Revelations

by Oliver Bowden

  More discoveries, and more wars, no doubt. But essentially the same play repeating itself—and the same actors, only with different costumes and different props for each generation that swallows up the last, each thinking that it would be the one to do better.

  “Well, you honored your promise,” said Sofia. “And here is mine fulfilled.”

  She led the way to the inner room and picked a piece of paper up from the table. “If I am correct, this should show you the location of the first book.”

  Ezio took the paper from her and read what was on it.

  “I must admit,” Sofia went on, “my head is swimming at the prospect of actually seeing these books. They contain knowledge the world has lost and should have again.” She sat at the table and cupped her chin in her hands, daydreaming. “Perhaps I could have a few copies printed to distribute myself. A small run of fifty or so . . . That should be enough . . .”

  Ezio smiled, then laughed.

  “What’s there to laugh about?”

  “Forgive me. It is a joy to see someone with a passion so personal and so noble. It is . . . inspiring.”

  “Goodness,” she replied, a little embarrassed. “Where is this coming from?”

  Ezio held up the piece of paper. “I intend to go and investigate this immediately,” he said. “Grazie, Sofia—I will return soon.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” she replied, watching him go with a mixture of puzzlement and concern.

  What a mysterious man, she thought, as the door closed after him, and she returned to the Waldseemüller map, and her own dreams of the future.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Sofia’s calculations had been correct. Hidden behind a wooden panel in an old, deserted building in the Constantine District of the city, Ezio found the book he was looking for.

  It was an ancient but well-preserved copy of On Nature, the poem written over two thousand years earlier by the Greek philosopher Empedocles, outlining the sum of his thoughts.

  Ezio lifted the book from its hiding place and blew the dust from the small volume. Then he opened it to a blank page at its front.

  As he watched, the page began to glow, and within the glow, a map of Constantinople revealed itself. As he looked closer, and concentrated, he discerned a pinpoint on the map. It showed the Maiden Tower, the lighthouse on the far side of the Bosphorus, and, as Ezio peered closer still, a precise spot there, within the cellars built into its foundations.

  If all went well, this would be the location of the second key to Altaïr’s library at Masyaf.

  He made his way in haste through the teeming city to the Maiden Tower. Slipping past the Ottoman guards and crossing over in a “borrowed” boat, he found a doorway from which steps led downward into the cellars. He held the book in his hand and found that it was guiding him. Guiding him through a maze of corridors lined with innumerable doorways. It didn’t seem possible that there could be so many in such a relatively confined space. But at last he came to a door, identical to all the others but through whose cracks a faint light seemed to emanate. The door opened at his touch, and there, on a low stone plinth before him, a circular stone had been placed, slim as a discus and, like the first he had discovered, covered with strange symbols, as mysterious as the first set, but different. The form of a woman—a goddess, perhaps—who looked vaguely familiar, indentations that might either have been formulae, or possibly notches that might slot into pegs—maybe pegs within the keyholes in the library door at Masyaf.

  As Ezio took the key in his hands, the light coming from it grew, and grew, and he braced himself to be transported—he knew not where—as it engulfed him, and whirled him back down centuries. Down 320 years. To the year of Our Lord 1191.

  Masyaf.

  Within the fortress, a time long ago.

  Figures in a swirling mist. Emerging from it, a young man and an old. Evidence of a fight, which the old man—Al Mualim—had lost.

  He lay on the ground; the young man knelt astride him.

  His hand, losing its strength, let go of something, which rolled from his grasp and came to rest on the marble floor.

  Ezio drew in a breath as he recognized the object—it was—surely—the Apple of Eden. But how?

  And the young man—the victor—in white, his cowl drawn over his head. Altaïr.

  “You held fire in your hand, old man,” he was saying. “It should have been destroyed.”

  “Destroyed?” laughed Al Mualim. “The only thing capable of ending the Crusades and creating true peace? Never.”

  “Then I will destroy it.”

  The images faded, dissolved, like ghosts, only for another scene to replace them.

  Within the Great Keep at Masyaf, Altaïr stood alone with one of his captains. Near them, laid out in honor on a stone bier, was the body of Al Mualim, peaceful in death.

  “Is it truly over?” the Assassin captain was saying. “Is that sorcerer dead?”

  Altaïr turned to look at the body. He spoke calmly, levelly. “He was no sorcerer. Just an ordinary man, in command of—illusions.”

  He turned back to his comrade. “Have you prepared the pyre?”

  “I have.” The man hesitated. “But, Altaïr, some of the men . . . they will not stand for such a thing. They are restive.”

  Altaïr bent over the bier. He stooped and took the old man’s body in his arms. “Let me handle it.”

  He stood erect, his robes flowing about him. “Are you fit to travel?” he asked the captain.

  “Well enough, yes.”

  “I have asked Malik Al-Sayf to ride to Jerusalem with the news of Al Mualim’s death. Will you ride to Acre and do the same?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then go, and God be with you.”

  The captain inclined his head and departed.

  Bearing the dead Mentor’s body in his arms, his successor strode out to confront his fellow members of the Brotherhood.

  At his appearance, there was an immediate babel of voices, reflecting the bewilderment in their minds. Some asked themselves if they were dreaming. Others were aghast at this physical confirmation of Al Mualim’s passing.

  “Altaïr! Explain yourself!”

  “How did it come to this?”

  “What has happened?”

  One Assassin shook his head. “My mind was clear, but my body . . . it would not move!”

  In the midst of the confusion, Abbas appeared. Abbas. Altaïr’s childhood friend. Now, that friendship was far less sure. Too much had happened between them.

  “What has happened here?” asked Abbas, his voice reflecting his shock.

  “Our Mentor has deceived us all,” Altaïr replied. “The Templars corrupted him.”

  “Where is your proof of that?” Abbas responded, suspiciously.

  “Walk with me, Abbas; and I will explain.”

  “And if I find your answers wanting?”

  “Then I will talk until you are satisfied.”

  They made their way, Altaïr still bearing Al Mualim’s body in his arms, toward the funeral pyre that had been prepared for it. Beside him, Abbas, unaware of their destination, remained testy, tense, and combative, unable to disguise his mistrust of Altaïr.

  And Altaïr knew with what reason and regretted it. But he would do his best.

  “Do you remember, Abbas, the artifact we recovered from the Templar Robert de Sable, in Solomon’s Temple?”

  “You mean the artifact you were sent to retrieve but others actually delivered?”

  Altaïr let that go. “Yes. It is a Templar tool. It is called the Apple of Eden. Among many other powers, it can conjure illusions and control the minds of men—and of the man who thinks he controls it. A deadly weapon.”

  Abbas shrugged. “Then better, surely, that we have it than the Templars.”

  Altaïr shook his head. “That makes no difference. It seems to corrupt all who wield it.”

  “And you believe that Al Mualim fell under its spell?”

  Altaïr m
ade a gesture of impatience. “I do. Today, he used the Apple in an attempt to enslave Masyaf. You saw that for yourself.”

  Abbas looked doubtful. “I do not know what I saw.”

  “Listen, Abbas. The Apple is safe in Al Mualim’s study. When I am finished here, I will show you all I know.”

  They had arrived at the pyre, and Altaïr ascended the steps to it, placing the body of his late Mentor reverently at its top. As he did so, Abbas looked aghast. It was his first sight of the pyre.

  “I cannot believe you really intend to go through with this!” he said in a shocked voice. Behind him, the assembled Brotherhood of the Assassins rippled like corn in a breeze.

  “I must do what I must do,” Altaïr replied.

  “No!”

  But Altaïr had already taken one of the torches that stood ready lit by the pyre and thrust it into the base of the woodpile. “I must know that he cannot return.”

  “But this is not our way! To burn a man’s body is forbidden!”

  A voice from the crowd behind him cried out suddenly, in rage: “Defiler!”

  Altaïr turned to face the restive crowd below him. “Hear me out! This corpse could be just another one of Al Mualim’s phantom bodies. I must be certain!”

  “Lies!” Abbas yelled. As the flames took hold on the pyre, he stepped in close to Altaïr’s side, raising his voice so all could hear him. “All your life you have made a mockery of our Creed! You bend the rules to suit your whims while belittling and humiliating those around you!”

  “Restrain Altaïr!” yelled an Assassin in the crowd.

  “Did you not hear what he said?” a comrade next to him responded. “Al Mualim was bewitched!”

  The first Assassin’s reply was to fly out with his fists. A general fight ensued, which escalated as rapidly as the flames rose.

  On the ledge next to Altaïr, Abbas pushed him violently down from it, into the midst of the melee.

  As Abbas then made his way furiously back to the castle, Altaïr struggled to find his feet among his clashing fellow Assassins, standing with their swords drawn. “Brothers!” he shouted, striving to restore order. “Stop! Stay your blades!”

  But the fight continued, and Altaïr, who had just risen to his feet in time to see Abbas returning to the fortress, was forced to struggle among his own men, disarming them where he could and exhorting them to desist. He did not know for how long he battled, but the strife was suddenly interrupted by a searing flash of light, which caused the combatants to stagger back, shielding their eyes.

  The light came from the direction of the castle.

  Altaïr’s worst fears were realized.

  There, on the parapet of a tall tower, stood Abbas, and the Apple was in his hand.

  “What did I tell you, Altaïr?” Abbas yelled down to him.

  “Abbas! Stop!”

  “What did you think would happen when you murdered our beloved Mentor?”

  “You loved Al Mualim less than anyone! You blamed him for all your misfortune, even your father’s suicide!”

  “My father was a hero!” Abbas screamed defiantly.

  Altaïr ignored him and turned hastily to the Assassins grouped questioningly around him.

  “Listen!” he told them. “This is not the time to quarrel over what’s been done. We must decide—now!—what is to be done with that weapon!” He pointed to where Abbas was standing, holding the Apple aloft.

  “Whatever this artifact is capable of, Altaïr,” he cried, “you are not worthy to wield it!”

  “No man is!” Altaïr hurled back.

  But Abbas was already staring into the Apple’s glow. The light, as he looked, intensified. Abbas seemed entranced. “It is beautiful, is it not?” he said, only just loudly enough to be heard.

  Then a change came over him. His expression was transformed from a smile of amused triumph to a grimace of horror. He began to shake, violently, as the power of the Apple swept into him, taking him over. Assassins still sympathetic to him were running to his aid when the unearthly instrument he still held in his hand threw out an all-but-visible pulse wave, which threw them savagely to their knees as they clutched their heads in agony.

  Altaïr raced toward Abbas, scaling the tower with supernatural speed, driven by desperation. I have to get there in time! As he approached his former friend, Abbas began to scream as if his very soul was being ripped out of him. Altaïr made one final leap forward, disabling his former friend and knocking him down. Abbas crumpled to the ground with a despairing cry, as the Apple tumbled from his grasp, sending a final violent shock wave out from the tower as it did so.

  Then there was silence.

  The Assassins spread out below gradually pulled themselves together and got to their feet. They looked at one another in wonderment. What had happened continued to resound in their bodies and their minds. They looked up to the ramparts. Neither Altaïr nor Abbas was visible.

  “What was that?”

  “Are they dead?”

  And then Altaïr appeared alone on the parapet of the tower. The wind blew his white robes about him. He raised his hand. In it, secure, was the Apple. It crackled and pulsated like a living thing, but it was under his control.

  “Forgive me . . .” Abbas was gasping from the flagstone floor behind him. He could barely form the words. “I did not know . . .”

  Altaïr turned his gaze back from the man to the Apple, resting in his hand. It sent curious sensations, like shocks, the length of his extended arm.

  “Have you anything to teach us?” said Altaïr, addressing the Apple as if it were a sensate thing. “Or will you lead us all to ruin?”

  The wind then seemed to blow up a dust storm—or was it the return of the swirling fumes of cloud that had heralded the vision? With it came the blinding light that had preceded it, growing and growing, until all else was blotted out. And then it dimmed once more, until there was just the gentle glow of the key in Ezio’s hand.

  Exhausted, Ezio lowered himself to the floor and rested his back against the stone wall of the chamber. Outside, dusk would be falling. He longed for rest but could afford none.

  After a long moment, he raised himself again and, carefully stowing both the key and the copy of Empedocles in his satchel, made his way to the streets above.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  At dawn the next day, Ezio made his way to the Grand Bazaar. It was time he saw for himself what talk there might be among the Janissaries, and he was impatient to be on the trail of their captain, Tarik Barleti.

  But it was impossible, once there, entirely to avoid the importunate traders, who were all past masters of the hard sell. And Ezio had to pass himself off as just another tourist for fear of arousing suspicion, either among Ottoman officials or Byzantine Templars.

  “You see this rug!” A merchant accosted him, plucking at his sleeve and, as Ezio had found to be the case so often there, getting too close to him, invading his body space. “Your feet will love you more than your wife does!”

  “I am not married.”

  “Ah,” continued the merchant, seamlessly, “you are better off. Come! Just feel it!”

  Ezio noticed a group of Janissaries standing not far away. “You have sold well today?” he asked the merchant.

  The man spread his hands, nodding to his right at the Janissaries. “I have not sold a thing! The Janissaries confiscated most of my stock just because it was imported.”

  “Do you know Tarik Barleti, their captain?”

  “Eh, he’s around here somewhere, no doubt. An arrogant man, but—” The merchant was about to go on but interrupted himself, freezing up before reverting to his sales patter, his eyes focused not on Ezio but well beyond him. “You insult me, sir! I cannot take less than two hundred akçe for this! That is my final offer.”

  Ezio turned slightly and followed the man’s gaze. Three Janissaries were approaching, not fifty feet away.

  “When I find him, I will ask him about your rugs,” Ezio promised the merchant q
uietly as he turned to go.

  “You drive a hard bargain, stranger!” the merchant called after him. “Shall we compromise at one-eighty? One hundred eighty akçe, and we part as friends!”

  But Ezio was no longer listening. He was following the group, shadowing them at a safe distance, hoping they might lead him to Tarik Barleti. They were not walking idly—they had the look of men going to some kind of appointment. But he had to be vigilant—not only to keep his quarry in sight but to avoid detection himself, and the crowded lanes of the souk both helped and hindered him in his task. The merchant had said the captain would be somewhere in the Bazaar, but the Bazaar was a big place—a confusing labyrinth of stalls and shops, a small city in itself.

  But at length his patience paid off, and the men he was following arrived at a crossroads in the lanes which broadened out into a little square with a coffee shop on each corner. In front of one stood the big captain with the grizzled beard. The beard was as much a mark of his rank as his resplendent uniform. He was clearly no slave.

  Ezio crept as close as he could, to hear what was being said.

  “Are you ready?” he asked his men, and they nodded their assent. “This is an important meeting. Make sure I am not being followed.”

  They nodded again and split up, disappearing into the Bazaar in different directions. Ezio knew they would be looking for any sign of an Assassin in the crowds, and for one heartstopping moment one of the soldiers seemed to catch his eye, but then the moment passed, and the man was gone. Waiting as long as he dared, he set off in pursuit of the captain.

  Barleti hadn’t gone far before he came to another Janissary, a lieutenant, who to the casual eye would have just seemed to be window-shopping in front of an armorer’s establishment. Ezio had already noticed that Janissaries were the only people not to be badgered by the traders.