Ezio was instantly on the alert, whipping his sword out again.
But then the other side of the square filled with more troops, wearing a different uniform—blue tunics and dark, conical felt hats.
“Hang on—wait!” Yusuf cried, as the new arrivals turned to attack the mercenaries, quickly causing them to retreat and pursuing them out of sight, out of the square.
“They were Ottoman regular troops,” Yusuf said in response to Ezio’s questioning look. “Not Janissaries—they are the elite regiment, and you’ll know them when you see them. But all Ottoman soldiers have a special loathing for these Byzantine thugs, and that is to the advantage of the Assassins.”
“How big an advantage?”
Yusuf spread his hands. “Oh, just a little one. They’ll still kill you if you look at them in a way they don’t like, same as the Byzantines. The difference is, the Ottomans will feel bad about it afterward.”
“How touching.”
Yusuf grinned. “It’s not so bad, really. For the first time in many decades, we Assassins have a strong presence here. It wasn’t always that way. Under the Byzantine emperors, we were hunted down and killed on the spot.”
“You’d better tell me about that,” said Ezio, as they once again set off toward the Brotherhood’s headquarters.
Yusuf scratched his chin. “Well, the old emperor, Constantine—the eleventh with that name—only had a three-year reign. Our sultan Mehmed saw to that. But by all accounts, Constantine wasn’t too bad himself. He was the very last Roman emperor in a line that went back a millennium.”
“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.