Revelations ac-4

by Oliver Bowden

  “Datura and deadly nightshade are two of what we call the witches’ weeds, along with henbane and mandrake,” Piri explained, his face grave. “I do not like to use them except in cases of great extremity and danger. When exploded in the midst of an enemy, datura causes delirium, deranging the brain, and death. It is perhaps the worst of all. Deadly nightshade produces a poison gas, which is equally lethal.”

  “The Templars would not hesitate to use them against us if they could.”

  “That is one of the moral paradoxes mankind will wrestle with until the day he becomes truly civilized,” replied Piri. “Is it evil to use evil to combat evil? Is agreeing with that argument merely a simple justification for something none of us should really do?”

  “For now,” said Ezio, “there is not leisure to ponder such questions.”

  “You’ll find the ingredients for these bombs in locations about the city, which Yusuf will tell you of,” said Piri. “So keep your eyes open and your nose to the ground as you roam the streets.”

  Ezio rose to take his leave. Piri extended a walnut brown hand. “Come back whenever you need more help.”

  “Ezio shook hands and was unsurprised at the firmness of the grasp.

  “I hope we will meet again.”

  “Oh,” said Piri with an enigmatic smile. “I have no doubt of it.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Following Piri Reis’s instructions, Ezio made his way through the Bazaar once more, ignoring the insistent blandishments of the traders there, until he reached the quarter west of the enormous bulk of Haghia Sofia. He almost got lost in the labyrinth of streets and alleyways around it but came at last to the spot which, he was sure, Piri had indicated on his map.

  A bookshop. And a Venetian name over the door.

  He entered and, to his surprise and barely suppressed delight, found himself face-to-face with the young woman he had encountered on his voyage to Constantinople. She greeted him warmly, but he saw immediately that he was merely being welcomed as a potential customer. There was no sign of recognition on her face.

  “Buon giorno! Merhaba!” she said, switching automatically from Italian to Turkish. “Please come in.”

  She was busying herself among her stock and, in turning, knocked over a pile of books. Ezio saw at a glance that this shop was the antithesis of Piri Reis’s well-ordered studio.

  “Ah!” said the woman. “Excuse the clutter. I have not had time to tidy up since my trip.”

  “You sailed from Rhodes, no?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “ Si. How did you know?”

  “We were on the same ship.” He bowed slightly. “My name is Auditore, Ezio.”

  “And I am Sofia Sartor. Have we met?”

  Ezio smiled. “We have now. May I look around?”

  “ Prego. Most of my best volumes are in the back, by the way.”

  Under the pretext of looking at the books, stacked in apparent chaos on a maze of teetering wooden shelves, Ezio delved deeper into the dark confines of the shop.

  “It’s nice to meet another Italian in this district,” Sofia said, following him. “Most of us keep to the Venetian District, and Galata.”

  “It’s good to meet you, too. But I thought the war between Venice and the Ottoman Empire would have driven most Italians away. After all, it’s only seven or eight years ago.”

  “But Venice kept control of her islands in the White Sea, and everyone came to an arrangement,” she replied. “At least, for the moment.”

  “So you stayed?”

  She shrugged. “I lived here with my parents when I was a girl. True, when the war was on, we were pushed out, but I always knew I would return.” She hesitated. “Where are you from?”

  “Florence.”

  “Ah.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, no. I have met some very nice Florentines.”

  “There’s no need to sound so surprised.”

  “Forgive me. If you have any questions about the books, just ask.”

  “Grazie.”

  “There’s even more stock in the rear courtyard if you’re interested.” She looked a little rueful. “More than I seem to be able to sell, to be honest.”

  “What took you to Rhodes?”

  “The Knights of Rhodes are uneasy. They know the Ottomans haven’t given up the idea of taking the island over. They think it’s only a question of time. Philippe Villiers de L’Isle-Adam was selling off part of their library. So it was a shopping trip, if you like. Not very successful, either. The prices they were asking!”

  “De L’Isle-Adam is a good Grand Master and a brave man.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Only by repute.”

  The woman looked at him as he poked around. “Look, nice as it is to chat with you-are you sure I cannot help? You seem a bit lost.”

  Ezio decided to come clean. “I am not really looking to buy anything.”

  “Well,” she replied, a touch crisply, “I’m not giving anything away free, Messere.”

  “Forgive me. Just bear with me a little longer. I will make it up to you.”

  “How?”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “Well, I must say-”

  But Ezio silenced her with a gesture. He had manhandled one bookshelf from the back wall of the covered courtyard. The wall was thicker than the others, he could see that, and he’d noticed a crack in it that wasn’t a crack at all.

  It was part of a doorframe, artfully concealed.

  “Dio mio!” exclaimed Sofia. “Who put that there?”

  “Has anyone ever moved these bookshelves before?”

  “Never. They’ve been in place since before my father took over the shop, and before that, it had been in disuse for years-decades, even.”

  “I see.” Ezio brushed dust and debris accumulated over what looked like far more than decades away from the doorframe but found no handle or any other means of opening the door. Then he remembered the secret door that led to the vault back in Monteriggioni, at his uncle’s fortress, and felt around for a hidden catch. Before long, the door swung open and inward. Within, steps the width of the wall led downward into blackness.

  “This is incredible,” said the woman, peering over Ezio’s shoulder. He smelled the soft scent of her hair, her skin.

  “With your permission, I’ll find out where it leads to,” he said firmly.

  “I’ll fetch you some light. A candle.”

  She was back in moments, with a candle and a tinderbox. “Who are you, Messere?” she asked, looking into his eyes.

  “Only the most interesting man in your life.”

  She smiled, quickly. “Ah! Presuntuoso! ”

  “Stay here. Let no one into the shop. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Leaving her, he descended the steps, from whose foot a tunnel led deep in the earth.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Ezio found himself in a system of underground cisterns. By the feeble light of the candle, he could make out barrel-vaulted roofs supported by row upon row of slender columns, decorated at their capitals with a variety of symbols, among which Ezio recognized eyes. At their bases, some of them, bizarrely, showed the inverted heads of monstrous Gorgons.

  Ezio recognized the place he must be in-the Yerebatan Sarnici. The great system of cisterns built below Constantinople. In his book, Niccolo Polo mentioned it. It had been built as a water-filtration system by Justinian a thousand years earlier. But knowing that didn’t make it feel any less creepy.

  He was all but daunted at the vast, cavernous space around him, which he judged, from the echoes the sound his movements made, to be as great as a cathedral. But he remembered that Niccolo had given some indication in The Secret Crusade of where one key might be found. The directions had been deliberately obscure, but Ezio decided to try to follow them, concentrating as he forced his mind to remember the details.

  It was hard to make no noise at all, moving through the shallow water that
covered the floor of the cistern, but with practice, Ezio managed to reduce this to a minimum. Besides, any sound he made was soon drowned out by the noise of the unsuspecting people he heard up ahead. Evidently, he was not alone in his quest, and he reminded himself that, before he got hold of the book, it had been in the Templars’ possession.

  There were lights up ahead as well. Ezio doused his candle and crept forward toward them. Soon, he made out the forms of two Templar foot soldiers, sitting by a small fire in a dark passage. Ezio drew closer. His Greek was good enough to pick up most of what they were saying.

  The one who was speaking was in a bad mood and not afraid to let it show. Indeed, he seemed on the edge of hysteria. “Ti distihia!” he was saying in aggrieved tomes. “What misery! Do you know how long we’ve been searching this filthy cistern?”

  “I’ve been here a few weeks,” replied his quieter friend.

  “That’s nothing! Try thirteen months! Ever since our Grand Master found that damned key!” He calmed himself a little. “But he hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing. All he knows”-the soldier’s tone became sarcastic-“is that they’re ‘somewhere in the city.’ ”

  Hearing this, the other soldier grew more excited himself, sounding overwhelmed at the prospect ahead of them. “This is a very big city…”

  “I know! That’s what I said myself-under my breath.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of a sergeant. “Get on with your work, you bums! You think you’re paid to sit around on your arses all day?”

  Grumbling, the men resumed their task. Ezio shadowed them, hoping to pick up more information. The men were joined by a handful of other soldiers, similarly begrimed and discontented.

  But Ezio had to watch his step. Tired and disgruntled the soldiers might have been, but they were well trained, and vigilant.

  “Petros!” one called to another. “Make sure we have enough torches for the excavation. I’m tired of stumbling around in the dark.”

  Ezio pricked up his ears at the word “excavation,” but as he moved forward again, his sword scabbard scraped against one of the columns, and the vaulted roofs echoed and amplified the slight sound.

  The man called Petros darted a look behind him. “There’s someone down here with us!” he hissed. “Keep your eyes open and your hands steady.”

  The troops were instantly on the alert, urgently calling to one another in muted voices.

  “Do you see anything?”

  “Search every corner!”

  Ezio retreated farther into the shadows and waited patiently for the panic to die down. At the same time, he made a mental note to be extra careful in the exaggerated acoustic.

  Gradually, the guards resumed their search. As he watched, he could see that their actions seemed aimless and that they knew it. But he continued to watch, hoping to detect a pattern, listening to their desultory conversation as he did so.

  “It stinks down here.”

  “What do you expect? It’s a sewer.”

  “I could use a breath of air.”

  “Patience! Shift’s up in three hours!”

  “Keep it down, you!” barked the sergeant, approaching again. “And keep your ears open. The Lord Jesus knows why they picked you lot for a delicate mission like this.”

  Ezio moved forward, past the men, until he came upon a stone embankment, on which two junior officers were standing by a brazier. He listened in to their conversation.

  “We’re one step ahead of the Assassins, I know that much,” one was saying to the other.

  “The Grand Master has ordered that we make all haste. They may be closer than we think.”

  “He must have his reasons. What do these keys look like anyway?”

  “Like the one we discovered beneath Topkapi. That’s got to be the assumption.”

  The other lieutenant shook himself. “Eight hours of this filth. Apistefto! ”

  “I agree. I’ve never been so bored in all my life.”

  “Yeah. But we’re bound to find the keys soon.”

  “In your dreams.”

  But the first lieutenant to speak had suddenly glanced round quickly. “What was that?”

  “Probably a rat. The Savior knows, there are enough of them down here.”

  “All the shadows seem to move.”

  “It’s just the firelight.”

  “Someone is out there. I can feel it.”

  “Watch yourself. You’ll go mad.”

  Ezio inched past them, moving as slowly as he could despite wanting to rush, for he dared not let the water around his calves make so much as a ripple. At last he found himself well beyond the two officers and the rest of the Templars, feeling his way along the wall of a dank corridor, much lower and narrower than the pillared halls it led off.

  Somehow, it felt right. As soon as the light and noise of the Templars had died out completely behind him, he felt secure enough to relight the candle and drew it from his side satchel along with the tinderbox, praying that he would drop neither as he juggled to strike a spark to light it.

  At last he was ready. Pausing for a moment to ensure that he wasn’t being followed, he continued along the corridor as it twisted and turned, and, to his consternation, divided into separate, alternative passageways. Occasionally, he took the wrong one and came up against a blank wall. Retracing his steps to find the right way again, he began to wonder if he were not in some kind of maze. Ever deeper and darker he went, praying he’d remember the way back, and that he could trust the bookshop owner, until he was rewarded by a dim glow ahead of him. No more than the glow of a firefly but enough to guide him.

  He followed the passageway until it opened out into a small circular chamber, its domed roof all but lost in the shadows above. Half columns stood along the walls at regular intervals, and there was no sound but that of dripping water.

  In the center of the chamber was a small stone stand, and on it rested a folded map. Ezio opened it and found it to be a plan of Constantinople, in infinite detail, with the Polo brothers’ old trading post clearly marked at its center. Four lines divided up the map, and each demarcated section showed a landmark of the city.

  Around the margins of the map the titles of twelve books were written, but of these twelve the titles of four were placed, one each, next to each divided section of the map. The four books had their titles illuminated in green, blue, red, and black.

  Ezio carefully folded the map again and placed it in his satchel. Then he turned his attention to what was placed at the center of the stone stand.

  It was a carved-stone disc, no more than four inches across. The disk was thin, tapering toward its outer edges, and made of a stone that might have been obsidian. It was pierced at its exact center by a precisely circular hole, half an inch in diameter. Its surface was covered with designs, some of which Ezio recognized from the Codex pages that had been in his father and uncle’s collection. A sun whose rays ended in outstretched hands extending toward a world; strange humanoid creatures of indeterminate sex, with exaggerated eyes, lips, foreheads, and bellies; what looked like abstruse mathematical symbols and calculations.

  From this, the lightning-bug glow emanated.

  Carefully, almost reverently, Ezio took it in his hands. He had not experienced such a feeling of awe since he had last handled the Apple, and he already seemed to know what it was he was handling.

  As he turned it over in his hands, its glow intensified.

  Che succede? Ezio thought. What’s happening…?

  As he watched, the glow became a sunburst, from which he had to shield his eyes, as the chamber exploded into a hurricane of light.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Somehow Ezio was there, and not there. But he couldn’t be sure if was dreaming or had fallen into some kind of trance.

  But he knew exactly when and where he was-it was centuries before his own birth-late in the twelfth century. The date of the year of Our Lord 1189 floated through his consciousness, as he walked-or drifted-through
swirling clouds and crisscrossing rays of unearthly light, which parted at last to reveal-at a distance-a mighty fortress.

  Ezio recognized the place at once: Masyaf. The clouds seem to bear him closer. There were the sounds of fierce battle. Ezio saw cavalrymen and infantry locked in mortal combat. Then the sounds of a horse’s hooves, as it approached at full gallop. A young Assassin, dressed in white, cowled, riding furiously through the scene.

  Ezio watched-and, as he watched, seemed to lose himself-his own personality… Something was happening which seemed half-recognized, half-remembered; a message from a past of which he knew nothing yet with which he was totally familiar…

  The young man in white charged, with his sword drawn, through the gates, into the midst of the skirmish. Two burly Crusaders were about to deliver the coup de grace to a wounded Assassin. Leaning from the saddle, the young man felled the first soldier with a clean stroke before reining his horse in and leaping off his mount in a swirl of dust. The second Crusader had whirled around to confront him. In a second, the young man drew a throwing knife and aimed it at the Crusader, hurling it with deadly accuracy, so that it buried itself in the man’s neck, just below the helmet. The man fell to his knees, then collapsed forward, on his face in the dirt.

  The young man dashed over to the aid of his comrade, who had collapsed against a tree. The injured man’s sword had slipped from his hand, and he leaned forward, his back against the tree trunk, grasping his ankle and grimacing.