Revelations

by Oliver Bowden

  “Ezio!” Yusuf suddenly hissed. “Look there!”

  Ezio followed the direction Yusuf was pointing in and saw that the thin young man had returned. Now, breaking out of the crowd behind the prince, he was closing on him, his weapon poised.

  Ezio was far closer than Yusuf and realized that only he could save the prince in time. But he had no weapon himself! Then he looked down at the lute, which he was still holding in his hands, and, with a grunt of regret, made his decision and smashed it against a nearby column. It shattered but left him with a sharp shard of sprucewood in his hand.

  In an instant, Ezio sprang forward and, seizing the Byzantine by his bony wrist and forcing him backward just as he was in the act of moving in for the kill, drove the shard four inches deep into the man’s left eye. The Byzantine stopped as if he had been frozen in motion, then the janbiyah fell from his hand and clattered onto the marble floor. He himself crumpled to the ground immediately afterward.

  The crowd fell silent, forming a circle around Ezio and Suleiman at a respectful distance. The guards tried to intervene, but Suleiman stayed them with a gesture.

  The prince sheathed his own dagger and took a small breath. Then he took a step toward Ezio—a signal honor from a prince, which the crowd acknowledged with a gasp.

  “It is good to see you again, mio bel menestrello. Did I say that right?”

  “ ‘My handsome minstrel.’ Very good.”

  “It is a pity about your lute. So much more beautiful an instrument than a sword.”

  “You are right. But it does not save lives.”

  “Some would argue with that.”

  “Perhaps. In other circumstances.” The two men exchanged a smile. “I hear you are a governor as well as a prince. Is there anything you do not do?”

  “I do not talk to strangers.” Suleiman bowed—a slight inclination of the head only. “I am Suleiman Osman.”

  “Auditore, Ezio . . .” Ezio bowed in his turn.

  One of the white-clad guards approached then. A sergeant. “Forgive me, my prince. On behalf of your uncle, we must have your assurance that you are uninjured.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He awaits you.”

  Suleiman looked at him coldly. “Tell him that, thanks to this man, I am uninjured. But no thanks to you! You! The Janissaries! The elite guard, and you fail me, a prince of the royal house, like this! Where is your captain?”

  “Tarik Barleti is away—on an errand.”

  “On an errand? Do you really wish to show yourselves such amateurs in front of this stranger?” Suleiman drew himself up as the guard, a muscular giant who must have weighed all of three hundred pounds, trembled before him. “Clear this body away and send the guests home. Then summon Tarik to the Divan!”

  Turning back to Ezio as the man scuttled off, Suleiman said: “This is embarrassing. The Janissaries are the bodyguard of the sultan.”

  “But not of his family?”

  “On this occasion, it would appear not.” Suleiman paused, giving Ezio an appraising look. “Now, I don’t wish to impose on your time, but there is something I would like your opinion on. Something important.”

  Yusuf was signaling to Ezio from the edge of the crowd, now slowly dispersing.

  “Allow me simply the time to change out of this costume,” Ezio said, nodding discreetly to his friend.

  “Very well. There’s something I need to arrange first in any case. Meet me by the Divan when you are ready. My attendants will escort you.”

  He clapped his hands and departed the way he had come.

  “That was quite a performance,” Yusuf said, as they made their way out of the palace in the company of two of Suleiman’s personal attendants. “But you’ve given us an introduction we would never have dreamed possible.”

  “The introduction,” Ezio reminded him, “is mine.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Suleiman was already waiting when Ezio joined him outside the Divan—the council chamber—of the palace, a short time later. The young man was looking composed and alert.

  “I have arranged a meeting with my uncle, Prince Ahmet, and Captain Tarik Barleti,” he announced without preamble. “There is something I should explain first. The Janissaries are loyal to my grandfather, but they have become angry over his choice for the next sultan.”

  “Ahmet.”

  “Exactly. The Janissaries favor my father, Selim.”

  “Hmn,” said Ezio, considering. “You are in a tough spot. But tell me—how do the Byzantines fit into this?”

  Suleiman shook his head. “I was hoping you might be able to give me some guidance on that. Would you be willing to help me find out?”

  “I am tracking them myself. As long as our interests do not conflict, it would be an honor to assist you.”

  Suleiman smiled enigmatically. “Then I must accept what I can get.” He paused. “Listen. There is a hatch at the top of the tower you see over there. Go up and lift the hatch. You will be able to see and hear everything that is said in the Divan.”

  Ezio nodded and immediately took his leave, while Suleiman turned and entered the Divan himself.

  By the time Ezio had reached his vantage point, the discussion in the council chamber below him had already begun and was already becoming heated. The three men involved sat or stood around a long table, covered with Bergama carpets. Behind the table, a tapestry depicting Bayezid, flanked by his sons, hung on the wall.

  Ahmet, a vigorous man in his midforties, with short, dark brown hair and a full beard, currently bareheaded and changed into rich garments of red, green, and white, was in the middle of a tirade: “Heed my nephew, Tarik. Your incompetence borders on treason. To think that today your Janissaries were outshone by an Italian lute player! It is preposterous!”

  Tarik Barleti, the lower half of his battle-scarred face lost in a grizzled beard, looked grim. “An inexcusable failing, efendim. I will conduct a full investigation.”

  Suleiman cut in. “It is I who will conduct the investigation, Tarik. For reasons that should be obvious.”

  Barleti nodded shortly. “Evet, Sehzadem. Clearly you have your father’s wisdom.”

  Ahmet shot the captain a furious glance at that, while Suleiman retorted: “And his impatience.” He turned to his uncle, his tone formal. “Sehzad Ahmet, I am at least relieved to see that you are safe.”

  “Likewise, Suleiman. May God protect you.”

  Suleiman, Ezio could see, was playing some kind of long game. As he watched, the young prince rose and summoned his attendants.

  “I will take my leave of you now,” he announced. “And I will make my report on this disgraceful incident very soon, you may be sure of that.”

  Accompanied by his retinue and guard, he strode from the Divan. Tarik Barleti was about to follow suit, but Prince Ahmet detained him.

  “Tarik bey—a word?”

  The soldier turned. Ahmet beckoned him to approach. His tone was cordial. Ezio had to strain to catch his words.

  “What was the purpose of this attack, I wonder? To make me look weak? To make me appear an ineffective steward of this city?” He paused. “If that was your plan, my dear captain; if you had a hand in this mess, you have made a grave mistake! My father has chosen me as the next sultan, not my brother!”

  Tarik did not answer immediately, his face expressionless, almost bored. At last, he said, “Prince Ahmet, I am not depraved enough to imagine the conspiracy you accuse me of.”

  Ahmet took a step back though his tone remained level and affable. “What have I done to earn such contempt from the Janissary Corps? What has my brother done for you that I have not?”

  Tarik hesitated, then said: “May I speak freely?”

  Ahmet spread his hands. “You’d better, I think.”

  Tarik faced him. “You are weak, Ahmet. Pensive in times of war and restless in times of peace. You lack passion for the traditions of the ghazi—the Holy Warriors—and you speak of fraternity in the company of infidels.”
He paused. “You would make a decent philosopher, Ahmet, but you will be a poor sultan.”

  Ahmet’s face darkened. He snapped his fingers, and his own bodyguard came to attention behind him.

  “You may show yourself out,” he told the Janissary captain, and his voice was like ice.

  Ezio was still watching, as, a few minutes later, Ahmet himself swept out of the Divan. A moment later, Ezio was joined by Prince Suleiman.

  “Quite a family, eh?” said the prince. “Don’t worry. I was listening, too.”

  Ezio looked worried. “Your uncle lacks sway over the very men he will soon command. Why did he not cut that man down where he stood, for such insolence?”

  “Tarik is a hard man,” replied the prince, spreading his hands. “Capable, but ambitious. And he admires my father greatly.”

  “But he failed to safeguard this palace against a Byzantine attempt on your life in its inner sanctum! That alone is worthy of investigation.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So—where should we begin?”

  Suleiman considered. Ezio watched him. An old head on very young shoulders, he thought, with renewed respect.

  Suleiman said, “For now, we’ll keep an eye on Tarik and his Janissaries. They spend much of their free time in and around the Bazaar. Can you handle that—you and your . . . associates?” He phrased the last words delicately.

  At the back of Ezio’s mind was the memory of Yusuf’s admonition not to get involved in Ottoman politics, but somehow his own quest and this power struggle looked connected. He made his decision.

  “From now on, Prince Suleiman, none of them will purchase so much as a handkerchief without our knowledge.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Having ensured that Yusuf and the Assassins of Constantinople were fully briefed in shadowing all movements of off-duty Janissaries in the Grand Bazaar, Ezio, accompanied by Azize, made his way down to the southern docks of the city to collect bomb-making materials from a list compiled for him by Piri Reis.

  He had completed his purchases and dispatched them, with Azize, to the Assassins’ headquarters in the city, when he noticed Sofia in the crowd thronging the quays. She was talking to a man who looked as if he might be an Italian, a man of about his own age. As he drew closer, he not only saw that she was looking more than a little discomfited but recognized who she was talking to. Ezio was amused, but also not a little discomfited himself. The man’s unexpected appearance evoked a number of memories and a number of conflicting emotions.

  Without revealing his presence, Ezio drew closer.

  It was Duccio Dovizi. Decades earlier, Ezio had come close to breaking his right arm since Duccio had been two-timing Claudia, to whom he was engaged. The arm, Ezio noticed, still had a kink in it. Duccio himself had aged badly and looked haggard. But that clearly hadn’t cramped his style. He was evidently smitten by Sofia and was pestering her for attention.

  “Mia cara,” he was saying to her, “the strings of Fate have drawn us together. Two Italians, lost and alone in the Orient. Do you not feel the magnetismo?”

  Sofia, bored and annoyed, replied: “I feel many things, Messere—nausea, above all.”

  With a sense of déjà vu, Ezio thought it was time to make his move. “Is this man bothering you, Sofia?” he asked, approaching.

  Duccio, fuming at this interruption, turned to face the newcomer. “Excuse me, Messere, but the lady and I are—”

  He trailed off as he recognized Ezio. “Ah! Il diavolo in person!” His left hand went involuntarily to his right arm. “Stay back!”

  “Duccio, what a pleasure to see you again.”

  Duccio didn’t reply but stumbled away, tripping over the cobblestones as he did so, and crying, “Run, buona donna! Run for your life!”

  They watched him disappear along the jetty. There was an awkward pause.

  “Who was that?”

  “A dog,” Ezio told her. “He was engaged to my sister, many years ago.”

  “And what happened?”

  “His cazzo was engaged to six others.”

  “You express yourself very candidly.” Sofia sounded mildly surprised by Ezio’s use of the word “dick” but not offended.

  “Forgive me.” He paused for a moment, then asked: “What brings you to these docks?”

  “I took a break from the shop to collect a package, but the customs people here claim that the ship’s papers are not in order. So, I wait.”

  Ezio glanced around the well-guarded harbor, getting a sense of its layout.

  “It’s such a bother,” Sofia continued. “I could be here all day.”

  “Let me see what I can do,” he said. “I know a few ways of bending the rules.”

  “Do you now? Well, I must say I admire your bravado.”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll meet you back at your shop.”

  “Well then”—she rummaged in her bag—“here is the paperwork. The parcel is quite valuable. Please take care of it—if you manage to get it away from them.”

  “I will.”

  “Then—thank you.” She smiled at him and made her way back toward the city.

  Ezio watched her go for a moment, then made his way to the large wooden building that held the customs offices. Inside, there was a long counter and, behind it, shelves containing a large number of packages and parcels. Near the front of one of the lower shelves closest to the counter he could see a wooden map tube with a label attached to it: SOFIA SARTOR.

  “Perfetto,” he said to himself.

  “May I help you,” said a portly official, coming up to him.

  “Yes, if you please. I’ve come to collect that package over there.” He pointed.

  The clerk looked across. “Well, I’m afraid that’s out of the question! All those parcels and packages have been impounded pending paperwork clearance.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  “I wouldn’t like to say.”

  “Hours?”

  The clerk pursed his lips.

  “Days?”

  “That all depends. Of course, for a consideration . . . something might be arranged . . .”

  “To hell with that!”

  The clerk became less friendly. “Are you trying to impede me in my duties?” he barked. “Get out of the way, old man! And don’t come back if you know what’s good for you!”

  Ezio swept him aside and bounded over the counter. He seized the wooden map tube and turned to leave. But the clerk was frantically blowing a whistle, and several of his colleagues, some of them members of the heavily armed dockyard guard, responded instantly.

  “That man!” yelped the clerk. “He tried to bribe me, and when that failed, he resorted to violence!”

  Ezio took a stand on the counter as the customs men surged forward to grab him. Swinging the weighty wooden map tube round, he cracked a few skulls with it and leapt over the heads of the rest of them, running toward the exit and leaving confusion in his wake.

  “That’s the only way to deal with petty officialdom,” he said to himself, contentedly. He had disappeared into the twisting labyrinth of streets north of the docks before his pursuers had had time to collect themselves. Without Sofia’s papers, which he still had safely stowed in his tunic, they’d never be able to trace her.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Toward noon, he entered the bookshop west of Haghia Sofia.

  She looked up as he came in. The shelves were far more orderly now than they had been when he’d first visited. In the back room, he could see her worktable, with his map from the cisterns neatly laid out alongside a number of thick books of reference.

  “Salute, Ezio,” she said. “That was a lot quicker than I expected. Any luck?”

  Ezio held up the wooden map tube and read from the label: “Madamigella Sofia Sartor, libraia, Costantinopoli. Is that you?”

  He handed her the tube with a smile. She took it gladly, then examined it closely, her face turning sour. “Oh, no! Look at the damage! Did they use this to fig
ht off pirates, do you suppose?”

  Ezio shrugged, a little sheepishly. Sofia opened the tube and withdrew the map within. She inspected it. “Well, so far, so good.”

  Taking it over to a table, she spread it out carefully. It was a copy of a map of the world.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said.

  “Indeed.” Ezio stood next to her, and they both pored over it.

  “It’s a print of a map by Martin Waldseemüller. It’s still quite new—he only published four years ago. And look—here on the left! The new lands Navigatore Vespucci discovered and wrote about only four or five years before the map was drawn.”

  “They work fast, these Germans,” said Ezio. “I see he’s named the new lands after Vespucci’s Christian name—Amerigo.”

  “America!”

  “Yes . . . Poor Cristoforo Colombo. History has a strange way of unfolding.”

  “What do you make of this body of water—here?” She pointed to the oceans on the far side of North and South America. Ezio leaned forward to look.

  “A new ocean, perhaps? Most of the scholars I know claim the size of the globe has been underestimated.”

  Sofia sounded wistful. “It’s incredible. The more we learn about the world, the less we seem to know.”

  Quite taken with the thought, they both fell silent for a moment. Ezio considered the new century they were in—the sixteenth. And only near its beginning. What would unfold during it, he could only guess; and he knew that, at his age, he would not see very much more of it.