Ezio smiled and leaned forward. He pointed to the map. “From what I can see, from among the twelve titles, I need to find these three first.”
“What of the others?”
“That remains to be seen. They may be deliberate red herrings. But I am convinced that these are the ones to concentrate on. They may contain clues about the locations of the rest of these -”
He produced the round stone from his satchel. She donned her glasses again and peered at it. The she stood back, shaking her head. “Molto curioso.”
“It’s the key to a library.”
“Doesn’t look like a key.”
“It’s a very special library. Another has been found already-beneath Topkapi Palace. But, God willing, there is still time to find the others.”
“Found-by whom?”
“Men who do not read.”
Sofia grinned at that. But Ezio remained earnest. “Sofia-do you think you could try to decipher this map? Help me find these books?”
Sofia studied the map again for a few minutes, in silence. Then she straightened and looked at Ezio, smiling, a twinkle in her eye. “There are plenty of reference books in this shop. With their help, I think I can unravel this mystery. But on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“May I borrow the books when you’ve finished with them?”
Ezio looked amused. “I daresay we can work something out.”
He took his leave. She watched him go, then closed the shop for the day. Returning to the table, after collecting a number of tomes from the shelves nearby to help her, and a notebook and pens, she pulled up a chair and settled down at once to examining the map in earnest.
TWENTY-NINE
The next day, Ezio met Yusuf near the Hippodrome in the southeast quarter of the peninsula. He found him conferring with a group of younger associates over a map they were studying. The meeting broke up as Ezio arrived, and Yusuf folded up his map.
“Greetings, Mentor,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, there’s a pleasant surprise in store. And if I’m not dead by this time tomorrow, we should have some good stories to trade.”
“Is there a chance of your being dead?”
“We’ve had wind of a plan the Byzantines are hatching. Now that the young Prince Suleiman has returned from the hajj, they plan to infiltrate Topkapi Palace. They’ve chosen this evening to make their move.”
“What’s special about this evening?”
“There’s an entertainment at the palace. A cultural event. An exhibition of paintings-people like the Bellini brothers-and Seljuk artists, too. And there’ll be music.”
“So what’s our plan?”
Yusuf looked at him gravely. “My brother, this is not your fight. There is no need for you to ensnare yourself in Ottoman affairs.”
“Topkapi concerns me. The Templars found one of the keys to Altair’s library beneath it, and I’d like to know how.”
“Ezio, our plan is to protect the prince, not interrogate him.”
“Trust me, Yusuf. Just show me where to go.”
Yusuf looked unconvinced, but said: “The rendezvous is at the main gate of the palace. We plan to disguise ourselves as musicians and walk right in with the authentic players.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“You’ll need a costume. And an instrument.”
“I used to play the lute.”
“We’ll see what we can do. And we’d better place you with the Italian musicians. You don’t look Turkish enough to pass for one of us.”
By dusk, Ezio, Yusuf, and his picked team of Assassins, all dressed in formal costumes, had assembled near the main gate.
“Do you like your getup?” asked Yusuf.
“It’s fine. But the sleeves are cut tight. There was no room for any concealed weapon.”
“You can’t play a lute in loose sleeves. And that’s what you are-a lute player. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“True.”
“And we are armed. You mark any targets and leave it to us to take them out. Here’s your instrument.” He took a fine lute from one of his men and passed it to Ezio, who tried it, tentatively.
“By Allah, you’ll have to make a better sound than that!” said Yusuf.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Are you sure you know how to play that thing?”
“I learned a few chords when I was young.”
“Were you really ever young?”
“A long time ago.”
Yusuf twitched at his own costume, a green-and-yellow satin number. “I feel ridiculous in this outfit. I look ridiculous!”
“You look just like all the other musicians, and that’s the important thing. Now, come on-the orchestra’s assembling.”
They crossed over to where a number of Italian instrumentalists were milling about, impatient to gain entry to the palace. Yusuf and his men were equipped as Turkish musicians, with tanburs, ouds, kanuns, and kudums, all instruments which, between them, they could play passably. Ezio watched them being ushered through a side entrance.
Ezio found it agreeable to be among his fellow countrymen again, and dipped in and out of conversation with them.
“You’re from Florence? Welcome! This should be a good gig,” one told him.
“You call this a good gig?” a viol player chipped in. “You should try playing in France! They’ve got all the best people. I was there not six months ago and heard Josquin’s Qui Habitat. It’s the most beautiful chorale I’ve ever listened to. Do you know his work, Ezio?”
“A little.”
“Josquin,” said the first musician, a sackbut player. “Yes, he’s a treasure. There’s certainly no man in Italy to match his talent.”
“Our time will come.”
“I see you’re a lutenist, Ezio,” a man carrying a chitarra said to him. “I’ve been experimenting with alternative tunings lately. It’s a wonderful way to spark new ideas. For example, I’ve been tuning my fourth string to a minor third. It gives a very somber sound. By the way, did you bring any extra strings with you? I must have broken six this month.”
“Josquin’s music’s too experimental for me,” said a citternist. “Believe me, polyphony will never catch on.”
“Remind me,” said the chitarra player, ignoring his colleague’s remark. “I’d like to learn a few eastern tunings before we leave.”
“Good idea. I must say this is a great place to work. The people here are so kind, too. Not like Verona. You can hardly cross the street there these days without getting mugged,” a musician carrying a shawm put in.
“When do we go on?” Ezio asked.
“Soon enough,” replied the cittern player. “Look, they’re opening the gates now.”
The man with the viol plucked critically at his strings, then looked pleased. “It’s a splendid day for music, don’t you think, Ezio?”
“I hope so,” Ezio replied.
They made their way to the gate, where Ottoman officials were checking people through.
Unluckily, when Ezio’s turn came, one of them stopped him.
“Play us a tune,” he said. “I like the sound of a lute.”
Ezio watched helplessly as his fellow musicians filed past. “ Perdonate, buon signore, but I’m part of the entertainment for Prince Suleiman.”
“Any old gerzek can carry an instrument around, and we don’t remember you being part of this particular band. So play us a tune.”
Taking a deep breath, Ezio started to pluck out a simple ballata he remembered learning when they still had the family palazzo in Florence. He twanged awfully.
“That’s-forgive me-terrible!” said the official. “Or are you into some new experimental music?”
“You might as well be strumming a washboard, as strings, the racket you’re making,” said another, coming over, amused.
“You sound like a dying cat.”
“I can’t work under these circumstances,” Ezio said huffily. “Give me a chance to get warmed up.”
“All right! And get yourself in tune while you’re at it.”
Ezio willed himself to concentrate and tried again. After a few initial stumbles, this time he managed to make a fair fist of a straightforward old piece by Landini. It was quite moving, in the end, and the Ottoman officials actually applauded.