Constantinople

1509

"Seeing Red"

It was possibly the worst-kept secret in Constantinople that the Eastern Orthodox Church was the most corrupt ruling body in the city. And at that moment, one of its Deacons, Cyril of Rhodes, certainly wasn't helping to build up the Church's reputation.

The few brothels that existed in the strictly Christian and Muslim city were located in the most southern part of the city – the Bayezid District, near the Arsenal. While the church was further up north, the corrupt Deacon spent more of his time then not in the scummier underbelly of the city.

Wine. Food. Women. Hell, even boys, if your tastes ran that direction. And the ever-lingering smell of tobacco. Cyril often wandered what there wasn't to like. Sure, the Church came down hard on the use of brothels in what was supposed to be a 'clean' Christ-abiding city (or Allah, depending on who you talked to). But being a high-ranking member of the Templar Order granted Cyril an abundance of leeway. And no one could say that he wasn't using it to the fullest extent possible.

His tastes had almost led him to ruin back in 1501. The Patriarch of Constantinople had somehow discovered Cyril's various 'indecent' indulgences, and took it upon himself to shame the Deacon in front of the entire Church and all of Constantinople. With the help of bribery and blackmail, Cyril was able to ensure that his title was later restored, but the Deacon's rage did not die out quite so easily. Determined to have the Patriarch hunted down and made to pay for his abruptness, Cyril sought nothing but revenge for the next six years.

Then the Templars discovered him. And Cyril found himself given an additional purpose – that of furthering the Templar ideology and helping to rid the world of the Assassin Brotherhood. No longer did he respect the faith he once preached so fiercely. The doctrine had abandoned him; the Deacon no longer cared for the likes of gods or demons. Cyril would continue to seek his revenge on the man who humiliated him, but the aid of the Templars would go a long way toward assisting his cause, just as he assisted with theirs.

In the meantime, Cyril of Rhodes was content to kick back his boot heels and indulge in the fine wine and equally fine women who frequented these brothels as often as he did. Perhaps the Italian brunette whispering breathily to a fellow pleasure-seeker on the plush sofa opposite him. Cyril did rather enjoy the Western girls…

"You look like a powerful man, efendum." Murmured a beautiful, tanned-skinned Anatolian woman dressed in draping emerald fabric. She smiled, reclining beside the man she knew to be a Deacon of the church, judging by his recognizable red and gold robes. The man feigned disinterest, barely glancing in her direction. The hood he wore shielded his eyes, but Sevda was fairly certain that his gaze wasn't exactly meeting her face.

"You must be new here if you do not know who I am." He rumbled. He stretched his fingers, and she could see the fine gold stitching on his red camel skin gloves. She certainly didn't need to know his name to know that he was a powerful man.

"I know a Holy man when I see one." She purred, a smile on her sinfully painted lips. The Deacon of the Church tilted his head ever so slightly. One eye peered out at her from under the hood, and she noted his vaguely amused expression.

"If you knew my name, you would not think me a Holy man."

"Then you don't need to share it." She reached out and curiously traced the outline of his jaw. He had a beard, but apparently kept it trimmed short. A requirement within the Church – cleanliness was next to godliness, or some such nonsense. Cyril relinquished a smirk and lowered his hood. Sevda took the time to explore the rest of his face.

He wasn't an ugly man. Not by far. His facial features were surprisingly fine – his cheek bones high, his nose and lips thin. His eyes a little cold, but not the look of a man who would do her harm. His hair was a dark brown, nearing black, but not quite there, and lay flat thanks to the constant pressure of the hood atop his head. Sevda briefly wandered why the Church required its men of God to dress in such a way. Surely their faces would not need to conceal anything…though on the other hand, the harlot knew well the corruption the Church had been facing for decades. Her fingers danced lightly across the man's pale white cheek and jaw. While she had seen her share of more attractive men in her time, very few of them visited the brothels. She'd be more than happy to make do with this one.

"If you do not wish to share your name, dear efendum, I will not ask you again." She promised, slipping her delicate fingers into his gloved hand. "Only that if you have coin, then I have a warm place in my bed for you."

The man pursed those thin lips of his together. For a second, Sevda thought he was going to pass up her offer, leaving her humiliated, not to mention penniless. But then a slow grin spread across his face, and he nodded his approval.

"I will join you…"

"Sevda." She supplied, standing up. The man in red followed suit.

"You can call me Sevda."

Cyril left the brothel a reinvigorated man. He'd gotten his fill of the women there, as he had time and time before. He was actually started to get a little bored of that particular area...perhaps one of the other hidden establishments in the Bayezid District would capture his attention. Perhaps one that focused more on foreign delicacies...

Speaking of foreign... The Deacon paused, eyeing the nearby Romani camp. The Wanderers. Gypsies, although they seemed to despise that particular term. Cyril cared little for their feelings – they could call themselves whatever they wanted to. But he couldn't deny that, despite their obvious poverty, they indulged themselves in all manners of sin which the Eastern Orthodox Church condemned. They drank. They smoked. And they danced. Cyril would often watched, captivated, as their women whirled around, clothed in bright red and purple garments, as light on their feet as a fox. Their hair came in all manner of colors, from brunette, to blond, to a fiery red that could outshine even the Deacon's own robes.

Cyril would pay generous amounts of coin for a more private performance, if not for the Romani's tendency to keep within their camp and not seek out the attention of outsiders. A frustrating quality, but Cyril was nothing if not a crafty man. For the last several weeks he'd taken to scouting the camp's borders, keeping a watchful eye out for any young Romani women who stole across the partition unattended. Groups would not do – Cyril believed himself a highly persuasive man, and reasoned that, offered the proper amount of coin, he could find at least one willing dancing girl to keep company with him in his bed.

And if no willing one was to be found, well... what Cyril lacked in charm and patience, he made up for with grim determination. He'd take one.

And today was apparently the Deacon's lucky day. Not half a mile from the edge of the camp, he found a lone Romani women collecting what seemed to be herbs, flowers, and other random plants. She was young – maybe in her very early 20s – with creamy pale skin and dark brown hair that went for what seemed like miles, tied together in a single braid. She wore a pretty blue ensemble – a wrap top and a long, fringed skirt. Cyril caught a quick flash of cream between the two when the fabric parted. The girl certainly wasn't afraid to show a little skin. The Deacon found her stunning.

And he wouldn't rest until he had her.

"I notice that your kind never seem to leave the camps." He informed her, emerging from the shade provided by a tall, stone pillar. The woman barely glanced his way – not a lot of Holy Men crossed paths with Romani folk, but she recognized the rich red and gold fabric when she saw it. Just another man of the Church eager to spread God's Word and corruption in equal measure. Mirela held no respect for the Church or its supposed Men of God.

"Go back to your prison, swine." She informed him curtly, tossing her long braid back over her shoulder. "There is no place for the likes of you, here."

Cyril stopped, arching a single eyebrow.

"You misunderstand, leydim. I am not seeking – "

"Then move on." She interrupted, returning to her work. The Deacon took the opportunity to study her rather curvaceous figure, liking what he saw more and more with each lingering stare. A prize, indeed. And she was feisty one, at that.

"I'm afraid that is impossible." He supplied, stopping just behind her. He found himself staring into the icy cold eyes of a clearly unamused Romani woman.

"Then that's your problem, păcăli." She replied hotly, using a rude gesture along with the insult. Cyril felt his face grow hot. Playful banter was one thing. But he didn't take well to being demeaned by a mere woman. And a lowly gypsy, at that.

In one motion he grabbed her and thrust her hard against the stone wall beyond her, his forearm wedged firmly against her throat. She snarled a string of obscenities, clawing at his arm to no avail – his robes were made of a thick material, her nails were not sharp enough, and the skin below remained unscathed. She ceased her struggles.

"Now now. There is no need to be rude." Cyril grinned cruelly, tightening his grasp. "...I do believe you were just about to tell me your name..."

"Du-te dracului, fiude căţea!" She hissed defiantly. The Deacon felt something wet smack his cheek, and his eyes grew dark.

"I can think of better uses for that mouth." He threatened, yanking her away from the wall and throwing her up over his shoulder. She beat her fists against his back, but the Holy Man paid her no mind. His attention was upon locating something of a more private area. He didn't need thirty angry Romani men descending on him all at once. If they tried to seek retribution later, Cyril could prepare himself. He may be a Man of God (even he himself chuckled at that one), but he was a more then capable fighter.

"Sakinleşmek." He mumbled, locating an empty courtyard merely a short walk away. "Calm yourself down."

To his amazement, the Gypsy woman did. She went still, and all he felt was a slight fumbling, before a small itch started just between his shoulder blades. He ignored the annoying sensation, taking a moment to survey the courtyard. But the tingling spread, engulfing his upper back and beginning to spread throughout his arms and across his chest. Cyril frowned, feeling his limbs begin to grow heavy.

"What...what did you...?" He was dimly aware of his arms dropping to his sides, and the Romani woman landing lightly on her toes in front of him. He began to lose feeling in his feet, and crashed down onto his knees. Blinking to clear his head, he saw a quick flash of pink before feeling a harsh slap across his cheek, causing his right ear to ring, and a dull pain to shoot through his head. Then he heard her laughter.

"What witchery is this?..."

"You picked the wrong girl today, my poor friend." She sneered from somewhere above. "And it is no witchery. You're simply feeling the effects of what we like to call the Wicked Weed. It's slow-acting, but...it should have the desired results." The Deacon knew little of flora, but Wicked Weed sounded...vaguely familiar. Something his mother may have told him to look out for, once upon a time. Little good it was doing him, now.

Cyril's vision swam, and all he could see was a stomach-churning mix of colors and motion. He wanted to throw up, but couldn't. In seconds, he found himself with his stomach against the ground, pawing weakly – uselessly – at the dirt. He could feel the bitch's eyes on him, watching as her victim grew weaker and weaker. The sound of more laughter met his ears.

"As much as I'd love to stay and watch, it wouldn't do for me to be nearby when you're discovered." She smiled coldly before nudging the cringing man with her bare toe. Surely, once his body was found, there would be an inquiry and an investigation. They'd likely find out that he was poisoned, although there were dozens of Romani camps scattered throughout the area. And they wouldn't betray a fellow member.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, friend." She smirked, and left the Deacon to die.

Cyril lay in crippling pain, his breath beginning to come out in a slow, gasping wheeze. His stomach cramped, forcing him to lie in a fetal position in the loose dirt. His eyes ran with water, blurring his vision even further. The distant noises of the city began to fade away, leaving him only in the company of the shrill ringing in his skull.

He didn't know how much time had passed. The Deacon slipped in and out of consciousness more times then he would later remember. At one point he felt faint vibrations in the ground, and heard muffled voices speaking above his head. He felt a firm hand turn his face upward, and the Deacon winced from the brightness of the sun. More talking...if Cyril hadn't been so out of it, he'd have detected the slightest trace of concern.

Maybe.

The Deacon felt a strong sense of vertigo as someone picked him up, and once more he nearly heaved his dinner. He groaned weakly, but his protest went ignored. His mouth would not form words, but if he'd been capable of speaking, he'd ask for only one thing: water. The toxin burned in his throat and stomach, leaving him parched and utterly dehydrated. He wandered if this was how the poison was supposed to work... Not so much kill its victims outright, but leave them weak and unable to seek out any matter of sustenance. Of course, those using such a toxin would have to take the chance that their target not be located beforehand.

Or maybe his incredible thirst was just another side-effect, and he was indeed dying anyway. In which case, he wished he'd been granted his own god-damn peace and left to die. Not carried around like some sort of pathetic invalid. The Deacon had far too much pride to tolerate such pity.

Eventually he felt himself laid back down on a reasonably cool surface. His hood was pulled back from his face, and blessed water offered to his dry lips. Cyril forced himself to stay conscious long enough to drink just a little of the precious liquid, before finally slipping back into unconsciousness.

When he did finally awake again, Cyril had no idea if he'd been asleep for hours, days or weeks. He groaned softly, eyelids fluttering before he managed to focus on the long planks that made up the wooden ceiling.

He tried speaking, but all that came out was a barely audible croak. Tilting his head, he spotted a cup resting on a nightstand, beside a thick book. He licked his cracked lips and reached for it, praying to the god he had long since ceased to believe in that it contained water.

"If it were up to me, I suppose I would have left you to die."

Cyril coughed, dropping his hand. He blinked several more times and squinted, now making out the familiar silhouette of a tall, thin man dressed head to toe in thick doctor's garb. A pointed mask hid his face, but the Deacon knew him as Seraffo, yet another agent of Prince Ahmet. Granted, Cyril had only ever encountered him once, but once was more than enough. Seraffo easily stood out from the other doctors who inhabited Constantinople, as few of them wore white doctor's robes. But even besides that one obvious clue, Seraffo simply stood apart as different. He stalked, rather then walked, throughout the city streets, and rarely spoke to anyone. His height, stance and beaked mask all made for a fearfully intimidating man, a word that Cyril didn't use to describe most doctors.

Seraffo certainly was one of a kind. Strangely enough though, his accent (Turkish, but with a certain Italian flair) was one that fit into Constantinople culture quite well. Seraffo was a Venetian expatriate, having been exiled from his homeland several years ago for 'misdeeds unbefitting that of a healer'. From what Cyril understood, his cousin had stayed behind while Seraffo journeyed to a new land, and a new license to kill, maim and destroy.

"Then thank the good Lord that it was not up to you." Cyril wheezed sarcastically, reaching once more for the water. The doctor watched him silently. The Deacon narrowed his eyes.

"You certainly aren't much of a doctor."

"I can be." Seraffo seemed to relent, and picked up the cup. Cyril made to take it, but the doctor moved it out of the way.

"Let me."

"I can nourish myself." Cyril growled.

"Yes – you've proven that well over the last several days."

"I was unconscious, you fool – " The Deacon stopped. "Bekleyin…how long have I been here?"

"Four days." The healer held the cup to Cyril's lips. The red robed man figured that if he'd been lying unconscious at a doctor's shop for four days, he could swallow his dignity for the next few minutes. Or until he was able to get himself out of the care of one of the most dangerous men in the city.

To say nothing of himself, of course.

Cyril reluctantly drank from the cup, but his annoyance was briefly replaced with bliss. He could safely say that he'd never in his life been so thankful to have mere water. He drank greedily, until Seraffo pulled the cup away, much to Cyril's chagrin.

"I wasn't finished."

"You are for now." He replied tonelessly, setting the cup down on a small medicine table across the room. The Deacon frowned, but decided not to argue further. He was better off reserving his strength and working on being able to get up.

Surprisingly, it wasn't that difficult to move. Cyril experienced general aches and pains, but none of the stomach-churning nausea was present. Seraffo watched wordlessly as Cyril carefully sat up, his eyes wandering around the small room.

He had never been in Seraffo's care, before. He'd experienced more minor injuries related to his chosen occupation. That of a Templar, of course – not a man of the Church. He'd been given contracts that ended up being…perhaps more difficult then Cyril had originally believed. Men – and women – who decided to fight back rather than simply allow themselves to be put down like dogs. Performing such demanding deeds was a constantly risk to Cyril's health, and while he did suffer the occasional blow, all injuries had been treated easily by one of the local physicians. As far as the Deacon was concerned, none of the other agents ever sought out Seraffo's care. Not that the man was really a doctor, anyway. He may have been, at one time. Now he was a killer like the rest of them, albeit, one with a healing background. Although Cyril suspected that the number of his victims greatly surpassed those of his patients.

"Tell me, doktor." Cyril leaned forward, smiling wickedly. "Is it true that you experiment on those who seek you out for healing?"

Seraffo gave the slightest tilt of his masked head. Cyril had no idea if he was being ignored, or if the good doctor was contemplating which answer to give.

How difficult it was to read a man who had no face. Cyril suddenly realized why most people he spoke to tended to act antsy around him. In the right lighting, his own dark hood might as well be a mask.

"…only sometimes." Seraffo replied slowly. Cyril arched a single brow.

"Sometimes."

"Mmm."

Cyril shrugged. "As much as I have enjoyed our brief time together, doctor, seeing as my life is no longer in danger – "

"He wants to speak with you."

Cyril stopped, mid-way through climbing off the cot he'd apparently spent the last several days on.

"…Ahmet?"

Seraffo provided only a slow nod.

"Now?"

"As soon as you are coherent."

"Is he…here?"

Seraffo snorted, and Cyril once again felt his face go warm. How he hated being mocked.

"At his palace. There is a horse for you outside." The white-robed man turned abruptly away from his patient and began putting away the various bottles of ointments and liquids that sat scattered on top of the medicine counter. The Deacon took this as his prompt dismissal and left.

"Prince." Cyril greeted his future Sultan as one might approach a dangerous animal. And indeed, Ahmet was a rare breed – one who could hold your trust while at the same time planning your untimely murder just behind your back. Cyril didn't trust him as far as he could throw him. But he'd been loyal for the past several years, and knew himself to be one of the Prince's most successful agents. He didn't fear for his life around Ahmet.

…usually.

"Ah. Cyril." Ahmet smiled briefly, clasping his hands. "I see you have recovered from your…ailment."

"Evet, Prince. Though it took some time."

"Indeed." Ahmet suddenly seemed to dismiss with the pleasantries. "Cyril, as you know, our network of Templars has been expanding quickly. More and more of the people join us every day. Granted…" He continued, "Many will never become as capable as yourself. Most will never even take a life. But once in a while, you find someone with a capacity for more. A willingness…to give everything to the Order."

Cyril looked on in confusion. Ahmet wasn't angry; that much was clear. Was he paying him a compliment? Ahmet wasn't exactly one to shower his agents with praise.

"I…see, Prince."

"I don't think you do." Ahmet turned away, gesturing to someone waiting beyond a short wall. Cyril grit his teeth as a familiar young woman with long, tightly braided hair and flowing blue skirts emerged from the barrier. Cyril wanted more than anything to wipe the smug grin off her face, preferably by burying his golden-hilted sword into her gut. His gloved hand went to the hilt, but stayed there. He couldn't do it, despite how badly he wished to. Ahmet would be furious. And even more then revenge, Cyril desired wealth and all the other benefits of remaining in the Templar's patronage. He couldn't risk that. Not even now.

"You have made a grave mistake, my Prince."

It was Ahmet's turn to raise a questioning brow.

"Have I, now?"

"This woman is a liar. A cheating whore. A trickster." He spit out each and every insult, his upper lip curled in fury. "A gypsy. Their kind are not to be trusted."

"Because she is incapable?" Ahmet pressed, motioning to the woman to approach. "Or because, dear Cyril, she got the best of you?" The Deacon grit his teeth but bit back a sharp reply. No sense getting himself in even deeper water. And the lowly bitch was enjoying this far too much, already. Her triumphant smile made Cyril sick to his stomach, and this time it wasn't from a poison.

"Then that's settled." Ahmet dismissed the matter entirely. "She is one of us. Try to give her something of a…warm welcome, Cyril. I wouldn't make her angry."

It was just Cyril and the Romani, now. Cyril glowered at her with nothing short of utter contempt in his black eyes. She hummed quietly to herself, examining the sharpened dagger she wore at her waist. She then eyed the Deacon, pale eyes gleaming. Cyril could all but smell the smugness radiating off of her. It stank.

There was nothing left for him, here. He'd find more use for himself at the church, or, hell, the nearest whorehouse. He turned abruptly on his boot heels, seething with rage. Striding quickly away, he heard the accursed woman gaily call out his name.

"It was a pleasure, effendum! By the way, since you had asked so politely… My name is Mirela!"