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Konstantiniyye / Istanbul, 1511
Mısır Çarşısı: a whirlwind of impressions on the senses. Sellers of fruit, kelims, cloth, shawls and jewelry are rubbing shoulders, thieving, and trying to draw the attention of the people walking the halls of the bazaar. The vendors of these items, though, are heavily outnumbered and outshone by the merchants who peddle the stock for which the bazaar is famous: spices.
The smells of the different spices overpower Yusuf: black pepper, cinnamon, ginger and, only in the best shops, the expensive saffron.
He’s not here for the pleasure of shopping, however; he’s here, in spite of himself, for business. Tarik, captain of the Janissaries, has been sighted buying kelims, and Yusuf hopes to pick up some hints, maybe even spot him, tail him – anything to acquire more information on the man’s movements and plans.
He knows he hasn’t much chance of finding out anything truly worth knowing, this way. He doesn’t mind if he’s wasting his time here, though. He loves the Grand Bazaar, its bustle, its colours, the people. Of course, ugly things happen in the çarşısı: assault, robbery, fights, arguments... Still, it’s the beating, living heart of the city that Yusuf calls his home.
The bazaar has windows, high up in the curved ceiling that covers it; they’re open, there’s no glass, and from the corner of his eye, he sees a shadow high up, darting from window to window.
He’s getting older.
The fragrant smell of oranges – and a girl trips over Yusuf’s feet, one fruit in each hand, and then he’s shoved aside by an angry stall owner, who’s slow compared to the child, and the man’s shouts and the child’s yells echo through the long halls as one chases the other. It reminds Yusuf of himself; flash back thirty years, and the child could’ve been him. Oh well – if he hadn’t thieved his living together, the Assassin Ishak Pasha would never have recruited him. He grew out of it, he supposes.
Mostly.
He glances up for a second and sees the shadow hasn’t moved.
There’s a brief lull – shoppers and merchants alike staring dumbfounded in the direction of the little thief – but when the crowd start moving again, Yusuf disappears into it. He raises his hood over his thick black hair, held back by a headscarf, and makes for a wooden scaffold rising right up to the windows, used by painters to maintain the lavish illustrations on the walls. Right now, however, the scaffold is deserted, and Yusuf climbs up nimbly, and without looking back swings through the window.
The sun is scorching, the stone hot under his feet. He climbs across the roof, rolls down, and approaches the mysterious shadow from behind.
‘You’re getting old, old man,’ Yusuf says, clasping his mentor’s shoulder with his left hand.
Ezio, unfortunately, doesn’t give him the satisfaction of showing surprise. He slowly turns around, and he looks less than pleased. ‘Wait until you gain ten more years, amico, then we’ll speak again.’
‘I’ll bet I can still outrun you in twenty years even, arkadaşim.’ He removes his hand from Ezio’s shoulder and claps him on the biceps. He removes his hood, then crosses his arms.
The Italian’s expression briefly shifts to what Yusuf can only call ‘sour’, before he pulls Yusuf close, tugs off his headscarf, and threads his fingers through the hair Yusuf’s temples. ‘Are those grey hairs I see there, Tazim?’
‘I never said I was young,’ Yusuf protests. ‘Okay, never mind, drop the age thing. All I meant was that I noticed your presence. That’s unbecoming of a master Assassin, no?’
Ezio bows his head, then looks up at Yusuf from under his eyebrows and from under the shadow of his hood. ‘Would you believe me if I said that I meant for you to notice me?’
‘Hmm,’ Yusuf says, cocking his head. Some of his hair, now loose, falls into his eyes, and he brushes it back with one hand. ‘I’m inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt.’
‘How very wise of you, to trust your mentor so,’ Ezio says, but smiles. ‘So, why were you at the Grand Bazaar?’ He lets Yusuf’s scarf run through his fingers.
Yusuf shrugs. ‘Trying to find a trace of Tarik. You?’
A flash of teeth; Ezio’s familiar lopsided grin. ‘Same.’
‘Want to team up?’
Ezio scratches his jaw, fingers rasping through his short beard.
Not so long ago, Yusuf would have wished he were the one… – and would have stopped himself right there, thinking those thoughts would get him nowhere. Now, though, he simply steps into Ezio’s space and places his hands on Ezio’s shoulders.
‘Well?’ Yusuf asks, tilting his face. Their noses are almost touching.
‘Well… This is a very convincing argument you’re making, amato,’ Ezio murmurs, and then makes all the smells and all the colours of the bazaar vanish when he kisses Yusuf.