Revelations
Page 19
Abbas was quick to reply. “You have held that artifact for thirty years, Altaïr, reveling in its power and hoarding its secrets. It has corrupted you!”
Altaïr looked around at the sea of faces, most set against him, some—a few—showing signs of doubt. His mind worked quickly as he concocted a plan, which might just work.
“Very well, Abbas,” he said. “Take it.”
And he took the Apple from the pouch at his side and held it up high.
“What—?” said Maria, taken aback.
Abbas’s eyes flashed at the sight of the Apple, but he hesitated before signaling to his bodyguard to go and take it from Altaïr’s gaunt hand.
The bodyguard came close. When he was standing next to Altaïr, a demon possessed him. An amused expression on his face, he leaned in to the former Mentor, and whispered in his ear: “It was I who executed your son Sef. Just before I killed him, I told him that it was you yourself who had ordered his death.”
He did not see the flash of lightning in Altaïr’s eyes. He blundered on, pleased with himself, and, scarcely restraining a laugh, said: “Sef died believing you had betrayed him.”
Altaïr turned burning eyes on him then. In his hand, the Apple exploded with the light of a bursting star.
“Ahhhh!” screamed the bodyguard in pain. His whole body writhed uncontrollably. His hands went to his head, scrabbling at his temples. It looked as if he were trying to tear his head from his body in an attempt to stop the agony.
“Altaïr!” cried Maria.
But Altaïr was deaf to her. His eyes were black with fury as, driven by an unseen force, the bodyguard, even as he tried to resist his own impulses, pulled a long knife from his belt and, with hands trembling as they tried to oppose the power which drove them, raised it, ready to plunge it into his own throat.
Maria seized her husband’s arm, shaking him, and crying again, “Altaïr! No!”
Her words had their effect at last. An instant later, visibly shaken, Altaïr broke free of the trance that had gripped him. His eyes became normal again, and the Apple withdrew its light, becoming dark and dull, inert in his hand.
But the bodyguard, freed of the force which had held him in its grasp, shook himself like a dog, looked around madly, in anger and fear, and with a terrible oath, threw himself on Maria, striking his knife deep into her back.
Then he drew back, leaving the knife buried where he had driven it. Maria stood, a faint cry forming on her lips. The entire company of Assassins stood as if turned to stone. Abbas himself was silent, his mouth open, but no sound came forth.
It was Altaïr who moved. To the bodyguard, it seemed as if his former Mentor unleashed his hidden-blade with appalling slowness. The blade snicked out and the sound it made might have been as loud as a rock snapping in the heat of the sun. The bodyguard saw the blade coming toward him, toward his face, saw it approach inch by inch, second by second, as it seemed to him. But then the speed was sudden and ferocious as he felt it split his face open between the eyes. There was an explosion in his head, and then, nothing.
Altaïr stood for a fraction of a second as the bodyguard fell to the ground, blood shooting from his head between the shattered eyes, then caught his wife as she began to collapse, and lowered her gently to the earth which would soon, he knew, receive her. A ball of ice grew in his heart as he bent over her, his face so close to hers that they seemed like lovers about to kiss.
They were caught in a silence that wrapped itself around them like armor. She was trying to speak. He strained to hear her.
“Altaïr. My love. Strength.”
“Maria . . .” His voice was no more than an anguished whisper.
Then, appallingly, the sounds and the dust and the smells rose up violently around him again, smashing through the protecting armor, and above it all the shrieking voice of Abbas:
“He is possessed! Kill him!”
Altaïr rose and, drawing himself to his full height, backed slowly away.
“Take the Apple!” screamed Abbas. “Now!”
FORTY-FIVE
Altaïr fled before they could react—fled from the castle, through its gaping portal, down the escarpment, and into the sparse wood that bounded the area between fortress and village on the northern side. And there, in a clearing, as if by a miracle, he was brought short by an encounter with another man, like him, but a generation younger.
“Father!” exclaimed the newcomer. “I came as soon as I’d read your message. What has happened? Am I too late?”
From the castle behind them, horns were crying out the alarm.
“Darim! My son! Turn back!”
Darim looked past his father, over his shoulder. There, on the ridges beyond the wood, he could see bands of Assassins assembling, getting ready to hunt them down. “Have they all gone mad?”
“Darim—I still have the Apple. We have to go. Abbas must not get his hands on it.”
For answer, Darim unslung his pack and drew a scabbard of throwing knives from it before placing it on the ground. “There are more knives in there, take them if you need them.”
The Assassins loyal to Abbas had seen them by then, and some were heading toward them while others fanned out to outflank them.
“They’ll try to ambush us,” said Altaïr grimly. “Keep a good stock of knives with you. We must be prepared.”
They made their way through the wood, going ever deeper.
It was a perilous passage. Often, they had to take cover as they spotted groups of Assassins who’d got ahead of them or who tried to take them from the side, or obliquely, from behind.
“Stay close!” Darim said. “We go together.”
“We’ll try to work our way around. There are horses in the village. Once we’ve got mounts, we’ll try to make for the coast.”
Up until then, Darim had been too preoccupied with their immediate danger to think of anything else, but now he said, “Where is Mother?”
Altaïr shook his head, sadly. “She is gone, Darim. I am sorry.”
Darim took a breath. “What? How?”
“Later. Time for talk later. Now we have to get clear. We have to fight.”
“But they are our Brothers. Our fellow Assassins. Surely we can talk—persuade them.”
“Forget reason, Darim. They have been poisoned by lies.”
There was silence between them. Then Darim said, “Was it Abbas who killed my brother?”
“He killed your brother. He killed our great comrade, Malik Al-Sayf. And countless others,” replied Altaïr, bleakly.
Darim bowed his head. “He is a madman. Without remorse. Without conscience.”
“A madman with an army.”
“He will die,” said Darim, coldly. “One day, he will pay.”
They reached the outskirts of the village and were lucky to make their way to the stables unmolested, for the village itself was teeming with Assassin warriors. Hastily, they saddled up and mounted. As they rode away, they could hear Abbas’s voice, bellowing like a beast in pain as he stood atop a small tower in the village square. “I will have the Apple, Altaïr! And I will have your HEAD, for all the dishonor you have brought upon my family! You cannot run forever! Not from us, and not from your lies!”
His voice faded into the distance as they galloped away.
Five miles down the road, they reined in. They had not—as yet—been pursued. They had gained time. But Darim, riding behind him, noticed that his father sat slumped in the saddle, exhausted and anguished. He spurred his horse closer and looked into Altaïr’s face with concern.
Altaïr sat low, hunched, on the verge of tears.
“Maria. My love . . .” Darim heard him murmur.
“Come, Father,” he said. “We must ride on.”
Making a supreme effort, Altaïr kicked his horse into a gallop, and the two of them sped away, specks disappearing into the forbidding landscape.
FORTY-SIX
Having deposited the new key with the others in the safety of
the Assassins’ Constantinople headquarters, and having delivered the copy of the Socrates Fables to a grateful and marveling Sofia, Ezio decided that it was time to make a report to Prince Suleiman on what he had discovered at the Arsenal.
He’d had some indication of where to find him and made his way to a fashionable park near the Bayezid Mosque, where he found Suleiman and his uncle Ahmet seated in the shade of an oriental plane, the sunshine intensifying the bright green of its broad leaves.
A Janissary guard detail stood around them at a discreet distance while they played chess. Ezio took up a position where he could watch, unobserved. He wanted to speak with the prince alone. But he was interested in chess—its strategies had taught him many skills to be applied elsewhere—and he watched the progress of the game with interest.
The two players seemed pretty equally matched. After a while, Suleiman, having pondered a move of his uncle’s that put his king in danger, responded by castling.
“That’s not a legal move,” said Prince Ahmet, in surprise.
“It is a European variation—arrocco.”
“It’s interesting, but not exactly fair, when you play by different rules from your opponent.”
“You may think differently when you are sultan,” replied Suleiman, flatly.
Ahmet looked as if he had been slapped but said nothing. Suleiman picked up his king. “Shall I take it back?” he asked.
In response, Ahmet rose to his feet. “Suleiman,” he said, “I know it has been hard on you, watching your father and me quarrel over Bayezid’s throne.”
The young man shrugged. “Grandfather has chosen you, and his word is law—kanun. What is there to argue about?”
Prince Ahmet looked at his nephew in grudging admiration. “Your father and I were close once, but his cruelty and ambition have—”
“I have heard the rumors, Uncle,” Suleiman cut in, hotly.
Embarrassed, Ahmet looked away across the park for a moment before returning his gaze to the chessboard. “Well,” he said finally, “I have a meeting with the council of viziers shortly. Shall we continue another time?”
“Whenever you wish.” Suleiman was cordial.
He rose and bowed to his uncle, who bowed in return, before leaving with his bodyguard. Ezio waited a moment, watching Suleiman as he sat down again, contemplating the chessboard in his turn.
Then he moved forward.
Suleiman saw him approach and gestured to his guards not to hinder his visitor.
“Ezio,” he said.
Ezio came straight to the point. “Tarik has been selling guns to a local miser—Manuel Palaiologos.”
Suleiman’s face darkened. He clenched his fist. “Palaiologos. That is a sad sound in my ears.” Once again, he rose to his feet. “The last Byzantine emperor was Constantine Palaiologos. If this heir of his is arming a militia of some kind, there will be conflict, and it will escalate. All this at a time when my father and grandfather are at odds with one another.” He trailed off and grew thoughtful. Ezio imagined that he must be brooding over one of the hardest decisions he’d ever had to make in his short life.
“Tarik knows where the rifles are headed,” Ezio said. “If I find him first, I can follow the weapons straight to the Byzantines.”
Suleiman looked at him. “Tarik will be with his Janissaries, at their barracks. So, if you want to get close, you will have to ‘become’ a Janissary yourself.”
Ezio smiled. “Not a problem,” he said.
“Güzel,” said Suleiman. “Excellent.” He thought some more, and it was clear that the decision he was coming to caused him distress; but once he’d made it, he was firm. “Get the information you need—then kill him.”
Ezio raised an eyebrow. This was a side of Suleiman he had not seen before. “Are you sure, Suleiman? You told me Tarik and your father were close friends.”
Suleiman swallowed hard, then looked defiant: “This is true. But such naked treason against my grandfather deserves death.”
Ezio looked at him for a moment, then said: “Understood.”
There was nothing more to discuss. Ezio took his leave. When he looked back, Suleiman was studying the chessboard again.
FORTY-SEVEN
With a little help from Yusuf’s Assassins, Ezio was able to isolate and corner an unsuspecting off-duty Janissary in the Bazaar and relieve him of his uniform. But it was not without a price. The Janissary put up stiff resistance and badly wounded two Assassins before he was overcome; but not before he himself had sustained a mortal wound. It was necessary for Ezio, with Azize’s help, to wash the bloodstains thoroughly from the white garments before he put them on. But then he could pass for a Janissary guard without any question, provided he was careful to keep his beard covered with a white scarf, exposing only his mustache.
As he made his way to the barracks, he was amused and, at the same time, disconcerted at the response he evoked among the local population, both male and female, Ottomans and Byzantines alike, though the reactions were the same mixture among all the nationalities he encountered. Some were apparently admiring, even ingratiating. Others were subtly dismissive, and yet more reacted with fear and uncertainty. It was clear enough that the Janissaries were at best tolerated, at worst loathed. There was not a hint of genuine affection or regard. But from what he could gather, the greatest disdain seemed to be leveled specifically at the Janissaries belonging to Tarik’s barracks. Ezio stored this experience in his memory, certain that it would prove useful at some future date, but for the moment he concentrated on his goal.
He was relieved that his uniform allowed him to pass unhindered and uncontested as he made his way to the barracks, the more so as he was soon to discover that the Assassins’ killing of the Janissary had already been discovered. As he drew close to his destination, he passed a square where a Seljuk herald was announcing the man’s death to a crowd of interested onlookers.
“Dark tidings, citizens of Kostantiniyye,” the herald was proclaiming. “A servant of our sultan has fallen at the hands of a criminal and been stripped of his garments.” He looked round and raised his voice a notch. “Be on the lookout for any suspicious activity.”
Ezio crossed the square as discreetly as possible, but eyes inevitably fell on him. He prayed that he would be able to enter the barracks unchallenged. If they knew about the murder and that the man had been killed for his uniform, they would tighten security faster than a man could say “knife.”
“Woe betide the murderer who took the life of a beloved Janissary,” the herald continued to intone. “This enemy of civilization must be found and brought to justice! If you see something, say something!” He glared around at the crowd impressively and shook his scroll for additional effect, before going on: “Citizens, beware! A killer stalks our streets, a man without conscience, targeting the servants of our sultan. The Janissaries have dedicated their lives to the protection of the empire. Return the favor they have done us and find this killer before he strikes again!”
The postern gate of the Janissary Garrison stood open, though flanked by a double guard. But they came to attention as Ezio arrived, and he realized that he had had the luck to waylay a senior NCO or junior officer—for the dress he wore clearly commanded respect, though to an uninitiated eye, the Janissaries’ uniforms looked virtually indistinguishable between officers and men.
He entered the compound without difficulty, but no sooner had he done so than he began to pick up snippets of conversation regarding the killing.
“Kardeslerim, one of our own was found murdered and stripped of his garments not an hour ago, and his body, they say, was dumped on a dunghill like so much rubbish,” one said to a couple of his brother soldiers, who murmured angrily at the news. “Keep a close watch on these streets as you move through them,” the first to speak continued. “Someone is planning to strike, using our uniform as cover. We must be constantly on our guard until the culprit is caught.”
“And disemboweled,” added another.
“Selim understands our plight. The Byzantines, the Mamluks, the Safavid—only he has the courage to face the threats those peoples represent for us,” said one soldier.
“You speak the truth. Selim is a warrior. Like Osman and Mehmed before him,” another replied.
“So—why has our sultan Bayezid chosen a pussycat over a lion?”
“Prince Ahmet shares the sultan’s calm temperament. That’s why. They are too much alike, I fear.”
A third soldier joined the conversation. “Sultan Bayezid is a good man, and a kind ruler . . . But he has lost the fire that made him great.”
“I disagree,” said a fourth. “He is still a fighter. Look at the army he has raised against Selim.”
“That’s just further evidence of his decline! To take up arms against his own son? It’s shameful.”
“Do not bend the truth to match the contours of your passion, efendim,” the fourth man rebuked him. “It was Selim, after all, who attacked our sultan first.”
“Evet, evet. But Selim did so for the glory of the empire, not for himself.”
“Speaking of the war, is there any news from the north?” a fifth soldier chimed in.
“I hear that Selim’s forces have fallen back to Varna,” said a sixth. “Heavy losses, I am told.”
“Incredible, isn’t it? I pray for a swift conclusion.”
“Yes, but in which direction?”
“I cannot say. My heart sides with our sultan, but my head hopes for Selim.”
“And what of Selim’s young son, Prince Suleiman?” a seventh Janissary put in. “Have you met him?”
“Not personally,” an eighth replied; “But I have seen him. I know he is a remarkable boy.”