Revelations

SIXTY-SEVEN

As he was drawn into the scene-at one with it, and yet not part of it at all, Ezio knew that ten more years had passed since last he was at Masyaf. He watched and, as he watched, was lost in the events that unfolded…

The men stood in the sunlit inner bailey of Masyaf, under the shade of a spreading cinnamon tree of great age.

Altair, his skin like paper and his gaunt frame so shrouded in his clothes that only his face and his long, pale hands were visible, stood with two stocky Venetians in their early thirties. The older of the two wore a crest on his sleeve-a blue shield on which, in yellow, was a jug surmounted by a single chevron, over which three pentangle stars were set in a row, the whole topped by a silver helm. A little way beyond where they were standing, a large number of Assassin warriors were in the process of preparing for battle.

The Mentor touched the man’s sleeve in a familiar, friendly way. His movements were performed in the careful and precise manner of the very old, but there was nothing of the feebleness you might expect in a man of ninety-one winters, especially one from whom life had exacted so much. “Niccolo,” said Altair. “We have long held the Polo family-you and your brother here-close to our hearts, though our time spent together was, I know, brief enough. But I have faith that this Codex, which I now place in your hands, will answer the many questions you have yet to ask.”

Altair gestured to an aide, who stepped forward to place a leather-bound volume in Niccolo Polo’s hands.

“Altair,” said the Italian. “This gift is… invaluable. Grazie. ”

Altair nodded in acknowledgment as the aide handed him a small bag. “So,” he said, turning back to the elder Polo brother, “where will you go next?”

“Maffeo and I will return to Constantinople for a time. We intend to establish a guild there before returning to Venice.”

Altair smiled. “Your son Marco will be eager to hear his father’s wild stories.”

“At three, he is a little young for such tales. But one day soon, indeed, he will hear them.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Darim, who came rushing through the inner gate toward them.

“Father! A vanguard of Hulagu’s Mongols has broken through! The village is threatened!”

So soon? Altair stiffened. His tone when he spoke again to Niccolo was urgent. “Niccolo-your cargo and provisions are waiting for you by the village gate. We will escort you there. Then you must make all speed.”

“Thank you, Mentor.”

Altair then turned to two Assassins who had detached themselves from the larger group, all now in full readiness for the battle ahead and already riding out.

“Prepare the catapults,” he ordered, “and watch for my signal.”

They bowed their assent and ran off to do as he bid.

“Stay close,” Altair commanded the Polo brothers.

“We must make our way to the village immediately, Father,” Darim said. “I think you had better remain with Niccolo and Maffeo. I will clear the path ahead.”

“Take care, Darim. And keep an eye on the trebuchets.” Altair looked over to where the massive sling-mounted catapults were being pulled into place by their crews.

Darim smiled. “If they hit me, they will hit a dozen Mongols at the same time.”

“Khan Hulagu is not an enemy to be trifled with.”

“We are ready for him.”

Altair turned to his guests. “Come,” he said.

They mounted the horses that had been readied for them and rode out of the fortress at an easy pace, taking a route well clear of the main battle, which had been joined on the slopes of the nearby foothills.

“Will you hold them?” asked Niccolo, unable to disguise the nervousness in his voice.

“For as long as necessary,” Altair reassured him, calmly. “I envy you your journey,” he continued. “Byzantium is a splendid city.”

Niccolo smiled-a bit tightly, for he was more than a little aware of the danger they were in, however little mind Altair seemed to be making of it. But he’d been in tough corners before, and he knew what Altair was trying to do-make light of it. He played the game: “You prefer the ancient name, I see. Have you ever been there?”

“Long ago. When you Venetians diverted the Frankish Crusaders to attack it instead of Jerusalem.”

“Constantinople was Venice’s greatest trade rival then. It was a great coup.”

“It opened Europe to the east in more ways than one.”

“The Mongols will never get that far,” said Niccolo, but his voice was nervous.

Altair didn’t pick him up on that. Instead, he said, “That little conflict in 1204 prevented me from bringing the Creed to Europe.”

“Well, with luck-and patience-we will finish what you started.”

“If you have the chance, the view from the top of Haghia Sofia is the best in the city.”

“How does one get to the top?”

Altair smiled. “With training and patience.” He paused. “I take it that, when you get away from here, you won’t try the overland route there? That you’ll be sailing to Byzantium?”

“Yes-as the saying goes. We’ll ride to Latakia and get a ship there. The roads in Anatolia are fogged by memories of the Crusades.”

“Ah,” said Altair, “the deepest passions can be the most deadly.”

“Do visit us if you are able, Altair. We will have plenty of space for you and your entourage.”

“No,” said Altair. “Thank you, but that is no country for old men, Niccolo. I will stay here, as I always must now.”

“Well, should you change you mind, our door is always open.”

Altair was watching the battle. The trebuchets had been brought into play and found their range. The stones they were hurling into the Mongol ranks were wreaking havoc.

A rider detached himself from the main body of Assassin cavalry and came toward them at a gallop. It was Darim.

“We will rest briefly at the village,” said Altair to him as he rode up. “You seem to have the enemy in check.”

“But for how long, Father?”

“I have every faith in you. After all, you are not a boy any longer.”

“I am sixty-two years old.”

“You make me feel quite ancient,” Altair joked. But Darim could see the pallor on his cheeks and realized how tired his father really was.

“Of course, we will rest, and see our friends off properly.”

They rode round to the village stables, and the Polo brothers made haste to transfer their belongings to the packhorses provided for them, together with the two fresh mounts for their journey westward to the coast. Altair, finally able to rest, slumped a little and leaned against Darim for support.

“Father-are you hurt?” asked Darim in a voice of concern.

He escorted him to a bench under a tree.

“Give me a moment,” panted Altair, reluctant to give in to the pain he felt. He sat heavily and took a breath, looking back to the castle. An aged man, he thought, was nothing but a paltry thing, like a tattered cloak upon a stick; but he had at least let his soul clap its hands and sing.

“The end of an era,” he whispered.

He looked at his son, and smiled.

Then he took the bag the aide had handed him earlier and removed its contents. Five obsidian discs, intricately carved. He stacked them neatly. “When I was very young,” he said, “I was foolish enough to believe that our Creed would bring an end to these conflicts.” He paused. “If only I had possessed the humility to say to myself, I have done enough for one life. I have done my part.”

With an effort, he rose to his feet.

“Then again, there is no greater glory than fighting to find the truth.”

He looked across the village, and beyond it, to the battle. Niccolo Polo came up. “We are ready,” he said.

“A last favor, Niccolo,” said Altair, giving him the stone discs. “Take these with you and guard them well. Hide them, if you must.”

Niccolo gave him a quizzical look.

“What are these-artifacts?”

“They are indeed artifacts of a kind. They are keys, each one of them imbued with a message.”

Niccolo examined one closely. He was puzzled. “A message-for whom?”

Altair took the key in his hand. “I wish I knew…”

He raised the key high. It began to glow. He closed his eyes, lost in concentration.