us, so we should be all right.”

  The Byzantines were already making for the two Assassins and drawing their swords. Ezio pulled the pins of the three bombs in his hands and threw them toward the oncoming mercenaries. They exploded on impact with the ground with little, harmless-sounding pops, and for a moment it looked as if nothing else had happened. But then the Templar troops hesitated and looked at each other, gagging and dabbing at their uniforms, which were covered with a stinking, viscous liquid. Quickly, they beat a retreat.

  “There they go,” said Yusuf. “It’ll be days before their women will take them back into their beds.”

  “Another of your surprises?”

  “Those were skunk-oil bombs. Very effective if you judge your moment and keep out of the prevailing wind!”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “What warning?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hurry. We’re nearly there.”

  They’d crossed the karesi into another street, broader this time but lined with what looked liked boarded-up shops. Yusuf paused at one of them and pushed cautiously at its door, which swung open. Beyond it was a small, plain courtyard, a few barrels and packing cases stacked up along the far wall. In the middle was an open trapdoor, with stone steps leading down from it. A tower rose from the rear left-hand corner of the courtyard.

  “As I thought,” said Yusuf. He turned to Ezio and spoke urgently. “This is one of our underground Dens. It looks deserted, I know, but below, the Templars will have it well guarded. Among their rabble there’s a Templar captain. May I ask you to find him and kill him?”

  “I’ll get your hideout back for you.”

  “Good. When you’ve done so, climb that tower and set off the signal flare you’ll find there. It’s another one of our bombs, and it’s a copy of the flares the Templars use to signal a retreat.”

  “And you?”

  “It won’t take those Templars in the square long to realize what’s happened, so I’ll go back and find a way of stopping them from following us here and trying to reinforce their friends. I’ve got a couple of phosphorus bombs clipped to my tunic belt. They should do the trick.”

  “So you do still use old-fashioned smoke screens?”

  Yusuf nodded. “Yes, but these are pretty nasty, so—” He drew a scarf over his nose and mouth. “And before I go, there’s one more little trick up my sleeve, which should bring the rabbits out of their hole—I wouldn’t want you to go down to the Den and fight those thugs in semidarkness. Once they’ve surfaced, you should be able to pick them off without too much trouble.” From his pouch, he produced a final bomb, and hefted it for a moment. “I’ll set this off now, then be on my way. We’ve got to neutralize both groups of Templars simultaneously, or we’ll be lost. Just cover your ears—this is a cherry bomb, and it’s packed with sulfur, so it’ll make a noise like a thunderclap. It’ll bring them up all right, but I don’t want you to burst your eardrums.”

  Ezio did as he was bidden, moving back to a strategic position on the shady side of the courtyard, with a good view of the trapdoor. He exchanged his left-hand hidden-blade for his adapted pistol harness, preferring to retain the hookblade for close combat. Yusuf, near the street, threw his cherry bomb to the far side of the courtyard, and disappeared.

  There was a noise as loud as the Devil’s Fart, and Ezio, though he’d covered his ears beneath his hood firmly, still had the aftershock in his head. He shook it to clear it, and as he did so, ten Templars, led by a ruddy-nosed captain, burst from the trapdoor into the sunlight, looking around them in panic. Ezio moved in swiftly and had cut three down before they’d had time to react. Using his hookblade, he was able to kill another three in the next minute of combat. Three more ran off, as they heard the sound of two more explosions, followed shortly afterward by the faint smell of smoke in the breeze.

  “Perfect timing, Yusuf,” murmured Ezio to himself.

  The captain of the cohort stood and confronted Ezio. A brawny, walleyed man with well-used black shoulder armor over his dark red tunic, he held a heavy Damascus in his right hand and a wicked-looking curved dagger, with a barbed point, in his left.

  “Rip and slit,” said the captain in a hoarse voice. “I hook you in with the dagger and slit your throat with the sword. You’re as good as dead, Assassin.”

  “It’s really high time you Templars joined the sixteenth century,” replied Ezio, raising his left arm and springing his pistol into his hand. He fired, thinking that at that range he really couldn’t miss, even left-handed, and, sure enough, the ball sank into the bone straight between the captain’s eyes.

  The captain was still sinking to his knees as Ezio sprang across the courtyard, leapt onto one of the barrels for purchase, and used the hookblade to surge to the top of the tower.

  The flare Yusuf had told him of had not been discovered or disturbed. There was a little mortar, and Ezio loaded the flare into it. A moment later, it streaked high into the sky, trailing a vivid streak of flame and violet smoke.

  By the time he reached the foot of the tower again, Yusuf was waiting for him.

  “No wonder you are our Mentor,” said the Seljuk Assassin. “You could not have timed that better.” He beamed in triumph. “The Templars are withdrawing on all fronts.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The Bazaar Den was remarkably neat and tidy, given its recent occupation by the Templars.

  “Any damage?” Ezio asked Yusuf, as his Turkish comrade stared at the ceiling.

  “Not that I can see. Byzantine Templars may be bad hosts, but they are decent tenants. Once they capture a location, they like to keep it intact.”

  “Because they intend to stay?”

  “Exactly!” Yusuf rubbed his hands. “We must take advantage of our little victories to prepare you further for the fight against our Greek friends,” he said. “I’ve shown you how to use some of our bombs. But it’ll be even better if you know how to make them.”

  “Is there someone here who can teach me?”

  “Of course! The master himself! Piri Reis.”

  “Piri Reis is . . . one of us?”

  “In a manner of speaking. He likes to keep himself aloof. But he’s certainly on our side.”

  “I thought he was more of a mapmaker,” said Ezio, remembering the map of
Cyprus he’d been given by Ma’Mun.

  “Mapmaker, seafarer, pirate—though these days he’s rising swiftly through the ranks of the Ottoman Navy—he’s a pretty good all-arounder. And he knows Istanbul—Kostantiniyye—like the back of his hand.”

  “Good—because there’s something I’d like to ask him about the city that he may know. Apart from how to make bombs. When can I meet him?”

  “No time like the present. And we don’t have any to lose. Are you all right after that little skirmish? Need some rest?”

  “No.”

  “Good! I’ll take you to him now. His workroom isn’t far from here.”

  Piri Reis—Admiral Piri—had a small set of second-story, open-plan rooms on the north side of the Grand Bazaar, whose tall windows threw a cold, clear light on the handful of map tables neatly arranged on the teak floors of a cramped studio. Equally neatly spread out on the tables were maps of a greater number and variety than Ezio had ever seen before, and, seated by them, a handful of assistants were diligently working in silence. The western and southern walls of the workroom were festooned with more maps, all neatly pinned up and squared-off to one another. Five large globes, one in each corner and one in the center of the room, completed the picture. The globes were also works in progress, and freshly inked-in areas showed the latest discoveries added.

  The western wall was also covered with detailed technical drawings, expertly accomplished—but these were, as Ezio saw at a glance, designs for bombs. He was able to read enough, as he passed through the room toward where Piri sat, to see that the bomb drawings were divided into categories: Lethal, Tactical, Diversionary, and Special Casings. An alcove in the wall was big enough to contain a worktable, and behind it, arranged with precision, a number of metalworkers’ tools were placed on shelves.