might be persuaded. You get the most breathtaking view of the city from there.”
“That would be—most rewarding.”
The young man looked at him. “You’ve probably heard of another famous countryman of yours, still living, I believe. Leonardo da Vinci?”
“The name stirs some memories.”
“Less than a decade ago, Sayin da Vinci bey was asked by our sultan to build a bridge across the Horn.”
Ezio smiled, remembering that Leonardo had once mentioned it to him in passing. He could imagine his friend’s enthusiasm for such a project. “What became of it?” he asked. “I see no bridge here now.”
The young man spread his hands. “I’m told the design was beautiful, but, unfortunately, the plan never came to pass. Too ambitious, the sultan felt, at last.”
“Non mi sorprende,” Ezio said, half to himself. Then he pointed to another tower. “Is that a lighthouse?”
The young man followed his gaze toward a small islet aft of them. “Yes. A very old one. Eleven centuries or more. It’s called the Kiz Kulesi—how’s your Turkish?”
“Weak.”
“Then I’ll translate. You’d call it the Maiden Tower. We called it after the daughter of a sultan who died there of a snakebite.”
“Why was she living in a lighthouse?”
The young man smiled. “The plan was, to avoid snakes,” he said. “Look, now you can see the Aqueduct of Valens. See that double row of arches? Those Romans certainly could build. I used to love climbing it, as a child.”
“Quite a climb.”
“You almost look as if you’d like to try it!”
Ezio smiled. “You never know,” he said.
The young man opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind and shut it again. His expression as he looked at Ezio was not unkind. And Ezio knew exactly what he was thinking: an old man trying to escape the years.
“Where have you come from?” asked Ezio.
The young man looked dismissive. “Oh—the Holy Land,” he said. “That is, our Holy Land. Mecca and Medina. Every good Muslim’s supposed to make the trip once in his lifetime.”
“You’ve got it over with early.”
“You could say that.”
They watched the city pass by in silence as they rode up the Horn to their anchorage. “There isn’t a city in Europe with a skyline like this,” Ezio said.
“Ah, but this side is in Europe,” replied the young man. “Over there”—he gestured east across the Bosphorus—“ that side’s Asia.”
“There are some borders even the Ottomans cannot move,” Ezio observed.
“Very few,” the young man replied quickly, and Ezio thought he sounded defensive. Then he changed the subject. “You say you’re an Italian—from Florence,” he went on. “But your clothes belie that. And—forgive me—you look as if you’ve been in them rather a long time. Have you been traveling long?”
“ Sì, da molto tempo. I left Roma twelve months ago, looking for . . . inspiration. And that search has brought me here.”
The young man glanced at the book in Ezio’s hand but said nothing. Ezio himself didn’t want to reveal more of his purpose. He leaned on the rail and looked at the city walls, and the other ships, from all the countries in the world, crowded at moorings, as their baghlah slowly passed them.
“When I was a child, my father told me stories of the fall of Constantinople,” Ezio said at last. “It happened six years before I was born.”
The young man carefully packed his astrolabe into a leather box slung from a belt round his shoulder. “We call the city Kostantiniyye.”
“Doesn’t it amount to the same thing?”
“We run it now. But you’re right. Kostantiniyye, Byzantium, Nea Roma, the Red Apple—what real difference does it make? They say Mehmed wanted to rechristen it Islam-bul— Where Islam Flourishes —but that derivation’s just another legend. Still, people are even using that name. Though of course, the educated among us know that it should be Istan-bol— To the City .” The young
“That would be—most rewarding.”
The young man looked at him. “You’ve probably heard of another famous countryman of yours, still living, I believe. Leonardo da Vinci?”
“The name stirs some memories.”
“Less than a decade ago, Sayin da Vinci bey was asked by our sultan to build a bridge across the Horn.”
Ezio smiled, remembering that Leonardo had once mentioned it to him in passing. He could imagine his friend’s enthusiasm for such a project. “What became of it?” he asked. “I see no bridge here now.”
The young man spread his hands. “I’m told the design was beautiful, but, unfortunately, the plan never came to pass. Too ambitious, the sultan felt, at last.”
“Non mi sorprende,” Ezio said, half to himself. Then he pointed to another tower. “Is that a lighthouse?”
The young man followed his gaze toward a small islet aft of them. “Yes. A very old one. Eleven centuries or more. It’s called the Kiz Kulesi—how’s your Turkish?”
“Weak.”
“Then I’ll translate. You’d call it the Maiden Tower. We called it after the daughter of a sultan who died there of a snakebite.”
“Why was she living in a lighthouse?”
The young man smiled. “The plan was, to avoid snakes,” he said. “Look, now you can see the Aqueduct of Valens. See that double row of arches? Those Romans certainly could build. I used to love climbing it, as a child.”
“Quite a climb.”
“You almost look as if you’d like to try it!”
Ezio smiled. “You never know,” he said.
The young man opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind and shut it again. His expression as he looked at Ezio was not unkind. And Ezio knew exactly what he was thinking: an old man trying to escape the years.
“Where have you come from?” asked Ezio.
The young man looked dismissive. “Oh—the Holy Land,” he said. “That is, our Holy Land. Mecca and Medina. Every good Muslim’s supposed to make the trip once in his lifetime.”
“You’ve got it over with early.”
“You could say that.”
They watched the city pass by in silence as they rode up the Horn to their anchorage. “There isn’t a city in Europe with a skyline like this,” Ezio said.
“Ah, but this side is in Europe,” replied the young man. “Over there”—he gestured east across the Bosphorus—“ that side’s Asia.”
“There are some borders even the Ottomans cannot move,” Ezio observed.
“Very few,” the young man replied quickly, and Ezio thought he sounded defensive. Then he changed the subject. “You say you’re an Italian—from Florence,” he went on. “But your clothes belie that. And—forgive me—you look as if you’ve been in them rather a long time. Have you been traveling long?”
“ Sì, da molto tempo. I left Roma twelve months ago, looking for . . . inspiration. And that search has brought me here.”
The young man glanced at the book in Ezio’s hand but said nothing. Ezio himself didn’t want to reveal more of his purpose. He leaned on the rail and looked at the city walls, and the other ships, from all the countries in the world, crowded at moorings, as their baghlah slowly passed them.
“When I was a child, my father told me stories of the fall of Constantinople,” Ezio said at last. “It happened six years before I was born.”
The young man carefully packed his astrolabe into a leather box slung from a belt round his shoulder. “We call the city Kostantiniyye.”
“Doesn’t it amount to the same thing?”
“We run it now. But you’re right. Kostantiniyye, Byzantium, Nea Roma, the Red Apple—what real difference does it make? They say Mehmed wanted to rechristen it Islam-bul— Where Islam Flourishes —but that derivation’s just another legend. Still, people are even using that name. Though of course, the educated among us know that it should be Istan-bol— To the City .” The young
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