Assassin's Creed: Revelations (11 page)

“The name stirs some memories.”

“Less than a decade ago,
Sayin
da Vinci
bey
was asked by our sultan to build a bridge across the Horn.”

Ezio smiled, remembering that Leonardo had once mentioned it to him in passing. He could imagine his friend’s enthusiasm for such a project. “What became of it?” he asked. “I see no bridge here now.”

The young man spread his hands. “I’m told the design was beautiful, but, unfortunately, the plan never came to pass. Too ambitious, the sultan felt, at last.”

“Non mi sorprende,”
Ezio said, half to himself. Then he pointed to another tower. “Is that a lighthouse?”

The young man followed his gaze toward a small islet aft of them. “Yes. A very old one. Eleven centuries or more. It’s called the Kiz Kulesi—how’s your Turkish?”

“Weak.”

“Then I’ll translate. You’d call it the Maiden Tower. We called it after the daughter of a sultan who died there of a snakebite.”

“Why was she living in a lighthouse?”

The young man smiled. “The plan was, to avoid snakes,” he said. “Look, now you can see the Aqueduct of Valens. See that double row of arches? Those Romans certainly could build. I used to love climbing it, as a child.”

“Quite a climb.”

“You almost look as if you’d like to try it!”

Ezio smiled. “You never know,” he said.

The young man opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind and shut it again. His expression as he looked at Ezio was not unkind. And Ezio knew exactly what he was thinking: an old man trying to escape the years.

“Where have you come from?” asked Ezio.

The young man looked dismissive. “Oh—the Holy Land,” he said. “That is,
our
Holy Land. Mecca and Medina. Every good Muslim’s supposed to make the trip once in his lifetime.”

“You’ve got it over with early.”

“You could say that.”

They watched the city pass by in silence as they rode up the Horn to their anchorage. “There isn’t a city in Europe with a skyline like this,” Ezio said.

“Ah, but this side
is
in Europe,” replied the young man. “Over there”—he gestured east across the Bosphorus—“
that
side’s Asia.”

“There are some borders even the Ottomans cannot move,” Ezio observed.

“Very few,” the young man replied quickly, and Ezio thought he sounded defensive. Then he changed the subject. “You say you’re an Italian—from Florence,” he went on. “But your clothes belie that. And—forgive me—you look as if you’ve been in them rather a long time. Have you been traveling long?”

“
Sì, da molto tempo.
I left
Roma
twelve months ago, looking for . . . inspiration. And that search has brought me here.”

The young man glanced at the book in Ezio’s hand but said nothing. Ezio himself didn’t want to reveal more of his purpose. He leaned on the rail and looked at the city walls, and the other ships, from all the countries in the world, crowded at moorings, as their baghlah slowly passed them.

“When I was a child, my father told me stories of the fall of Constantinople,” Ezio said at last. “It happened six years before I was born.”

The young man carefully packed his astrolabe into a leather box slung from a belt round his shoulder. “We call the city Kostantiniyye.”

“Doesn’t it amount to the same thing?”

“We run it now. But you’re right. Kostantiniyye, Byzantium, Nea Roma, the Red Apple—what real difference does it make? They say Mehmed wanted to rechristen it Islam-bul—
Where Islam Flourishes
—but that derivation’s just another legend. Still, people are even using that name. Though of course, the educated among us know that it should be Istan-bol—
To the City
.” The young man paused. “What stories did your father tell? Brave Christians being beaten down by wicked Turks?”

“No. Not at all.”

The young man sighed. “I suppose the moral of any story matches the temper of the man who tells it.”

Ezio pulled himself erect. Most of his muscles had recovered during the long voyage, but there was still an ache in his side. “That we can agree on,” he said.

The young man smiled, warmly and genuinely. “
Güzel!
I am glad! Kostantiniyye is a city for all kinds and all creeds. Even the Byzantines who remain. And students like me, or . . . travelers like you.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a young Seljuk married couple, who were walking along the deck past them. Ezio and the young man paused to eavesdrop on their conversation—Ezio, because any information he could glean about the city would be of interest to him.

“My father cannot cope with all this crime,” the husband was saying. “He’ll have to shut up shop if it gets any worse.”

“It will pass,” his wife replied. “Maybe when the sultan returns.”

“Hah!” rejoined the man sarcastically. “Bayezid is weak. He turns a blind eye to the Byzantine upstarts, and look what the result is—
kargasa!
”

His wife shushed him. “You should not say such things!”

“Why not? I tell only the truth. My father is an honest man, and thieves are robbing him blind.”

Ezio interrupted them. “Excuse me—I couldn’t help overhearing—”

The man’s wife shot her husband a look:
You see?

But the man turned to Ezio and addressed him. “
Affedersiniz, efendim.
I can see you are a traveler. If you are staying in the city, please visit my father’s shop. His carpets are the best in all the empire, and he will give you a good price.” He paused. “My father is a good man, but thieves have all but destroyed his business.”

The husband would have said more, but his wife hastily dragged him away.

Ezio exchanged a look with his companion, who had just accepted a glass of
sharbat
brought to him by what looked like a valet. He raised his glass. “Would you care for one? It’s very refreshing, and it will be a while yet before we dock.”

“That would be excellent.”

The young man nodded at his servant, who withdrew. In the meantime, a group of Ottoman soldiers passed by, on their way home from a tour of duty in the Dodecanese, and talking of the city they were returning to.

Ezio nodded to them and joined them for a moment, while the young man turned his face away and stood aloof, making notes in his little ivory-bound book.

“What I want to know is, what are these Byzantine thugs holding out for?” one of the soldiers asked. “They had their chance once. They nearly destroyed this city.”

“When Sultan Mehmed rode in, there were fewer than forty thousand people living here, and living in squalor,” put in another.

“Aynen oyle!”
said a third. “Exactly so! And now look at the city. Three hundred thousand inhabitants, and flourishing again for the first time in centuries. We have done our part.”

“We made this city strong again. We rebuilt it!” said the second soldier.

“Yes, but the Byzantines don’t see it that way,” rejoined the first. “They just cause trouble, every chance they get.”

“How may I recognize them?” Ezio asked.

“Just stay clear of any mercenaries you see wearing a rough, reddish garb,” said the first soldier. “They are Byzantines. And they do not play nice.”

The soldiers moved off then, called by an NCO to ready themselves for disembarking. Ezio’s young man was standing at his elbow. At the same moment, his valet reappeared with Ezio’s
sharbat
.

“So you see,” said the young man. “For all its beauty, Kostantiniyye is not, after all, the most perfect place in the world.”

“Is anywhere?” Ezio replied.

SEVENTEEN

Their ship had docked, and passengers and crew scrambled about, getting in each other’s way, as mooring ropes were thrown to men on the quayside and gangplanks were lowered.

Ezio had returned to his cabin to collect his saddlebags—all that he carried. He’d know how to get what he needed once he was ashore. His young companion’s servant had arranged three leather-bound trunks on the deck, and they awaited porters to carry them ashore. Ezio and his new friend prepared to take leave of one another.

The young man sighed. “I have so much work to return to—and yet it is good to be home.”

“You are far too young to be worried about work,
ragazzo
!”

Ezio’s eye was distracted by the appearance of the redheaded woman in green. She was fussing over a large parcel, which looked heavy. The young man followed his gaze.

“When I was your age, my interests were . . . were mainly . . .” Ezio trailed off, watching the woman. Watching the way she moved in her dress. She looked up, and he thought he’d caught her eye.
“Salve!”
he said.

But she hadn’t noticed him after all, and Ezio turned back to his companion, who’d been watching him with amusement.

“Incredible,” said the young man. “I’m surprised you got anything done at all.”

“So was my mother,” Ezio smiled back, a little ruefully.

Finally, the gates in the gunwale were opened, and the waiting crowd of passengers surged forward.

“It was a pleasure to have made your acquaintance,
beyefendi
,” said the young man, bowing to Ezio. “I hope you will find something to hold your interest while you are here.”

“I have faith that I will.”

The young man moved away, but Ezio lingered, watching the woman struggling to lift the parcel—which she was unwilling to entrust to any porter—as she started to disembark.

He was about to step forward to assist when he saw that the young man had beaten him to it.

“My I be of some assistance, my lady?” he asked her.

The woman looked at the young man and smiled. Ezio thought that smile was more killing than any crossbow bolt. But it wasn’t aimed at him. “Thank you, dear boy,” she said, and the young man, waving his valet aside, personally hefted the package onto his shoulder, following her down the companionway to the quay.

“A scholar
and
a gentleman,” Ezio called to him. “You are full of surprises.”

The young man turned back and smiled again. “Very few, my friend. Very few.” He raised a hand. “
Allaha ismarladik!
May God bless you!”

Ezio watched as the woman, followed by the young man, was swallowed up by the crowd. As he watched, he noticed a man standing slightly apart, looking at him. A tough man in his midthirties, in a white surcoat with a red sash, and dark trousers tucked into yellow boots. Long dark hair and beard, and four throwing knives in a scabbard attached high on his left shoulder. He also wore a scimitar, and his right forearm carried a triple-plated steel guard. As Ezio tensed and looked more closely, he thought, but was not sure, that he could detect the harness of a hidden-blade just beneath the man’s right hand. The surcoat was hooded, but the hood was down, and the man’s unruly hair was kept in check by a broad yellow bandana.

Ezio moved slowly down the gangplank to the quay. And the man approached.

 

 

When they were within two paces of each other, the man stopped, smiled cautiously, and bowed deeply.

 

“Welcome, Brother! Unless the legend is a lie, you are the man I have always longed to meet. Renowned Master and Mentor—Ezio Auditore da . . .” He broke off and his dignity deserted him. “Lah, lah-lah!” he finished.

“Prego?”
Ezio was amused.

“Forgive me, I have a hard time getting my tongue round Italian.”

“I am Ezio da Firenze. The city of my birth.”

“Which would make me . . . Yusuf Tazim
da
Istanbul! I like that!”

“Istanbul. Ah—so that is what
you
call this city.”

“It’s a favorite with the locals. Come sir—let me take your pack—”

“No, thank you—”

“As you wish. Welcome, Mentor! I am glad you have arrived at last. I will show you the city.”

“How did you know to expect me?”

“Your sister wrote from Rome to alert the Brotherhood here. And we had word from a spy in place at Masyaf of your exploits. So we have watched the docks for weeks in the hope and expectation of your arrival.” Yusuf could see that Ezio remained suspicious. He looked quizzical. “Your sister
Claudia
wrote—you see? I know her name! And I can show you the letter. I have it with me. I knew you would not be a man to take anything at its face value.”

“I see you wear a hidden-blade.”

“Who else but a member of the Brotherhood would have access to one?”

Ezio relaxed, slightly. Yusuf’s demeanor was suddenly solemn. “Come.”

He put a hand on Ezio’s shoulder and guided him through the teeming throng. The crowded lanes he led him down, each side filled with stalls selling all manner of goods under a kaleidoscope of colored awnings, were filled, it seemed, with people of every nation and race on earth. Christians, Jews, and Muslims were busy bartering with each other, Turkish street cries mingled with others in Greek, Frankish, and Arabic. As for Italian, Ezio had recognized the accents of Venice, Genoa, and Florence before he’d walked one block. And there were other languages he half recognized or could only guess at—Armenian, Bulgarian, Serbian, and Persian. And a guttural language he did not recognize at all, spoken by tall, fair-skinned men, who wore their red hair and beards wild and long.

“Welcome to the Galata District.” Yusuf beamed. “For centuries, it has been a home to orphans from Europe and Asia alike. You won’t find more diversity anywhere else in the city. And for that very good reason, we Assassins have our headquarters here.”

“Show me.”

Yusuf nodded eagerly. “
Kesinlikle
, Mentor. At once! The Brotherhood here is impatient to meet the man who put the Borgia out to grass!” He laughed.

“Does everyone in the city already know I’m here?”

“I sent a boy ahead as soon as I spotted you. And in any case, your Holy Land tussle with the Templars did not go unnoticed. We didn’t need our spy for that!”