Chapter 33 – Beneath the Flying Stag
Venice, one of history's rare cities built atop water, was a magical place where legend and engineering intertwined. Its foundations were laid in the 5th century when people fleeing barbarian invasions sought refuge in the lagoon. Over the centuries, it rose to become one of the most powerful maritime republics in Europe, known as the Queen of the Adriatic.
It had reigned through the ages with its golden churches, narrow cobbled streets, and marble palaces. Its wealth came from a vast trade network that reached across the Mediterranean — spices, silk, precious stones, weapons... everything eventually found its way to Venice.
And now, under a sunset-streaked sky, four strangers stepped off the stone steps of the Venetian harbor. The ship was left behind, and the salty breeze gave way to the dry warmth radiating off the stone walls. Murad walked at the front, followed by Balibey, Cafer, and Kasım. They wore plain merchants' clothing, but their gait, their eyes, and the certainty in their steps betrayed something more.
The streets were narrow, crowded, and chaotic. Silver vendors, spice traders, and fabric dealers spilled into the roads. Palatial inns and brightly painted signs beckoned travelers. Kasım approached an elderly man at a corner and asked in accented Italian, "Which way to the inns square?"
The man pointed west with a nod. After a few missteps through wrong alleys, they arrived at a wide plaza paved with mosaic stones. At its center stood a marble well, surrounded by benches and grand inns. But one inn stood out immediately — its dark stone facade was framed with elegant columns, and atop its arched entrance, a bronze relief gleamed: a stag with wings lifted to the sky.
Beneath it, in golden letters, the sign read: Volans Cervi — The Flying Stag.
Murad stopped. Kasım looked up at the sign and whispered, "The Valide Sultan was right... This is it."
They stepped inside.
The inn welcomed them with a grand stone-vaulted hall. A large hearth crackled at the center, and a few travelers sipped warm drinks in silence. Behind the counter, the innkeeper nodded a greeting. Murad, speaking polite Italian, asked for two rooms. The innkeeper handed over two large iron keys.
"Rooms 3 and 4. Upstairs."
A young attendant stepped forward to carry their bags. They climbed the stone staircase slowly. The corridor was built from solid stone but well lit. The rooms sat side by side — simple yet clean, with wooden beds, fresh sheets, a small table, and a narrow window.
Kasım and Cafer took one room; Murad and Balibey took the other. The bags were opened, weapons tucked into discreet hiding places. The fatigue of travel faded, washed away by the coolness of the stone walls.
Murad stood by the window and drew back the curtain. Venice's rooftops lay below, and the distant sound of bells drifted through the air. But beneath those bells, there was something else — a subtle unease, the quiet herald of an approaching storm.
This city was not just another stop. It might be the place where fate would be rewritten.
Balibey, meanwhile, was quietly unpacking. He carefully folded every garment, tucked every weapon away. Murad stood silently by the window, gazing out at the fading sun. The stone streets of Venice glowed amber. From far below, a mandolin's soft melody floated up through the alleys.
Balibey finally spoke.
"Sultanım, we've arrived a day earlier than planned. The person your Valide mentioned was supposed to meet us tomorrow. How will we recognize them?"
Murad narrowed his eyes and leaned slightly on the windowsill. "We won't recognize them... They will recognize us." Then, in a lower but confident voice, he added, "They'll call us by the name our ancestor Fatih Mehmet was known by here in Venice. The Valide has already sent word. Everything is in place."
Just then — a knock at the door.
Balibey instinctively reached for his dagger, hiding it behind his back as he took a few careful steps forward. He opened the door slightly.
Standing there was a young woman — tall and graceful. Her golden curls fell softly over her shoulders, and her sky-blue eyes sparkled. Her lips wore a mysterious smile, and her pale blue dress bore the refined touch of Venetian nobility.
Balibey frowned.
"We didn't ask for anything. If we need something, we'll let you know," he said curtly, beginning to close the door.
But the girl gently, yet firmly, placed her foot on the threshold. The door stopped. Surprised, Balibey met her gaze.
With a voice as soft as it was sharp, she asked, "Is Murad here?"
Balibey tensed, ready to draw his blade.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
Murad had already begun walking toward the door. When he saw the girl's face, he stopped. She looked directly into his eyes, as if she'd known him forever.
"Grande Aquila," she said softly.
Murad froze — it was his ancestor's old Venetian title: "Great Eagle."
He nodded slowly.
"Balibey," he said, "put the blade away. It seems our contact has arrived."
Balibey sheathed the dagger, though his hand lingered cautiously. The girl noticed and tilted her head with a faint smile.
"You Turks are always so tense," she said teasingly.
She walked in, sat comfortably on the bed, and looked around. Balibey shut the door but stayed alert.
Murad faced her and asked, "So you're the one my mother spoke of?"
She nodded. "Yes. My aunt sent us a letter. Told us you were coming. I've been staying at this inn for three days. Honestly, I was getting bored. Thank the heavens you finally arrived."
Murad paused. One word echoed in his mind.
Aunt.
"Aunt?" he thought. "Did I hear that right?"
The girl smiled as if reading his thoughts.
"Yes, my aunt... Kösem Sultan. Anastasia. She's my aunt. Which means... we're cousins."