Oliver Bowden - Revelations

“Long ago. When you Venetians diverted the Frankish Crusaders to attack it instead of Jerusalem.”

“Constantinople was Venice’s greatest trade rival then. It was a great coup.”

“It opened Europe to the east in more ways than one.”

“The Mongols will never get that far,” said Niccolo, but his voice was nervous.

Altair didn’t pick him up on that. Instead, he said, “That little conflict in 1204 prevented me from bringing the Creed to Europe.”

“Well, with luck-and patience-we will finish what you started.”

“If you have the chance, the view from the top of Haghia Sofia is the best in the city.”

“How does one get to the top?”

Altair smiled. “With training and patience.” He paused. “I take it that, when you get away from here, you won’t try the overland route there? That you’ll be sailing to Byzantium?”

“Yes-as the saying goes. We’ll ride to Latakia and get a ship there. The roads in Anatolia are fogged by memories of the Crusades.”

“Ah,” said Altair, “the deepest passions can be the most deadly.”

“Do visit us if you are able, Altair. We will have plenty of space for you and your entourage.”

“No,” said Altair. “Thank you, but that is no country for old men, Niccolo. I will stay here, as I always must now.”

“Well, should you change you mind, our door is always open.”

Altair was watching the battle. The trebuchets had been brought into play and found their range. The stones they were hurling into the Mongol ranks were wreaking havoc.

A rider detached himself from the main body of Assassin cavalry and came toward them at a gallop. It was Darim.

“We will rest briefly at the village,” said Altair to him as he rode up. “You seem to have the enemy in check.”

“But for how long, Father?”

“I have every faith in you. After all, you are not a boy any longer.”

“I am sixty-two years old.”

“You make me feel quite ancient,” Altair joked. But Darim could see the pallor on his cheeks and realized how tired his father really was.

“Of course, we will rest, and see our friends off properly.”

They rode round to the village stables, and the Polo brothers made haste to transfer their belongings to the packhorses provided for them, together with the two fresh mounts for their journey westward to the coast. Altair, finally able to rest, slumped a little and leaned against Darim for support.

“Father-are you hurt?” asked Darim in a voice of concern.

He escorted him to a bench under a tree.

“Give me a moment,” panted Altair, reluctant to give in to the pain he felt. He sat heavily and took a breath, looking back to the castle. An aged man, he thought, was nothing but a paltry thing, like a tattered cloak upon a stick; but he had at least let his soul clap its hands and sing.

“The end of an era,” he whispered.

He looked at his son, and smiled.

Then he took the bag the aide had handed him earlier and removed its contents. Five obsidian discs, intricately carved. He stacked them neatly. “When I was very young,” he said, “I was foolish enough to believe that our Creed would bring an end to these conflicts.” He paused. “If only I had possessed the humility to say to myself, I have done enough for one life. I have done my part.”

With an effort, he rose to his feet.

“Then again, there is no greater glory than fighting to find the truth.”

He looked across the village, and beyond it, to the battle. Niccolo Polo came up. “We are ready,” he said.

“A last favor, Niccolo,” said Altair, giving him the stone discs. “Take these with you and guard them well. Hide them, if you must.”

Niccolo gave him a quizzical look.

“What are these-artifacts?”

“They are indeed artifacts of a kind. They are keys, each one of them imbued with a message.”

Niccolo examined one closely. He was puzzled. “A message-for whom?”

Altair took the key in his hand. “I wish I knew…”

He raised the key high. It began to glow. He closed his eyes, lost in concentration.

Ezio once more became aware of where he was. The light in the cabin resumed its normal comfortable dimness. He smelled the cedarwood of its walls and fittings, saw the dust motes in the sunlight coming through the porthole, and heard the sounds of running feet on the decks, the cries of the sailors, and the creak of the yards as the sails were hoisted.

They were under way.

Out at sea, they once saw the sail of a Barbary pirate, which made both Ezio and Piri think of their old friend Al-Scarab, but the pirate ship stood off and did not attack them. For most of the fifteen-day voyage they were alone on the wine-dark, mackerel-crowded water, and Ezio spent his time vainly attempting to decipher the symbols on the key, wishing Sofia were there to help him, worrying about her safety, and becoming increasingly impatient to reach their goal.

But at last, the day dawned when the domes, the cloud-capped towers, the walls, bell towers, and minarets of Constantinople appeared low on the horizon.

“We’ll be there by midafternoon,” said Piri Reis.

“The sooner the better.”

The port was as crowded as ever, though it was a humid and oppressive day, and siesta time. There was a particularly dense mob around a herald, who stood on a podium at the shore end of the main quay. He was attended by a squad of Janissaries in their flowing white robes. While the red dhow was unloading, Ezio walked over to listen to what the man had to say.

“Citizens of the Empire, and travelers from foreign lands, take heed! By order of the Janissaries, new restrictions now apply to all who travel to and from the city. I hereby give notice that a reward of ten thousand akce will be given without question to anyone who brings in information that leads to the immediate arrest of the Assassin Auditore, Ezio.”

Ezio looked back to Piri Reis and exchanged a glance with him. Piri came over discreetly.

“Make your best way out of here,” he said. “Have you your key with you?”

“Yes.”

“Then take your weapons and go. I’ll take care of the rest of your gear.”

Nodding his thanks, Ezio slipped discreetly through the crowd and into the town.

He made his way by an indirect route to Sofia’s shop, checking every so often that he had not been followed or recognized. When he was close, he started to feel both relief and pleasurable anticipation. But when he turned the corner of her street, he was brought up short. The shop door stood wide open, a small crowd was gathered nearby, and a group of Yusuf’s Assassins, including Dogan and Kasim, stood on guard.

Ezio crossed to them quickly, his throat dry. “What is going on?” he asked Kasim.

“Inside,” said Kasim, tersely. Ezio saw that there were tears in his eyes.

He entered the shop. Inside, it looked much as it had been when he last left it, but on reaching the inner courtyard, his heart all but stopped at the sight which confronted him.

Lying across a bench, facedown, lay Yusuf. The hilt of a dagger protruded between his shoulder blades.

“There was a note pinned to his back by the dagger,” said Dogan, who had followed him in. It’s addressed to you. Here it is.” He handed Ezio a bloodstained sheet of parchment.

“Have you read it?”

Dogan nodded.

“When did this happen?”

“Today. Can’t have been long ago because the flies haven’t really gathered yet.”

Ezio, caught between tears and rage, drew the dagger from Yusuf’s back. There was no fresh blood to flow.

“You have earned your rest, brother,” he said, softly. “Requiescat in Pace.” Then he unfolded the sheet. Its message, from Ahmet, was short, but its contents made Ezio seethe with rage.