“Spare me the history lesson,” Ezio interrupted. “I want to know what we’re up against now.”
“Thing is, by the time Mehmed took this city, there was almost nothing left of it-or of the old Byzantine Empire. They even say Constantine was so broke he had to replace the jewels in his robes with glass copies.”
“My heart bleeds for him.”
“He was a brave man. He refused the offer of his life in exchange for surrendering the city, and he went down fighting. But his spirit wasn’t shared by two of his nephews. One of them has been dead a few years now, but the other…” Yusuf trailed off, thoughtfully.
“He’s against us?”
“Oh, you can bet on that. And he’s against the Ottomans. Well, the rulers, anyway.”
“Where is he now?”
Yusuf looked vague. “Who knows? In exile, somewhere? But if he’s still alive, he’ll be plotting something.” He paused. “They say he was in pretty thick with Rodrigo Borgia at one time.”
Ezio stiffened at the name. “The Spaniard?”
“The very same. The one you finally snuffed out.”
“It was his own son that did the deed.”
“Well, they never were exactly the Holy Family, were they?” “Go on.”
“Go on.”
“Rodrigo was also close to a Seljuk called Cem. It was all very hush-hush, and even we Assassins didn’t know about it until much later.”
Ezio nodded. He had heard the stories. “If I remember rightly, Cem was a bit of an adventurer.”
“He was one of the present sultan’s brothers, but he had his eye on the throne for himself, so Bayezid threw him out. He ended up kind of under house arrest in Italy, and he and Rodrigo became friends.”
“I remember,” Ezio said, taking up the story. “Rodrigo thought he could use Cem’s ambitions to take Constantinople for himself. But the Brotherhood managed to assassinate Cem in Capua, about fifteen years ago. And that put an end to that little plan.”
“Not that we got much thanks for it.”
“Our task is not wrought in order to receive thanks.”
Yusuf bowed his head. “I am schooled, Mentor. But it was a pretty neat coup, you must admit.”
Ezio was silent, so, after a moment, Yusuf continued: “The two nephews I mentioned were the sons of another of Bayezid’s brothers, Tomas. They’d been exiled, too, with their father.”
“Why?”
“Would you believe it-Tomas was after the Ottoman throne as well. Sound familiar?”
“The name of this family wouldn’t be Borgia, would it?”
Yusuf laughed. “It’s Palaiologos. But you’re right-it almost amounts to the same thing. After Cem died, the nephews both went to ground in Europe. One stayed there, trying to raise an army to take Constantinople himself-he failed, of course, and died, like I said, seven or eight years ago, without an heir, and penniless. But the other-well, he came back, renounced any imperial ambition, was forgiven, and actually joined the navy for a time. Then he seemed to settle down to a life of luxury and womanizing.”
“But now he’s disappeared?”
“He’s certainly out of sight.”
“And we don’t know his name?”
“He goes by many names-but we have been unable to pin him down.”
“But he is plotting something.”
“Yes. And he has Templar connections.”
“A man to be watched.”
“If he surfaces, we’ll know about it.”
“How old is he?”
“It’s said he was born in the year of Mehmed’s conquest, which would make him just a handful of years older than you.”
“Still enough kick in him then.”
Yusuf looked at him. “If you are anything to go by, plenty.” He looked around him. Their walk had taken them deep into the heart of the city. “We’re almost there,” he said. “This way.”
They made another turn-into a narrow street, dim, cool, and shadowy despite the sunshine, which tried, and failed, to penetrate the narrow space between the buildings on either side. Yusuf paused at a small, unimpressive-looking green-painted door and raised the brass knocker on it. He tapped out a code, so softly that Ezio wondered that anyone within would hear. But within seconds, the door was swung open by a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped girl who bore the Assassins’ emblem on the buckle of her tunic belt.
Ezio found himself in a spacious courtyard, green vines clinging to the yellow walls. Assembled there was a small group of young men and women. They gazed at Ezio in awe as Yusuf, with a theatrical gesture, turned to him and said, “Mentor-say hello to your extended family.”
Ezio stepped forward. “ Salute a voi, Assassini. It is an honor to find such fast friends so far from home.” To his horror, he found that he was moved to tears. Maybe the tensions of the past few hours were catching up with him; and he was still tired after his journey.
Yusuf turned to his fellow members of the Constantinople Chapter of the Assassin Brotherhood. “You see, friends? Our Mentor is not afraid to weep openly in front of his pupils.”
Ezio wiped his cheeks with a gloved hand and smiled. “Do not worry-I will not make a habit of it.”
“The Mentor has not been in our city more than a matter of hours, and already there is news,” Yusuf went on, his face serious. “We were attacked on the way here. It seems the mercenaries are on the move once more. So”-he indicated three men and two women-“you-Dogan, Kasim, Heyreddin; and you-Evraniki and Irini-I want you to make a sweep of the area-now!”
The five silently rose, bowing to Ezio as they took their leave.
“The rest of you-back to work,” Yusuf commanded, and the remaining Assassins dispersed.
Left alone, Yusuf turned to Ezio, a look of concern on his face. “My Mentor. Your weapons and your armor look in need of renewal-and your clothes-forgive me-are in a pitiful state. We will help you. But we have very little money.”
Ezio smiled. “Have no fear. I need none. And I prefer to look after myself. It is time to explore the city alone, to get the feeling of it into my blood.”
“Will you not rest first? Take some refreshment?”
“The time for rest is when the task is done.” Ezio paused. He unslung his bags and withdrew the broken hidden-blade. “Is there a blacksmith or an armorer skilled and trustworthy enough to repair this?”
Yusuf examined the damage, then slowly, regretfully, shook his head. “This, I know, is one of the original blades, crafted from Altair’s instructions in the Codex your father collected; and what you ask may be impossible to achieve. But if we cannot get it done, we will make sure you do not go out underarmed. But leave your weapons with me-those you do not need to take with you now-and I will have them cleaned and honed. And there will be fresh clothes ready for you on your return.”
“I am grateful.” Ezio made for the door. As he approached it, the young blond doorkeeper lowered her eyes modestly.
“Azize will be your guide, if you wish her to go with you, Mentor,” Yusuf suggested.
Ezio turned. “No. I go alone.”
NINETEEN
In truth, Ezio sought to be alone. He needed to collect his thoughts. He went to a taverna in the Genoese quarter, where wine was available, and refreshed himself with a bottle of Pigato and a simple maccaroin in broddo. He spent the rest of the afternoon thoroughly acquainting himself with the Galata District and avoided trouble, melting into the crowd whenever he encountered either Ottoman patrols or bands of Byzantine mercenaries. He looked just like many another travel-stained pilgrims wandering the colorful, messy, chaotic, exciting streets of the city.
Once he was satisfied, he returned to headquarters, just as the first lamps were being lit in the dark interiors of the shops and they were laying tables in the lokantas. Yusuf and some of his people were waiting for him.
The Turk immediately came up to him, looking pleased with himself. “Praise the heavens! Mentor! I am glad to see you again-and safe. We feared we had lost you to the vices of the big city!”