Making Amends

Kostantiniyye
1511

"Can you describe the offender in question?"

"I…" The nervous man scratched the back of his head, looking hopeless. "It was the Assassin. You know what he looks like."

The soldier let out an annoyed huff. "Details, ispanağ. What of his face? What did it look like?" The puzzled man twisted his face into a frown.

"He was…older then I imagined."

The soldier sighed in defeat. "I can see that I'm not going to get anywhere with you." He huffed impatiently. The nervous man scowled, rather offended.

"Well I do apologize, Signore! But it all happened rather fast!" He took a deep breath, reciting his story.

"We had gathered to prepare ourselves to perform for our future Sultan and Prince Suleiman. We had been practicing for weeks. I had been working so hard, in fact, that my wife even said that I am never – "

"Emilio, was it? Enough prattling." The soldier grumbled boredly. "I've heard it all before."

"Si. Well… We were gathered just inside the palace walls when…he…showed up."

"The Assassin."

Emilio nodded wordlessly. "His eyes were like those of a madman, Signore. Like nothing I had ever seen before. Without any warning he came at me like a wild animal, and he...he struck me! I feared for my very life!"

"Others who have come across the Assassin have said the same thing." The Byzantine soldier confirmed, scrawling over a small sheet of parchment. "He is a vile, dangerous thug. I advise you to keep close watch over your family, and report any suspicious behavior to the guard."

The thin, mousey-haired musician stood, clasping his hands in front of him and nodding eagerly. "Si, si! Of course, Sir. And, eh – one more thing."

The soldier gave a tired sigh and motioned for him to continue. The man smiled ruefully.

"Apart from being a crazed killer, he also doesn't appear to be a fan of my music. He, um, broke my lute, you see."

"I wonder why…"

"His wickedness knows no bounds." The minstrel stated mournfully. "Anyway, if it isn't too much trouble, I'd like to ask for a replacement. Performing is my livelihood."

"Gerçekten..." The soldier muttered dryly, scribbling briefly before setting his quill aside. "If that is all, you are free to return home. And here." He dropped a small leather pouch into the small man's eagerly-awaiting hands. "For your trouble." He added gruffly.

Emilio dropped the issue of someone paying for his lute. "Grazie, Signore! I will do what I can to warn others of this monstrous man."

"Iyi. See that you do."

**

The Industrial district wasn't the most ideally safe area to raise a family in. But musicians were not ones to make very much money, and for now a cramped little apartment was all that Emilio could afford for his wife and sons. At least the money he was given by the Byzantine captain would pay for their food for the coming week.

Emilio clutched the tiny pouch tightly to his breast. Having any money in this district made you an easy target for thieves and bandits. The small man kept to himself, moving quickly through the narrow streets. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side today. He heard a loud scuffling sound behind him, and without risking a glance back he broke into a frightened run. Almost instantly he felt himself being tackled, landing hard on his knees and elbows.

"Get it! Grab the money!" Emilio felt his purse strings being cut and he scrambled for purchase against the slick cobblestone. He tried to yell his protest, but his fear got the better of him, and no sound came out. A knee buried itself sharply into his back, and he grunted in pain.

His family. His dear Andreina. And his sons, Davide and Eusebio. How would they eat, now? Taking money out of their savings for food would leave precious little to pay their landlord with. If they were evicted again, they'd have nowhere to go. And still very little to eat.

Emilio's worries consumed him. All at once he felt the pressure against his back give way, the motion followed by a throaty scream, and the sound of a very frightened thief running for his life. Then silence. The musician stumbled to his feet, turning to face his savior. The two vaguely amused eyes of the Assassin greeted him, and he involuntarily took a step back. The much older man bent down and picked up the torn pouch from the stone street, eyeing it with interest.

"This is all they pay you for turning me in, amico? Not a heavy price on my head." He noted, with what seemed like disappointment.

Emilio gave a nervous chuckle. "I am sure it's not personal, friend. The Byzantines are a stingy lot."

"No need to tell me." The older man replied. He held out the pouch, and the younger man eagerly took it back, savoring the feel of the heavy coins. He raised his eyes, beaming with a mixture of joy and relief.

"You have no idea what this means to me, Signore. Now I can afford to feed my family this week."

"It was the very least I could do." The aging Assassin held up a hand. "What with snapping your instrument in two…"

The last thing Emilio wanted was for the Assassin to feel as if he owed him. He shook his head, making a dismissive gesture with his hands. "By all means, Assassin…"

"…and knocking you out cold and stealing your attire…"

"Really!" Emilio chuckled anxiously. "You do good work, Assassino. Constantinopoli needs you. Do not worry about me or my family."

The Assassin fixed him with a long look. Emilo took the opportunity to stare right back. The Assassin's eyes were weary – Emilio could only guess at how long he had done this. He'd heard vague stories of his exploits in Italia, Emilio's own homeland, and knew how much better he had made it there. Emilio could only hope that he would do the same for his new home.

"You should go." The Assassin said, at last, lowering his voice. "The Byzantines should not see you talking to me."

"Si, Signore. You're right." Emilio hastened a bow. "Thank you, again! My whole family thanks you!" He caught a brief smile on the Assassin's face before he turned and hurried off, still clutching the tiny pouch tightly in his hands. He felt no ill-will toward the Assassin, and he had never held any intention to betray him. He understood better than anyone how lucky he had been that the Assassin had seen that.

The city of Constantinopoli owed him a lot – more then she could ever repay. Emilio was thankful to play some small role in all of this. A small role was more than enough for him; he had a family to watch out for, after all.

The Italian minstrel set about getting home as quickly as he could, eager to get himself off the streets and safe from any future thugs. Upon arriving back at his apartment, he found himself happily greeted by his wife, who smiled happily as her sons ran to greet their papa, shrieking with joy. She drew close and managed a quick kiss. Emilio grinned and hugged his boys, thrilled to be home at last.

"I see you have missed me." He noted, ruffling little Davide's hair. The boy hurriedly tried to straighten it.

"You got a present, papa! A man brought it just a few minutes ago!"

"Prego?" He blinked, vaguely puzzled. "A gift? For me?"

"Si – si!" The two boys ran off to fetch it. Emilio looked to his Andreina in befuddlement, who only smiled demurely.

"You will see."

"Papa!" The boys hurried back, clutching a familiar wooden object between them. A slow smile grew over Emilio's face. That man… Dio lo benedica.

"I take it an older man left this for me."

His wife nodded, watching him take the instrument gingerly in his hands. "Si. But…how would a stranger know that you needed a new lute?"

Emilio smiled down at the object in his hands. Now he could return to earning his keep.

"…just a friend making amends, dear Andreina."






**

ispanağ – idiot
signore – sir (IT)
si – yes (IT)
gerçekten – indeed
grazie – thank you (IT)
iyi – good
amico – friend (IT)
assassino – assassin (IT)
prego – what (IT)
dio lo benedica – God bless him (IT)