Revelations

by Oliver Bowden

  Among them was Yusuf. Looking up, he yelled to Ezio, “Remember—the red dhow! And the ships between you and it are armed—they’ll stop you from sailing if they can.”

  “I’ll take care of them,” Ezio called back, grimly.

  “And we’ll clear the docks!”

  Ezio let the rope take his weight on the hookblade and kicked off from the watchtower, zooming down to the flamethrower emplacement and leaping off just before he reached it, throwing himself at the nearest of the crew, who were preparing to turn their weapon on the Assassins fighting by the tower. The first he knocked into the water, where the man was crushed between the shifting hulls of two moored barges. The others he swiftly dispatched with his hookblade.

  He scanned the flamethrower, quickly acquainting himself with its mechanism. It was on a swivel base, operated by a crank at the left-hand side. The cannon itself was made of brass, its mouth in the shape of a lion’s head, from which the end of the bronze tube within projected slightly. On its edge it was a flint that could be sparked by the trigger mechanism, which also released the pressurized oil vapor that would be shot from the heated vat in the base of the weapon.

  He heard a voice coming to him from the melee near the broken tower. It was Yusuf. “That’s it! Get the ships with Greek fire,” he was yelling. “I like the way you think, Ezio!”

  Across the Horn, on the north bank, the Ottoman Guard were bringing up two cannon, which they trained on the Assassins fighting near Ezio. Soon afterward, as Ezio was cranking round and training the flamethrower on the nearest ships, he saw the puffs of smoke from the cannon mouths, then heard the crump of their detonations. The first cannonball fell into the water, short of where he was, but the second smashed into the jetty, making it lurch dangerously.

  But it did not collapse.

  Ezio steadied himself and pressed the trigger. With a loud roar, a long tongue of flame instantly shot forth, and he played it across the yards and decks of the three ships riding between him and Piri’s dhow. The fire he’d set sprang up in a moment. Ezio kept pressing the trigger until all the oil in the tank was used up, then, abandoning the weapon, he leapt down onto one of the barges riding beneath the jetty, sprinting its length and vaulting from it to catch hold of the outer gunwale of the first burning ship, hauling himself up onto the deck with his hookblade and there managing to fight off two desperate sailors who came toward him with belaying pins. He scaled the foremast from the burning deck and was just in time to zipline down a yard and hurl himself from it onto the second ship in line before the mast behind him snapped in the fire and collapsed in a chaos of flame onto the deck of the ship he’d just left.

  The second ship, too, was burning fiercely, and beginning to sink at the after end. He ran toward the prow, pushing aside a handful of panicking mariners, and ran along its bowsprit to leap from there to the third ship, less damaged than the first two, where the crew was preparing to turn their cannon onto the red dhow, now only twenty yards distant. To Ezio’s alarm, he saw Piri shouting orders to make sail, and his sailors were letting out the sheets frantically, in order to catch the wind and get out of firing range.

  Ezio raised his voice and called for aid from the Brotherhood, but when he looked around, he saw that a number of his fellow Assassins had already followed his perilous route and were right behind him, ready to pounce.

  Between them, they set on the gun crews, and a fierce and bloody skirmish followed, leaving several Assassins and all the mariners on the blockade ship dead. On the red dhow, Piri had raised an arm to halt operations and was bellowing to Ezio to make haste though his voice was lost in the tumult over the cannon.

  But at last, Ezio stood at the gunwale of the blockade ship. He used his crossbow to fire a line over to the dhow, which Piri’s crew secured, then he ziplined across the choppy water.

  Behind him, the surviving Assassins waved their farewell before taking to the doomed ship’s boats and making for the shore.

  Ezio saluted back, catching his breath and wheezing a little. He flexed his joints, which were just a little stiff. Then he was surrounded by a handful of Piri’s men, who checked him over for wounds and conducted him to the wheelhouse, where Piri stood before the now-fully-unfurled foresail.

  “You took your time,” said Piri Reis with a broad grin that was not unmixed with concern.

  “Yes. Sorry for the delay.”

  The men at the prow were already hauling up the anchors, and, moments later, the dhow picked up the wind and made its way, gingerly but unimpeded, past rows of burning blockade ships—the wind that carried them forward had also seen to it that the fire started by Ezio had spread, and the ships had been anchored too close together for safety.

  “Lucky I was upwind of that lot,” Piri said. “But I expect you noticed that from the beginning.”

  “Naturally,” Ezio said.

  “Well,” said Piri, as the red dhow eased out of the Horn and into the Bosphorus, steering a southbound course. “This should be an interesting trip.”

  PART II

  The sounds I heard brought back into my mind

  the same impression that we often get

  when organs play, accompanying a voice.

  Now, yes, we hear the words; now, no we don’t.

  —DANTE , PURGATORIO

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  At Mersin, Ezio took his leave of the Turkish admiral. The sun sparkled on the sea.

  “May Allah protect you, my friend,” said the seafarer.

  “My thanks, Piri Reis.”

  “I will await your return here. But I cannot stay forever.”

  “I know.”

  “Will you not take some of my men with you?”

  “No—it is best that I travel alone.”

  “Then at least allow me to arrange a horse for you. You will travel faster, and more safely.”

  “I will be grateful for that.”

  “You are a brave man, Ezio Auditore, and a worthy follower of the great Mentor, Altaïr.”

  “You do me too much honor.” Ezio looked inland, his face set. “If I have not returned within two courses of the moon . . .”

  Piri Reis nodded, gravely. “Go with whichever God guides you,” he said, as they shook hands in farewell.

  The two-week voyage was followed by a further two-week trek north, first across the Taurus Mountains, then, after breaking his journey at Nigde, between the Taurus and the Melendiz ranges, on north again through the low brown hills to Derinkuyu, where Ezio knew Manuel Palaiologos’s rebel army was massing.

  He broke his journey again in the grim little village of Nadarim, within sight of the city that was his goal. The foulness of the place contrasted with the beautiful countryside in which it was situated. Few people were about, as it was just before dawn, and the few who were eyed Ezio warily as he rode into the central square, which was flanked on one side by a church.

  There was no sign of any military activity, and Ezio, after having stabled his horse, decided to scale the church’s bell tower, to get a better view of Derinkuyu itself.

  He peered through the lightening sky with eagle eyes, scanning the low buildings that comprised the not-far-distant city, a few spires piercing its profile. But there was no obvious sign of any garrison there either.

  But, as he knew, there could be a reason for that.

  He descended again. The square was deserted, and Ezio was immediately on his guard. His intention had been to ride on, but now he wondered if it would be safe to retrieve his horse. His suspicions mounted as he spied a figure lurking in the shadows of the neglected church walls. He decided to approach.

  As he did so, the figure spun round to face him, brandishing a dagger. It was a young woman. Tough, wiry, tanned. Almost feral.

  “Not so close, adi herif!” she growled.

  Ezio raised his hands. “Who are you calling a pig?” he asked, calmly. He saw doubt flicker in her eyes.

  “Who are you? One of Manuel’s scum?”

  “Easy, now
. Tarik sent me.”

  The girl hesitated, then lowered her blade. “Who are you?”

  “Auditore, Ezio.”

  She relaxed some more. “We had word from the young prince,” she said. “As we had news of Tarik’s end. A bad business, and just when he was so close. I am Dilara,” she added. “Tarik’s principal agent here. Why have they only sent you? Why not more? Did they not get my reports in Kostantiniyye?”

  “I am enough.” Ezio looked around. “Where are your people?”

  Dilara spat. “Captured by Byzantines over a week ago. I was dressed to look like a slave and managed to escape. But the others . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head. Then darted him a glance. “Are you a capable fighter?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “When you’ve made up your mind, come and find me. In the town, over there. I’ll be waiting by the west gate to the underground city.”

  She flashed her teeth at him and whisked away, fast as a lizard.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Ezio equipped himself with his pistol on his left wrist, his hidden-blade on his right, and a brace of smoke bombs clipped to his belt. He kept the hookblade in his pack.

  He found Dilara waiting at the appointed place two hours later. The gate she had mentioned was large, iron-bound, and shut.

  She greeted him curtly and began without further preamble: “The Byzantines took my men into this cave system some days ago. From what I can tell, this gate is the least protected of the lot. Every so often, the soldiers bring refuse through here, but it is deserted most of the time.”

  “So—we sneak in, free your men, and lead them out through here?”

  “Exactly . . .”

  Ezio tried the door. It didn’t budge. He turned to Dilara with a disappointed smirk, feeling sheepish.

  “I was going on to say, after you unlock it from the inside,” Dilara concluded, drily.

  “Of course.”

  “Come with me.”

  She led the way to where they had sight of another, larger gate, made of a huge circular stone that could be rolled open and closed in a stone track. It opened as they watched. Soldiers emerged and formed ranks before marching off on patrol.

  “The main entrance is there, at the foot of that hill. But it is well guarded.”

  “Wait here,” said Ezio.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need to get a feel for this place.”

  “You’ll need a guide.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a warren. You see those towers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ventilator shafts. And water conduits. There are eleven floors of the city, and they go down three hundred feet.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “You’re an arrogant man.”

  “No. I am cautious. And I am not unprepared. I know this place was made by Phrygians fifteen hundred years ago, and I know a little of its geography.”

  “Then you’ll also know what’s down there: an underground river system at the very bottom, and above it, on ten more levels, churches, schools, shops, stores, stables even; and room for fifty thousand people.”

  “Big enough to conceal a garrison, in fact.”

  Dilara looked at him. “You’ll need a guide,” she repeated.

  “I need somebody here.”

  “Then go with God,” she said. “But be quick. As soon as the patrols have all come out, they’ll roll the gate closed again. With luck, you’ll be able to get in with the supply wagons over there. I’ll wait by the west gate.”

  Ezio nodded and silently took his leave.

  He blended in with the local Byzantine people, who seemed less than happy with the new military presence in their midst, and managed to pass through the gate, walking alongside an oxcart, without difficulty.

  The torchlit interior illuminated yellowish beige walls of soft volcanic rock, besmirched with the soot of ages, and yet the air was fresh. The streets—if you could call the broad, grimy corridors that—were alive with soldiers and citizens, jostling one another as they went about their business, and Ezio made his way among them, penetrating ever deeper into the underground city’s interior.

  At last, on the second level belowground, he came upon a spacious hall, with a barrel-vaulted roof and decorated with faded frescoes. He made his way along one of the galleries and looked down on the figures in the main room twenty feet below him. The acoustic was good, and he was easily able to hear what the two men there were saying to one another.

  He had recognized them immediately. The portly figure of Manuel Palaiologos, and the gaunt one of Shahkulu. Near them, a group of guards stood at attention. Ezio noted a broad tunnel leading off westward—possibly a route to the west gate Dilara had shown him earlier.

  “How soon before my soldiers are trained to use those guns?” Manuel was asking.

  “A few weeks at most,” replied the dour Türkmeni.

  Manuel looked thoughtful. “The main Janissary force will know I have betrayed them by now. But do they have the resources for retribution?”

  “Doubtful. The sultan’s war with Selim commands most of their attention.”

  Manuel began to laugh—but his laugh quickly turned to coughing and gagging. “Ah!” he gasped. “What the hell is that smell? Have the ventilators been blocked?”

  “Apologies, Manuel. Perhaps the wind has changed. Some of the Ottoman prisoners we took a week or so ago turned out to be . . . so fragile. We had to put them somewhere after they met with their unfortunate . . . accident.”

  Manuel was almost amused by this but also worried. “Shahkulu, try to moderate your anger. I know that the sultan humiliated your people. But there is no need to spit on men who are below us.”

  “Humiliated my people!” Shahkulu shouted. “He tried to crush us as if we were so many roaches! That is why I sided with Ismail of Persia and took the name ‘Shahkulu’—servant of the Shah. Under that name, I will prevail against whatever the Seljuks try to throw against the Turkmen people, and those of us who follow the Safavid, and the law of Shia.”

  “Of course, of course—but nevertheless, get rid of the evidence,” said Manuel, taking his leave, a scented handkerchief pressed to his nose.

  Shahkulu sullenly watched him go, then snapped his fingers at the remaining bodyguards. “You three—gather the corpses and dump them outside on the western dunghill.”

  The sergeant of the guard looked nervous. “Shahkulu, I don’t have the key to the west gate,” he stammered.

  Shahkulu exploded with rage. “Then find it, idiot!” he bellowed, storming off.

  Left alone, the guards looked at one another.

  “Who has the key? Any idea?” said the sergeant, testily. He didn’t like being called an idiot in front of his men, and he didn’t like their smirks, either.

  “I think Nikolos has it,” said one of them. “He’s on leave today.”

  “Then he’ll be at the market on Level Three,” put in the other soldier.

  “Stuffing his face, no doubt,” groused the first man. “Hristé mou! I’d like to run Shahkulu through with a spear!”

  “Hey, hey!” said the sergeant severely. “Keep that to yourself, edáxi?”

  Ezio barely heard the last words. He was already on his way to the market, one floor below.

  SIXTY

  Apart from the fact that its hall was deep underground, the market was much as any other—stalls selling meat, vegetables, spices—whose odors were everywhere, and even denser than they would have been in the open air—clothes, shoes—whatever the people needed. And there were little tavernas and wine shops. Near one of them, in an open space, a drunken scrap had broken out—evidently over a light-skinned whore, a bony older woman who sat elegantly on a chair at one of the wine-shop tables, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

  A circle had formed around the two men who were throwing punches at one another, the bystanders egging them on with ragged shouts of encouragement. Ezio joined the circle’s outer e
dges:

  “Give him one!”

  “Hit him!”

  “Kill the bastard!”

  “Is that all you’ve got?”

  “Blood! Blood!”

  “Mangle him!”

  Among the watchers, most of whom were as drunk as the brawlers, was a fat, red-faced soldier with a scruffy beard and a receding chin, holding a wineskin and roaring along with the rest of them. Ezio had already noticed the unclasped leather wallet on his belt and could see the bow of a large iron key protruding from it. He glanced around and saw the three guards from the painted hall approaching through the market on the far side.

  No time to lose. He sidled up to the fat soldier from behind and plucked the key from the wallet just as his fellow soldiers hailed him by name.

  Nikolos would have a lot of explaining to do, thought Ezio, as he made his way back to the Second Level and the tunnel from which the stench had emanated—the tunnel which, he guessed, led to the west gate.

  SIXTY-ONE

  “You took your time,” said Dilara in a harsh whisper, as Ezio unlocked the west gate from the inside and let her in.

  “You’re welcome,” muttered Ezio, grimly.

  But Dilara then did exactly as Ezio had expected, and retched, her hand shooting to her face. “Aman Allahim! What is that?”

  Ezio stepped back and indicated a pile of dead bodies, stacked in a broad niche just inside the doorway. “Not everyone was taken prisoner.”

  Dilara rushed forward toward the heap, but then stopped short, staring. “Poor men! God keep them!”

  Her shoulders dropped as her spirits sank. She seemed a little more human, under the fierce façade she maintained. “That Türkmeni renegade Shahkulu did this, I know,” she continued.