Quite taken with the thought, they both fell silent for a moment. Ezio considered the new century they were in-the sixteenth. And only near its beginning. What would unfold during it, he could only guess; and he knew that, at his age, he would not see very much more of it.
More discoveries, and more wars, no doubt. But essentially the same play repeating itself-and the same actors, only with different costumes and different props for each generation that swallows up the last, each thinking that it would be the one to do better.
“Well, you honored your promise,” said Sofia. “And here is mine fulfilled.”
She led the way to the inner room and picked a piece of paper up from the table. “If I am correct, this should show you the location of the first book.”
Ezio took the paper from her and read what was on it.
“I must admit,” Sofia went on, “my head is swimming at the prospect of actually seeing these books. They contain knowledge the world has lost and should have again.” She sat at the table and cupped her chin in her hands, daydreaming. “Perhaps I could have a few copies printed to distribute myself. A small run of fifty or so… That should be enough…”
Ezio smiled, then laughed.
“What’s there to laugh about?”
“Forgive me. It is a joy to see someone with a passion so personal and so noble. It is… inspiring.”
“Goodness,” she replied, a little embarrassed. “Where is this coming from?”
Ezio held up the piece of paper. “I intend to go and investigate this immediately,” he said. “ Grazie, Sofia-I will return soon.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” she replied, watching him go with a mixture of puzzlement and concern.
What a mysterious man, she thought, as the door closed after him, and she returned to the Waldseemuller map, and her own dreams of the future.
THIRTY-FOUR
Sofia’s calculations had been correct. Hidden behind a wooden panel in an old, deserted building in the Constantine District of the city, Ezio found the book he was looking for.
It was an ancient but well-preserved copy of On Nature, the poem written over two thousand years earlier by the Greek philosopher Empedocles, outlining the sum of his thoughts.
Ezio lifted the book from its hiding place and blew the dust from the small volume. Then he opened it to a blank page at its front.
As he watched, the page began to glow, and within the glow, a map of Constantinople revealed itself. As he looked closer, and concentrated, he discerned a pinpoint on the map. It showed the Maiden Tower, the lighthouse on the far side of the Bosphorus, and, as Ezio peered closer still, a precise spot there, within the cellars built into its foundations.
If all went well, this would be the location of the second key to Altair’s library at Masyaf.
He made his way in haste through the teeming city to the Maiden Tower. Slipping past the Ottoman guards and crossing over in a “borrowed” boat, he found a doorway from which steps led downward into the cellars. He held the book in his hand and found that it was guiding him. Guiding him through a maze of corridors lined with innumerable doorways. It didn’t seem possible that there could be so many in such a relatively confined space. But at last he came to a door, identical to all the others but through whose cracks a faint light seemed to emanate. The door opened at his touch, and there, on a low stone plinth before him, a circular stone had been placed, slim as a discus and, like the first he had discovered, covered with strange symbols, as mysterious as the first set, but different. The form of a woman-a goddess, perhaps-who looked vaguely familiar, indentations that might either have been formulae, or possibly notches that might slot into pegs-maybe pegs within the keyholes in the library door at Masyaf.
As Ezio took the key in his hands, the light coming from it grew, and grew, and he braced himself to be transported-he knew not where-as it engulfed him, and whirled him back down centuries. Down 320 years. To the year of Our Lord 1191.
Masyaf.
Within the fortress, a time long ago.
Figures in a swirling mist. Emerging from it, a young man and an old. Evidence of a fight, which the old man-Al Mualim-had lost.
He lay on the ground; the young man knelt astride him.
His hand, losing its strength, let go of something, which rolled from his grasp and came to rest on the marble floor.
Ezio drew in a breath as he recognized the object-it was-surely-the Apple of Eden. But how?
And the young man-the victor-in white, his cowl drawn over his head. Altair.
“You held fire in your hand, old man,” he was saying. “It should have been destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” laughed Al Mualim. “The only thing capable of ending the Crusades and creating true peace? Never.”
“Then I will destroy it.”
The images faded, dissolved, like ghosts, only for another scene to replace them.
Within the Great Keep at Masyaf, Altair stood alone with one of his captains. Near them, laid out in honor on a stone bier, was the body of Al Mualim, peaceful in death.
“Is it truly over?” the Assassin captain was saying. “Is that sorcerer dead?”
Altair turned to look at the body. He spoke calmly, levelly. “He was no sorcerer. Just an ordinary man, in command of-illusions.”
He turned back to his comrade. “Have you prepared the pyre?”
“I have.” The man hesitated. “But, Altair, some of the men… they will not stand for such a thing. They are restive.”
Altair bent over the bier. He stooped and took the old man’s body in his arms. “Let me handle it.”
He stood erect, his robes flowing about him. “Are you fit to travel?” he asked the captain.
“Well enough, yes.”
“I have asked Malik Al-Sayf to ride to Jerusalem with the news of Al Mualim’s death. Will you ride to Acre and do the same?”
“Of course.”
“Then go, and God be with you.”
The captain inclined his head and departed.
Bearing the dead Mentor’s body in his arms, his successor strode out to confront his fellow members of the Brotherhood.
At his appearance, there was an immediate babel of voices, reflecting the bewilderment in their minds. Some asked themselves if they were dreaming. Others were aghast at this physical confirmation of Al Mualim’s passing.
“Altair! Explain yourself!”
“How did it come to this?”
“What has happened?”
One Assassin shook his head. “My mind was clear, but my body… it would not move!”
In the midst of the confusion, Abbas appeared. Abbas. Altair’s childhood friend. Now, that friendship was far less sure. Too much had happened between them.
“What has happened here?” asked Abbas, his voice reflecting his shock.
“Our Mentor has deceived us all,” Altair replied. “The Templars corrupted him.”
“Where is your proof of that?” Abbas responded, suspiciously.
“Walk with me, Abbas; and I will explain.”
“And if I find your answers wanting?”
“Then I will talk until you are satisfied.”
They made their way, Altair still bearing Al Mualim’s body in his arms, toward the funeral pyre that had been prepared for it. Beside him, Abbas, unaware of their destination, remained testy, tense, and combative, unable to disguise his mistrust of Altair.
And Altair knew with what reason and regretted it. But he would do his best.
“Do you remember, Abbas, the artifact we recovered from the Templar Robert de Sable, in Solomon’s Temple?”
“You mean the artifact you were sent to retrieve but others actually delivered?”
Altair let that go. “Yes. It is a Templar tool. It is called the Apple of Eden. Among many other powers, it can conjure illusions and control the minds of men-and of the man who thinks he controls it. A deadly weapon.”