Assassin's Creed: Revelations (26 page)

“What regiment are you from,
efendim
?” the first asked him, politely enough, though with just enough edge to his voice to make Ezio wary.

Before Ezio could reply, the second cut in: “I do not believe I know you. I do not see your imperial insignia. Are you cavalry?”

“When did you get in?” asked the first, his voice openly unfriendly now.

“Where is your captain?”

Ezio’s Turkish wasn’t up to this. And he saw that, in any case, their suspicions were more than aroused. Swiftly, he unleashed his hookblade and tripped one up with it, sending him crashing into the other. Then he ran, darting between tents, jumping guy ropes and still keeping one eye on the now-distant Tarik.

There was shouting behind him:

“Imposter!”

“Deceiver! You will die!”

“Stop him!”

“It’s the outlaw who killed Nazar! Grab him!”

 

 

But the compound was very large, and Ezio took full advantage of the fact that, in their uniforms and with their almost identical mustaches, one Janissary looked very like another. Leaving confusion in his wake, he soon picked up Tarik’s trail again and located him in a quiet corner of the barracks, where the senior officers’ map-rooms were to be found.

Ezio watched as Tarik entered one of the map-rooms; he glanced around to ensure that the man was alone and that he himself had thrown off the last traces of pursuit, and followed Tarik in. He closed and bolted the door behind him.

Ezio had already collected all the information he believed he needed. He knew that Tarik planned to rendezvous with Manuel at Bursa, and he knew that the arms shipment had arrived at Manuel’s garrison in Cappadocia. So when Tarik immediately drew his sword and flung himself at him, he did not need to ask questions first. He stepped neatly aside to his left as Tarik thrust with his sword, then unleashed his left-hand hidden-blade and plunged it into the right-hand side of the Janissary captain’s back, ripping through the kidney as he cut in hard with the blade before withdrawing it.

Tarik crashed forward onto a map table, scattering the charts that covered it and drenching those that remained with blood. He caught his breath and, drawing on his last reserves of strength, heaved himself up on his right elbow and half turned to look at his attacker.

“Your villainy is finished, soldier,” said Ezio, harshly.

But Tarik seemed resigned, almost amused. Ezio was suddenly seized by doubt.

“Ah, what bitter irony,” said Tarik. “Is this the result of Suleiman’s investigation?”

“You collude with the sultan’s enemies,” said Ezio, his confidence ebbing. “What did you expect would come of such treachery?”

Tarik gave him a regretful smile. “I blame myself.” He paused, his breathing painful, as blood flowed steadily from his unstaunched side. “Not for treason, but hubris.” He looked at Ezio, who had drawn closer to catch his voice, which had now sunk to little more than a whisper. “I was preparing an ambush. Preparing to strike the Byzantine Templars at the precise moment they felt safest.”

“What proof do you have of this?”

“Look. Here.”

Painfully, Tarik pulled a map from his belt with his left hand. “Take it,” he said.

Ezio did so.

“This will lead you to the Byzantines in Cappadocia,” Tarik continued. “Destroy them if you can.”

Ezio’s voice had sunk to a whisper, too. “You have done well, Tarik. Forgive me.”

“There is no blame,” Tarik replied, struggling with the effort of speaking at all. But he forced himself to go on, knowing that his next words would be his last. “Protect my homeland.
Allah ashkina!
In God’s name, redeem the honor we have lost in this fight.”

Ezio put Tarik’s arm over his shoulder and lifted him onto the table, where he hastily tore the scarf from his neck and tied it as tightly as he could around the wound he had made.

But he was already too late.

“Requiescat in Pace,”
said Ezio, sadly.

 

 

Outside, he heard the hue and cry for him taken up once more, and close by. There was no time to repine over his mistake. Hastily, he tore off the uniform until he was stripped down to the simple grey tunic and hose he wore underneath. The map-room was close to the barracks wall. With the help of his hookblade, he knew the wall would be climbable.

It was time to go.

FORTY-NINE

Ezio regained Assassin headquarters, changed, and returned to Topkapi Sarayi with a heavy heart. The guards had clearly been given orders to let him pass, and he was ushered into a private antechamber, where, after a few minutes had passed, Suleiman came to meet him. The young prince seemed surprised to see him—and agitated.

Ezio forestalled the question in his eyes. “Tarik was no traitor, Suleiman. He, too, was tracking the Byzantines.”

“What?” Suleiman’s distress was evident. “So, did you—?”

Ezio nodded, gravely.

Suleiman sat down heavily. He looked ill. “God forgive me,” he said, quietly. “I should not have been so quick to judge.”

“Prince, he was loyal to your grandfather to the end; and through his efforts, we have the means to save your city.” Ezio briefly explained what he had found out, told him what he had learned from listening to the Janissaries, and showed him the map Tarik had given him.

“Ah, Tarik,” whispered Suleiman. “He should not have been so secretive, Ezio. What a terrible way to do a good thing.”

“The weapons have been taken to Cappadocia. We must act immediately. Can you get me there?”

Suleiman snapped out of his reverie. “What—? Get you there? Yes, of course. I will arrange a ship to take you to Mersin—you can travel inland from there.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Prince Ahmet. Fortunately, he called out to Suleiman in an impatient voice before he arrived, so Ezio had time to withdraw to a corner of the room, where he would be less conspicuous.

Ahmet entered the room and wasted no time at all in coming to the point. “Suleiman, I have been set up and made to look like a traitor! Do you remember Tarik, the Janissary?”

“The man you quarreled with?”

Ahmet showed signs of getting seriously angry. “He has been murdered. It is no secret that he and I were at odds. Now the Janissaries will be quick to accuse me of the crime.”

“This is terrible news, Uncle.”

“It is indeed. When word of this reaches my father, he will banish me from the city!”

Suleiman could not suppress a nervous glance over his uncle’s shoulder at Ezio. Ahmet noticed this and spun round. His manner immediately became more reserved. “Ah. Forgive me, nephew. I was not aware that you had a guest.”

Suleiman hesitated, then said: “This is . . . Marcello. One of my European advisers in Kefe.”

Ezio bowed low.
“Buona sera.”

Ahmet made an impatient gesture. “Marcello, my nephew and I have a private matter to discuss,” he said, sternly.

“Of course. Please excuse me.” Ezio bowed again, even lower, and backed his way to the door, exchanging a quick glance at Suleiman, who, he prayed, would get them out of this. Luckily, the young prince picked up his cue perfectly and said to Ezio in a clipped, official voice:

“You know your orders. As I’ve said, there will be a ship waiting for you when you are ready to leave.”

“Grazie, mio principe,”
Ezio replied. He left the room then but lingered just outside it, wishing to hear how the conversation would end. What he heard did not convince him that he was out of the woods at all:

“We will track down the perpetrator of this crime, Uncle,” Suleiman was saying. “Have patience.”

Ezio mulled that over. Could matters be that dire? But he didn’t know Suleiman that well. And what was it Yusuf had warned about? Against meddling in Ottoman politics?

His mood was grim as he left the palace. There was one place he needed to be. One place where he could relax—as he badly needed to—and collect his thoughts.

FIFTY

Ezio had started rereading Dante’s
Inferno
at Sofia’s suggestion several days earlier. He had read it before, as a student, but never really taken it in, since his mind was preoccupied with other matters in those days, but now it seemed like a revelation. But, having finally finished it, he put the book down with a sigh of pleasure. He looked across at Sofia, her glasses perched on her nose as she sat, head down, glancing from the original map to her reference books, to a notebook she was writing in. He gazed at her as she worked but did not interrupt, so deeply engaged did she seem in the task at hand. Instead, he reached for the book again. Perhaps he should make a start on the
Purgatorio
.

But just then, Sofia lifted her eyes from her work. She smiled at him.

“Enjoying the poem?”

He smiled back, placed the book on the table by his chair, and rose. “Who were these men he condemned to hell?”

“Political opponents, men who wronged him. Dante Alghieri’s pen cuts deeply, no?”

“Sì,”
Ezio replied, thoughtfully. “It is a subtle way to seek revenge.”

He didn’t want to return to reality, but the urgency of the journey he soon had to make pressed upon him. Still, there was nothing he could do until he had word from Suleiman. Provided that he could trust the prince. But his thoughts had calmed. How could it profit Suleiman to betray him? He resumed his seat, picked up
The Divine Comedy
again, and turned to the place where he had left off.

She interrupted him. “Ezio,” she began, hesitantly, “I plan to make a trip to Adrianopolis in a few weeks, to visit a new printing press there.”

Ezio noticed the shy tone of her voice and wondered if she had picked up the softness that had crept into his whenever he spoke to her. Had she realized how great his . . . affection for her had become? Overcompensating, he was deliberately nonchalant when he replied, “That should be fun.”

She was still diffident. “It is a five- or six-day ride from here, and I will need an escort . . .”

She was instantly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. You are a busy man.”

It was his turn to be embarrassed. “Sofia, I would love to accompany you, but my time is running short—”

“That is true for all of us.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, taking its meaning several ways, and remained silent. He was thinking of the twenty-year age gap between them.

Sofia looked down at the map for a moment, then back up. “Well, I could try to finish this last cipher now, but I need to run an errand before sundown. Can you wait a day?”

“What do you need?”

She looked away and back again. “It’s silly, but . . . a bouquet of fresh flowers. White tulips, specifically.”

He got up. “I’ll get you the flowers.
Nessun problema.
”

“Are you sure?”

“It will be a nice change of pace.”

She smiled warmly. “
Bene!
Look—meet me in the park just to the east of Haghia Sofia. We will trade: flowers for . . . information!”

FIFTY-ONE

The Flower Market was a blaze of color and pleasant scents, and there wasn’t a Janissary in sight. Ezio made his way through it anxiously, as nowhere in all this cornucopia had he yet been able to find any of the flowers he sought.

“You look like a man with money to spend,” said a flower seller, as Ezio approached his stall. “What do need, my friend?”

“I’m looking for tulips. White ones, if you have them.”

The flower seller looked doubtful. “Ah. Tulips. Forgive me, but I am fresh out. Something else, perhaps?”

Ezio shook his head. “It’s not my call, unfortunately.”

The flower seller thought about the problem for a moment, then leaned forward. He spoke confidentially. “OK, just for you, here is my secret. Many of the white tulips I sell, I pick myself near the hippodrome. Not a word of a lie. You go and see for yourself.”

Ezio smiled, took out his wallet, and tipped the flower seller generously.
“Grazie.”

 

 

Busily, a man in haste, he made his way through the sun-warmed streets to the hippodrome, and, sure enough, in the grass along one side of the racetrack, he found white tulips growing in abundance. Happily, he bent down and, unleashing his hidden-blade, cut as many as he hoped Sofia would want.

FIFTY-TWO

The Imperial Park to the east of Haghia Sofia was laid out in formal gardens, interspersed with verdant lawns dotted with white marble benches and arbors ideal for private meetings, and in one of them he soon found Sofia.

She had laid out a little picnic, and Ezio could see at a glance that it wasn’t local food and drink. She’d managed somehow to organize a lunch that brought together some of the specialties of both their hometowns, so there was
moleche
and
rixoto de gò
from Venice, and
panzanella
and
salame toscano
from Florence. She’d also provided figs from Tuscolo and olives from Piceno, and there was a dish of macaroni and turbot. The wine she’d brought was a Frescobaldi. A wicker hamper stood by the neat white cloth she’d laid.

“What is this?” he said, marveling.

“A gift. Sit.”

Ezio bowed, handing her the flowers, and did as he was bidden.

“These are beautiful—thank you,” she said, accepting the huge bouquet of tulips he had cut for her.

“So is this,” he replied. “And don’t think I don’t appreciate the trouble you’ve been to.”

“I wanted to thank you for letting me play a small role in your adventure.”