Revelations

FORTY-SEVEN

With a little help from Yusuf’s Assassins, Ezio was able to isolate and corner an unsuspecting off-duty Janissary in the Bazaar and relieve him of his uniform. But it was not without a price. The Janissary put up stiff resistance and badly wounded two Assassins before he was overcome; but not before he himself had sustained a mortal wound. It was necessary for Ezio, with Azize’s help, to wash the bloodstains thoroughly from the white garments before he put them on. But then he could pass for a Janissary guard without any question, provided he was careful to keep his beard covered with a white scarf, exposing only his mustache.

As he made his way to the barracks, he was amused and, at the same time, disconcerted at the response he evoked among the local population, both male and female, Ottomans and Byzantines alike, though the reactions were the same mixture among all the nationalities he encountered. Some were apparently admiring, even ingratiating. Others were subtly dismissive, and yet more reacted with fear and uncertainty. It was clear enough that the Janissaries were at best tolerated, at worst loathed. There was not a hint of genuine affection or regard. But from what he could gather, the greatest disdain seemed to be leveled specifically at the Janissaries belonging to Tarik’s barracks. Ezio stored this experience in his memory, certain that it would prove useful at some future date, but for the moment he concentrated on his goal.

He was relieved that his uniform allowed him to pass unhindered and uncontested as he made his way to the barracks, the more so as he was soon to discover that the Assassins’ killing of the Janissary had already been discovered. As he drew close to his destination, he passed a square where a Seljuk herald was announcing the man’s death to a crowd of interested onlookers.

“Dark tidings, citizens of Kostantiniyye,” the herald was proclaiming. “A servant of our sultan has fallen at the hands of a criminal and been stripped of his garments.” He looked round and raised his voice a notch. “Be on the lookout for any suspicious activity.”

Ezio crossed the square as discreetly as possible, but eyes inevitably fell on him. He prayed that he would be able to enter the barracks unchallenged. If they knew about the murder and that the man had been killed for his uniform, they would tighten security faster than a man could say “knife.”

“Woe betide the murderer who took the life of a beloved Janissary,” the herald continued to intone. “This enemy of civilization must be found and brought to justice! If you see something, say something!” He glared around at the crowd impressively and shook his scroll for additional effect, before going on: “Citizens, beware! A killer stalks our streets, a man without conscience, targeting the servants of our sultan. The Janissaries have dedicated their lives to the protection of the empire. Return the favor they have done us and find this killer before he strikes again!”

The postern gate of the Janissary Garrison stood open, though flanked by a double guard. But they came to attention as Ezio arrived, and he realized that he had had the luck to waylay a senior NCO or junior officer-for the dress he wore clearly commanded respect, though to an uninitiated eye, the Janissaries’ uniforms looked virtually indistinguishable between officers and men.

He entered the compound without difficulty, but no sooner had he done so than he began to pick up snippets of conversation regarding the killing.

“ Kardeslerim, one of our own was found murdered and stripped of his garments not an hour ago, and his body, they say, was dumped on a dunghill like so much rubbish,” one said to a couple of his brother soldiers, who murmured angrily at the news. “Keep a close watch on these streets as you move through them,” the first to speak continued. “Someone is planning to strike, using our uniform as cover. We must be constantly on our guard until the culprit is caught.”

“And disemboweled,” added another.

Ezio decided to be as cautious as possible for as long as he was in the compound. Keeping his head down, he moved around the barracks, familiarizing himself with them, and, as he did so, eavesdropping on various conversations. What he heard was most revealing and of great value.

“Selim understands our plight. The Byzantines, the Mamluks, the Safavid-only he has the courage to face the threats those peoples represent for us,” said one soldier.

“You speak the truth. Selim is a warrior. Like Osman and Mehmed before him,” another replied.

“So-why has our sultan Bayezid chosen a pussycat over a lion?”

“Prince Ahmet shares the sultan’s calm temperament. That’s why. They are too much alike, I fear.”

A third soldier joined the conversation. “Sultan Bayezid is a good man, and a kind ruler… But he has lost the fire that made him great.”

“I disagree,” said a fourth. “He is still a fighter. Look at the army he has raised against Selim.”

“That’s just further evidence of his decline! To take up arms against his own son? It’s shameful.”

“Do not bend the truth to match the contours of your passion, efendim,” the fourth man rebuked him. “It was Selim, after all, who attacked our sultan first.”

“ Evet, evet. But Selim did so for the glory of the empire, not for himself.”

“Speaking of the war, is there any news from the north?” a fifth soldier chimed in.

“I hear that Selim’s forces have fallen back to Varna,” said a sixth. “Heavy losses, I am told.”

“Incredible, isn’t it? I pray for a swift conclusion.”

“Yes, but in which direction?”

“I cannot say. My heart sides with our sultan, but my head hopes for Selim.”

“And what of Selim’s young son, Prince Suleiman?” a seventh Janissary put in. “Have you met him?”

“Not personally,” an eighth replied; “But I have seen him. I know he is a remarkable boy.”

“Hardly a boy-a capable young man. With a magnificent mind.”

“Does he take after his father?”

The seventh Janissary shrugged. “Perhaps. Though I suspect he is another sort of man altogether.”

Two more Janissaries came up and joined the conversation as Ezio lingered at its edge. One of them was clearly a bit of a joker. “Why does Prince Ahmet linger in this city?” he asked wryly. “He knows he is not wanted.”

“He’s like a moth hovering around an open flame. Waiting for his father to perish, so that he may take the throne.”

“Did you hear,” said the joker, “that he offered Tarik a bribe in return for our loyalty?”

“God damn him for that. What did Tarik do?”

The other guard laughed. “He spent half the money on horse feed and sent the rest to Selim!”