With his head bowed, Ezio strode from the place. The price paid for the knowledge he had gained seemed very high indeed.
THIRTY-NINE
It was high time to return to Sofia’s bookshop. He hurried there straightaway.
The shop was still open, and lights within burned brightly. When she saw Ezio enter, Sofia took off her eyeglasses and got up from the worktable in the inner room, where the map he’d discovered in Yerebatan was spread out, amid several open books.
“Salute.” She greeted him. Closing the door behind him and pulling down the blinds. “Time I closed for the day. Two customers all afternoon. I ask you. It’s not worth staying open for the evening trade.” Then she saw the expression on Ezio’s face and led him to a chair, where he sat, heavily, as she fetched him a glass of wine.
“Grazie,” he said gratefully, glad she didn’t start asking questions.
Instead, she said, “I’m closing in on two more books-one near Tokapi Saray, and the other in the Bayezid District.”
“Let’s try the Bayezid first. The Topkapi will be a dead end. It was there that the Templars discovered the key they have.”
“Ah- si. They must have found it by chance, or by other means than ours.”
“They had Niccolo’s book.”
“Then we must thank the Mother of God that you rescued it from them before they could use it further.”
She returned to the map, seated herself before it, and resumed writing. Ezio leaned forward and, producing the copy of Empedocles, placed it on the table by her. The second key that he had found had already joined the first, under secure guard, at the Assassins’ headquarters in Galata.
“What do you make of this?” he said.
She picked it up carefully, turning it over reverently in her hands. Her hands were delicate but not bony, and the fingers were long and slender.
Her jaw had dropped in wonder. “Oh, Ezio! E incredibile! ”
“Worth something?”
“A copy of On Nature in this condition? In its original Coptic binding? It’s fantastic!” She opened it carefully. The coded map within no longer glowed. In fact, Ezio could see that it was no longer visible.
“Amazing. This must be a third-century transcription of the original,” Sofia was saying, enthusiastically. “I don’t suppose there’s another copy like this in existence.”
But Ezio’s eyes were restlessly scanning the room. Something had changed, and he could not yet put his finger on what it was. At last, his gaze came to rest on a boarded-up window. The glass was gone from its panes.
“Sofia,” he said, concerned. “What happened here?”
Her voice took on a slight irritation though clearly overridden by her excitement. “Oh, that happens once or twice a year. People try to break in, thinking they will find money.” She paused. “I do not keep much here, but this time they succeeded and made off with a portrait of some value. No more than three hours ago, when I was out of the shop for a short time.” She looked sad. “A very good portrait of me, as it happens. I shall miss it, and not just for what it is worth. I’m certainly going to find a very safe place for this,” she added, tapping the Empedocles.
Ezio was still suspicious that there might be more behind this painting theft than met the eye. He roamed through the room, looking for any clues it might afford him. Then he came to a decision. He was rested enough for the moment, and he owed this woman a favor. But there was more to it than that. He wanted to do whatever he could for her.
“You keep working,” he said. “I will find your painting for you.”
“Ezio, the thief could be anywhere by now.”
“If the thief came for money, found none, and took the portrait instead, he should still be in this district, close by, eager to get rid of it.”
Sofia looked thoughtful. “There are a couple of streets near here where a number of art dealers do business…”
Ezio was already halfway to the door.
“Wait!” she called after him. “I have some business in that direction. I’ll show you the way.”
He waited as she locked the On Nature carefully in an ironclad chest by one wall, then followed her as she left the shop and locked the door firmly behind her.
“This way,” she said. “But we part company at the first turning. I’ll point you in the right direction from there.”
They walked on in silence. A few dozen yards down the street, they came to a crossroads, and she halted.
“Down there,” she said, pointing. Then she looked at him. There was something in her clear eyes that he hoped he wasn’t imagining.
“If you happen to find it within the next couple of hours, please come and meet me by Valens’ Aqueduct,” she said. “There’s a book fair I need to attend, but I’d be so glad to see you there.”
“I will do my best.”
She looked at him again, then away, quickly.
“I know you will,” she said. “Thank you, Ezio.”
FORTY
The picture dealers’ quarter wasn’t hard to find-a couple of narrow streets running parallel to one another, the little shops glowing in the lamplight that shone on the treasures they held.
Ezio passed slowly from one to another, looking at the people browsing the art more than the art itself, and before too long he saw a shifty-looking character in gaudy clothes coming out of one of the galleries, engrossed in counting out coins from a leather purse. Ezio approached him. The man was immediately on the defensive.
“What do you want?” he asked, nervously.
“Just made a sale, have you?”
The man drew himself up. “If it’s any business of yours…”
“Portrait of a lady?”
The man took a swipe at Ezio and prepared to duck and run, but Ezio was a little too quick for him. He tripped him up and sent him sprawling. Coins scattered everywhere on the cobbles.
“Pick them up and give them to me,” said Ezio.
“I have done nothing,” snarled the man, obeying nevertheless. “You can’t prove a damn thing!”
“I don’t need to,” Ezio snarled back. “I’ll just keep hitting you until you talk.”
The man’s tone changed to a whine. “I found that painting. I mean-someone gave it to me.”
Ezio whacked him. “Get your story straight before you lie to my face.”
“God help me!” the man wailed.
“He has much better things to do than answer your prayers.”
The man finished his task and handed the full purse meekly to Ezio, who pulled him upright and pinned him to a nearby wall. “I do not care how you got the painting,” said Ezio. “Just tell me where it is.”
“I sold it to a merchant here. For a lousy two hundred acke.” The man’s voice broke as he indicated the shop. “How else will I feed myself?”
“Next time, find a nicer way to be a canaglia.”
Ezio let the man go, and he scampered off down the lane, cursing. Ezio watched him for a moment, then made his way into the gallery.
He looked carefully among the pictures and sculptures on sale. It wasn’t hard to spot what he was after, as the gallery owner had just finished hanging it. It wasn’t a large painting, but it was beautiful-a head-and-shoulders, three-quarter-profile portrait of Sofia, a few years younger, her hair in ringlets, wearing a necklace of jet and diamond stones, a black ribbon tied to the left front shoulder of her bronze satin dress. Ezio guessed it must have been done for the Sartor family when Meister Durer was briefly resident in Venice.
The gallery owner, seeing him admiring it, came up to him. “That’s for sale, of course, if you like the look of it.” He stood back a little, sharing the treasure with his prospective client. “A luminous portrait. You see how lifelike she looks. Her beauty shines through!”
“How much do you want for it?”
The gallery owner hemmed and hawed. “Hard to put a price on the priceless, isn’t it?” He paused. “But I can see you are a connoisseur. Shall we say… five hundred?”