Act IV: Beneath the Mask (Part 1)

one

Yakov had just returned from the seaside and was running towards Master Batur's tent.

Winter had passed, the weather had warmed, and the river had thawed. Earlier that day, a troop of cavalry had returned laden with their cargo from the Dnieper. They had plundered half the goods from the Grand Duke of Novgorod's fleet—leaving the other half, of course, so he could continue trading along this waterway next year and be plundered again. Countless furs, honey, hops, and slaves trudged along the riverbank, accumulating on the Black Sea coast. This all belonged to the Batur tribe. As Yakov unloaded the cargo, he also spotted a young, blonde, blue-eyed female slave on the ship. She wore a light headscarf, and her wrists and ankles were adorned with heavy gold and silver ornaments. She cried beautifully and cried sweetly. She was being abducted and stuffed into a large, exquisitely decorated chest. She struggled desperately, trying to prevent the chest from being closed. Unexpectedly, her slender, white fingers were struck hard, her hand recoiled, the lid slammed shut, the lock tightened, and Yakov knew that no matter how hard she struggled and shook, she couldn't escape from the chest.

The overseer nearby said that the Khan intended to bestow this female slave upon the young master. Young Master Batur was twelve years old this year; as an only son, it was time for him to mature and settle down. If the Khan could find a good match for his daughter, a grand steppe wedding might be held this summer. But they also secretly gossiped: which Khan would be willing to marry his precious daughter to Young Master Batur?

Yakov had put his ear too close and was whipped twice. His back, soaked with seawater and sweat, stung painfully. But he knew he had to tell Master Batur, to prepare his master before the beautiful slave girl and the spoils arrived. Who would want such a gift! Who would like a seductive, lewd woman? Who would want to marry and start a family!

He ran towards the tent, his feet covered in sea mud and sand. He ran all the way from the beach to the steppe. The white felt roof of young Batur's tent appeared in the distance, beyond the western grassy slope. But Yakov also saw, at the same time, a large procession of bannered horses, bells jingling, heading towards the Khan's large tent to the east—the eagle totem, another Khan's army. He had heard that this Khan had only one daughter.

A sense of urgency surged through Yakov. He didn't even have time to catch his breath, and continued running towards the tent as fast as he could.

Young Master Batur possessed an exquisite and beautiful iron mask, forged by the tribe's most skilled blacksmith. The mask featured two upward-curving goatees, their patterns chiseled out, refined through countless hammer blows to achieve a smooth, seamless finish, without a single blister. Only the commander of a cavalry unit was entitled to wear such a mask. However, Young Master Batur had yet to have the opportunity to use it; the mask, along with his helmet, hung on the tent pole as decoration. As soon as Yakov opened the tent flap, he saw the mask hanging in mid-air, staring at him. Just as he felt fear, a weak, drawn-out cough came from the inner room—it was his master's voice.

Yakov hurried past the guards and across the threshold, rushing into the inner room. Young Master Batur lay on the couch. His black braids were disheveled, his chest was hunched, and his breathing was less labored than Yakov's, who had just run a long way. A Latin doctor with a long beard was kneeling before him, examining him closely, holding an astrolabe and muttering strange incantations—Yakov's Latin wasn't good enough; he only understood the words "blood," "fire," and "air." The doctor then instructed his assistant to bandage Young Master Batur's wrist. Only then did Yakov notice that his master had been given another small bowl of blood. The blood was a deep, dark black, shimmering like a mirror in the bowl.

"What are you doing here?" Young Master Batur sat up from the couch, seemingly feeling a little better. "You should be at the harbor today."

“I have something to tell you.” Yakov immediately bowed down, respectfully pressing his forehead to the carpet. “It’s important!”

His master gestured, and the Latin doctor and his assistant left the tent with their trunks and bundles. Yakov felt a secret smugness, as if he, a slave, had some unbreakable trust and untold secret with young Master Batur.

“Speak, Yakov.” Young Master Batur stroked the bandage on his wrist, a forced smile playing on his lips. “What’s got you in such a hurry?”

Dusk was falling outside, and a gust of wind made the grassland sway like a burning fire. The two children, one tall and one short, had only run a few steps when, "I can't run anymore!" Young Master Batur gasped, clutching his chest. "Yakov! Carry me!"

Without a word, Yakov carried his master on his back, being careful not to let anyone soil his robes. The weight was nothing to him, no more tiring than the cargo unloaded from the ship. His young legs were as strong as horse hooves, nimbly dodging passing soldiers and servants. Yakov carried waist-high grass, concealing himself and his master from everyone's sight.

Before long, they had successfully circled around to the Khan's tent. It was a huge, magnificent tent, surrounded by fur trim, with colorful strips of cloth and bells fluttering in the wind. The two children peered over to the back, where they could faintly hear the rapid strumming of a dombra. There was a piece of felt fabric that had come undone and could be pulled open to allow someone to peek inside. Only young Master Batur and Yakov knew this.

“Are you telling the truth?” Young Master Batur pressed down on Yakov’s head, gritting his teeth. “Look at that stupid woman, she must have been brought here to propose marriage to me.”

Yakov followed his host, cautiously observing the scene inside the large tent. He had never seen a yurt so beautifully decorated, nor so many people seated there—musicians, servants, dancers, guards, each with their own duties, well-trained and more obedient than wild beasts under a tamer's whip. Dazzlingly patterned rugs hung in every corner of the tent, and long tables were arranged in a circle around the center, piled high with roasted mutton and milk wine. The guests sat cross-legged on the ground, their seating arrangement clearly defined, like a tower of varying heights. Two men stood out, surrounded by everyone, standing before the throne of Batur Khan—Batur's father.

The foolish woman—a proud young girl, seemingly just beginning to mature, though still too old for the two twelve-year-old boys—was dressed in a magnificent robe, fine fur boots, and a towering hat, from which cascaded large, gleaming earrings and healthy, jet-black braids. Her arms and legs were strong and powerful, clearly those of a skilled horseman and archer. The other was a richly dressed old woman. Strings of gold and silver pieces hung from her sleeves along with long strips of cloth, and she wore a mouth harp around her neck—clearly, she was a shaman.

“Playing tricks…” Young Master Batur muttered under his breath.

The shaman put the mouth harp into her mouth, her lips taut, and her ringed hands danced in front of and behind her head as if casting a spell, plucking the iron strings. With a single pluck, the thunderous vibration silenced all the instruments and conversations in the yurt—but Yakov noticed that her left hand was missing a ring finger, an ugly scar remaining. "Her finger is gone!" he whispered in alarm.

"Don't make a fuss, she had to cut off her fingers after her husband died." Batur just listened intently to the music with a straight face. "Shut your mouth."

This was the first time Yakov had ever witnessed such a breathtaking performance—a woman and a shaman, one singing and the other playing instruments. The two people, with their two mouths, made Yakov hear wolf howls, horse neighs, and partridge cries, as if he were not in a closed yurt banquet, but riding alone across an open field.

"The wind of the grassland carries away my longing."

The traveler on his journey, his heart follows the horse's hooves and cannot be found;

My eyes welled with tears, and I gazed into the distance, my journey home ending.

We long for his early return, we long for his early return.

This was a love song, and singing it to the Khan during a marriage proposal wouldn't be inappropriate. When the song ended, thunderous applause erupted inside the tent.

“Deep affection,” the Khan said, “but unfortunately, it cannot cure my son’s illness.”

“My daughter is no less than any man.” The shaman knelt down. “She will surely make your tribe prosperous and full of bravery.”

“I have heard that Thuram Khan was poisoned,” the Khan said. “Your own tribe has decayed and declined.”

Everyone kept their mouths shut, and a terrible silence hung over the roof of the yurt.

"Honorable Batur Khan," the girl, who had been kneeling with her mother, suddenly stood up, "If you wish, you may test me in any way you desire. If you do not wish, then do not humiliate my mother or the tribe. Even if a warrior is reduced to fishing on the riverbank, he would rather endure being looked down upon!"

"What a formidable woman," Yakov thought. The slit they were peeking through was behind the throne, so they couldn't see Batur Khan's expression or demeanor. Young Master Batur's fingernails were digging into his shoulder, pinching him hard. The skin beneath that fabric would surely bruise soon.

“They look down on me.” Young Master Batur spat viciously. “A widow and her daughter, how dare they propose to me? What kind of woman proposes to a man? Damn it, that shameless woman who’s been chasing after me!” His voice grew louder. “She’s got her eyes on my horses and cattle, she wants to seize my property and status! How could Father possibly receive such a person!”

Yakov heard his master's breathing become more labored. He knew that soon young Master Batur would be unable to breathe, but the Latin doctor was not around. "Don't say anything, young master," he whispered.

“You’re just a slave, what right do you have to stop me from speaking?” Young Master Batur wriggled off his back and kicked Yakov with his boot, sending him sprawling to the ground. “I won’t marry a woman like that! I’ll marry a noblewoman, a Latin speaker, I’ll go across the Black Sea and marry a princess of Constantinople!”

Their commotion finally became too loud. Young Master Batur coughed violently again, as if he were about to cough up his lungs. The soldiers pulled back the loose felt cloth and surrounded them. The shaft of a spear jabbed Yakov in the back; he curled up on the ground and watched as young Master Batur was ushered into the warm, brightly lit tent. Standing in the center, a proud and robust woman, unfazed, spoke loudly and boldly, drawing laughter from the crowd. What a lively and peaceful atmosphere!

But this has nothing to do with Yakov.

He was immediately dragged away, locked in a cage, and left to soak in the seawater overnight, until his hands and feet were peeling and white. Yakov regretted it deeply; he should never have done it again, never tried to help his master. Punishment would fall on a slave, not on the master. This was not something he could bear. Yakov even presumptuously thought that young Master Batur might not live much longer. What would happen to him if he died of illness? What did it matter to him? What if he really did marry the princess across the Black Sea?

These confused thoughts lasted until the next morning, when young Master Batur sent for his release. From then on, Yakov transformed from a lowly laborer into young Master Batur's personal guard.