Ezio nodded to them and joined them for a moment, while the young man turned his face away and stood aloof, making notes in his little ivory-bound book.
“What I want to know is, what are these Byzantine thugs holding out for?” one of the soldiers asked. “They had their chance once. They nearly destroyed this city.”
“When Sultan Mehmed rode in, there were fewer than forty thousand people living here, and living in squalor,” put in another.
“Aynen oyle!” said a third. “Exactly so! And now look at the city. Three hundred thousand inhabitants, and flourishing again for the first time in centuries. We have done our part.”
“We made this city strong again. We rebuilt it!” said the second soldier.
“Yes, but the Byzantines don’t see it that way,” rejoined the first. “They just cause trouble, every chance they get.”
“How may I recognize them?” Ezio asked.
“Just stay clear of any mercenaries you see wearing a rough, reddish garb,” said the first soldier. “They are Byzantines. And they do not play nice.”
The soldiers moved off then, called by an NCO to ready themselves for disembarking. Ezio’s young man was standing at his elbow. At the same moment, his valet reappeared with Ezio’s sharbat.
“So you see,” said the young man. “For all its beauty, Kostantiniyye is not, after all, the most perfect place in the world.”
“Is anywhere?” Ezio replied.
SEVENTEEN
Their ship had docked, and passengers and crew scrambled about, getting in each other’s way, as mooring ropes were thrown to men on the quayside and gangplanks were lowered.
Ezio had returned to his cabin to collect his saddlebags—all that he carried. He’d know how to get what he needed once he was ashore. His young companion’s servant had arranged three leather-bound trunks on the deck, and they awaited porters to carry them ashore. Ezio and his new friend prepared to take leave of one another.
The young man sighed. “I have so much work to return to—and yet it is good to be home.”
“You are far too young to be worried about work, ragazzo!”
Ezio’s eye was distracted by the appearance of the redheaded woman in green. She was fussing over a large parcel, which looked heavy. The young man followed his gaze.
“When I was your age, my interests were . . . were mainly . . .” Ezio trailed off, watching the woman. Watching the way she moved in her dress. She looked up, and he thought he’d caught her eye. “Salve!” he said.
But she hadn’t noticed him after all, and Ezio turned back to his companion, who’d been watching him with amusement.
“Incredible,” said the young man. “I’m surprised you got anything done at all.”
“So was my mother,” Ezio smiled back, a little ruefully.
Finally, the gates in the gunwale were opened, and the waiting crowd of passengers surged forward.
“It was a pleasure to have made your acquaintance, beyefendi,” said the young man, bowing to Ezio. “I hope you will find something to hold your interest while you are here.”
“I have faith that I will.”
The young man moved away, but Ezio lingered, watching the woman struggling to lift the parcel—which she was unwilling to entrust to any porter—as she started to disembark.
He was about to step forward to assist when he saw that the young man had beaten him to it.
“My I be of some assistance, my lady?” he asked her.
The woman looked at the young man and smiled. Ezio thought that smile was more killing than any crossbow bolt. But it wasn’t aimed at him. “Thank you, dear boy,” she said, and the young man, waving his valet aside, personally hefted the package onto his shoulder, following her down the companionway to the quay.
“A scholar and a gentleman,” Ezio called to him. “You are full of surprises.”
The young man turned back and smiled again. “Very few, my friend. Very few.” He raised a hand. “Allaha ismarladik! May God bless you!”
Ezio watched as the woman, followed by the young man, was swallowed up by the crowd. As he watched, he noticed a man standing slightly apart, looking at him. A tough man in his midthirties, in a white surcoat with a red sash, and dark trousers tucked into yellow boots. Long dark hair and beard, and four throwing knives in a scabbard attached high on his left shoulder. He also wore a scimitar, and his right forearm carried a triple-plated steel guard. As Ezio tensed and looked more closely, he thought, but was not sure, that he could detect the harness of a hidden-blade just beneath the man’s right hand. The surcoat was hooded, but the hood was down, and the man’s unruly hair was kept in check by a broad yellow bandana.
Ezio moved slowly down the gangplank to the quay. And the man approached.
When they were within two paces of each other, the man stopped, smiled cautiously, and bowed deeply.
“Welcome, Brother! Unless the legend is a lie, you are the man I have always longed to meet. Renowned Master and Mentor—Ezio Auditore da . . .” He broke off and his dignity deserted him. “Lah, lah-lah!” he finished.
“Prego?” Ezio was amused.
“Forgive me, I have a hard time getting my tongue round Italian.”
“I am Ezio da Firenze. The city of my birth.”
“Which would make me . . . Yusuf Tazim da Istanbul! I like that!”
“Istanbul. Ah—so that is what you call this city.”
“It’s a favorite with the locals. Come sir—let me take your pack—”
“No, thank you—”
“As you wish. Welcome, Mentor! I am glad you have arrived at last. I will show you the city.”
“How did you know to expect me?”
“Your sister wrote from Rome to alert the Brotherhood here. And we had word from a spy in place at Masyaf of your exploits. So we have watched the docks for weeks in the hope and expectation of your arrival.” Yusuf could see that Ezio remained suspicious. He looked quizzical. “Your sister Claudia wrote—you see? I know her name! And I can show you the letter. I have it with me. I knew you would not be a man to take anything at its face value.”
“I see you wear a hidden-blade.”
“Who else but a member of the Brotherhood would have access to one?”
Ezio relaxed, slightly. Yusuf’s demeanor was suddenly solemn. “Come.”
He put a hand on Ezio’s shoulder and guided him through the teeming throng. The crowded lanes he led him down, each side filled with stalls selling all manner of goods under a kaleidoscope of colored awnings, were filled, it seemed, with people of every nation and race on earth. Christians, Jews, and Muslims were busy bartering with each other, Turkish street cries mingled with others in Greek, Frankish, and Arabic. As for Italian, Ezio had recognized the accents of Venice, Genoa, and Florence before he’d walked one block. And there were other languages he half recognized or could only guess at—Armenian, Bulgarian, Serbian, and Persian. And a guttural language he did not recognize at all, spoken by tall, fair-skinned men, who wore their red hair and beards wild and long.