Act V: The Prince's Expedition (Part 1)

one

Schumacher looked at the stone building deep in the mountains and forests countless times, scrutinizing it with a critical eye.

As a promising young painter with considerable aesthetic talent, he proudly believed that such a symmetrical and somber building was incongruous with the Transylvanian mountain landscape. It was large and tall, yet lacked grandeur; from the nearby mountaintop, its roof was completely hidden by trees. If the owner intended it to be cozy and inviting, the narrow, church-like window pillars and pointed roof hardly suggested comfort. Its lines were too straight, too regular, too artificial, too solemn. It was newly built, still smelling of mortar. But the moss of the mountains had slowly crept up the bricks, lending it an impending ancient air. It was full of contradictions—gloomy yet bright, safe yet dangerous, confining yet free—just like his work there.

Schumeer actually liked his current life. If he were still employed by noble families like the Noctenias, even if he worked by lamplight in his old age, even if he lived deep in a mountain labyrinth, it would be far better and more stable than outside. However, young people always yearn for the bustling markets and gatherings. Schumeer thought it would be perfect if his servants here talked to him more. But things are rarely perfect.

As for the terrible things, it wasn't his place to think about them for the time being. Nor did he want to think about them.

"Master Schumeer." A faint voice from within the castle brought him back to his senses. "The sun is shining brightly today."

Schumeer's heart tightened. He turned to his unsteady, frail employer and bowed to her. He then realized he was covered in mud and grime, his clothes and hands smeared with clumps of paint and lime. He realized he'd been so engrossed in his work that it seemed he hadn't bathed in two weeks; a strange odor must be emanating from him. "Your Excellency," the dirty young painter said quietly, taking a step back, "Your health is precious; you shouldn't have come out."

“It’s rare to have such a beautiful sun,” Camilla said. “It’s very precious to me.”

It was the dead of winter, and she was bundled up in many layers, but her fur coat and overcoat could not conceal her haggard and thin frame; her round belly peeked out from beneath the expensive fabric. Supported by a lady-in-waiting, she laboriously walked with Schumeer around the frozen lake. Schumeer recalled his first visit: this lady had been stunningly beautiful and captivating, like the moon in the sky, radiant yet enigmatic. Now, this frail pregnant woman had dark circles under her eyes, her figure was out of shape, and unsightly spots covered her face. It was as if the child in her womb had dragged her down to the ground, into the mud, bringing her much closer to everyone else.

“I’ve seen your work; it’s truly outstanding,” Camilla said with a smile. “It looks like it’s finished.”

“Thank you for your kindness.” Schumeer moved his lips quickly. “The last piece of lime will be dry today, and I will do a final check tomorrow.” He spoke so fast that a small piece of paint with ice rolled onto his tongue, tasting cold and bitter. “...However, the workers’ costs need to be calculated until the end of this week, as they are also responsible for dismantling the scaffolding on the roof.”

He knew how to appropriately feign financial hardship with nobles, using an almost coquettish approach to gain favor. As he expected, Madame Camilla adopted a dignified and indifferent expression, nodding in agreement. Schumacher breathed a sigh of relief. These odds and ends, added up, were no small sum for him.

"Where do you plan to go next, Master Schumeer?" Camilla suddenly asked. "Have you found your next commission?"

“…Not yet, madam.” Schumeer gave a dry laugh. “You should know that good employers like you are rare.”

Camilla smiled mysteriously, her meaning unreadable. She waved her withered hand, adorned with a ruby ​​ring, the fur on her sleeve fluttering in the cold wind. Seeing this, her maidservant immediately took a wax-sealed parchment scroll from her bosom and presented it to Schumeer.

“You have a letter from Venice,” the Grand Duchess said lightly, carrying this weighty news. “Perhaps it’s from your family.”

Schumeer suddenly became alert, his bright expression turning into one of reluctance and annoyance, his usually eloquent lips falling silent for a moment. "...How did they know I was here?"

“The address is Constantinople, your former residence.” Camilla’s eyes crinkled with laughter. “No one knows where you are now, don’t worry.”

How did this letter end up here? Schumacher didn't ask that question. "Thank you, madam." He took the cold roll of paper with both hands and immediately put it into his coat. "...It's always you who troubles me to remember things."

“Master, won’t you open it and take a look?” Unfortunately, Camilla pressed on as if she wouldn’t let him off the hook, “I think the contents of the letter must be very important.”

“Nothing is more important than the task and work you’ve given me,” Schumacher said defiantly. “What could they possibly be important about?”

“The task and the work are over. Your masterpiece is unparalleled.” Camilla gazed at the frozen lake, then lowered her head, her hand gently caressing the life growing within her. “My child is full-term, and I think my masterpiece is nearing completion—or perhaps just beginning. But my child, whatever he becomes, will undoubtedly be my masterpiece. Perhaps few creators in the world possess the confidence of a mother. It can only be said that the standard of measurement must be held in one's own hands. Or rather, true love is immeasurable.” She looked up at Schumeer’s absent-minded face. “Master, blood ties are wondrous. They are the precious connection that everyone receives upon first entering this world. I’m not saying this to send you home; I would love for you to stay here. But you cannot evade making this decision. After reading the letter, whether you go home, stay, or go somewhere else, I support every decision you make.”

Schumeer thought unhappily, what business was it of the noble lords and ladies of his family? Perhaps the Grand Duchess enjoyed this kind of family drama, or perhaps it was a tactful but polite way of asking him to leave. He stood there, racking his brains, trying to figure out how to express his feelings directly while also considering his principles and social standing. How could he, having created a masterpiece, be thrown out? Where would he find work? Which nobleman would hire a Jewish painter? What if he encountered the Crusaders on the road and they came after him?

All his anger was directed at the letter from home in his arms. Schumacher thought he would throw it into the fireplace when he got back to his room. Suddenly, an indescribable, rusty smell broke through the cold air and went straight into his nostrils.

Schumer looked closely and saw that the hem of Lady Camilla's loose embroidered skirt was completely wet. Without a sound, she collapsed into the arms of her maid on the snow.

All the prominent figures in the castle rushed to the main hall. It had been transformed into a brightly lit stage, with a magnificent goose-down bed placed in the center, offering no privacy except for the passing servants and doctors. The delivery was not going smoothly, and everyone in the hall was tormented by anxiety. Hundreds of candles and incense burned in turn, making the spacious hall feel stifling and oppressive on this winter night.

Schumeer was deeply embarrassed. He was a young man; he shouldn't have seen or commented on these things. It was against etiquette and doctrine. Fortunately, his status as a "painter of the mansion" didn't qualify him to be in the front row of the "witnessing." At first, he felt it was indecent, that he shouldn't look at a woman's private parts, especially at this time; after a while, a horrific scream echoed throughout the room, as if a Grand Duchess was being tortured—Schumer thought regretfully, indecent? How could anyone find this indecent? Rather, it was something that could completely kill one's interest. Looking back, he was more celibate than saints and monks at all times.

Maids and servants moved back and forth in the hall, changing basin after basin of hot water. Schumeer wondered to himself, what was all this hot water for? He had nothing better to do, and even if he were to investigate, he didn't care whether his noble employer survived—he had already received his dues. But not everyone shared his good attitude. The other two figures in his painting—Ambichia and Inard—stood on either side of the large bed, their expressions tacitly solemn, silently watching their naked mothers giving birth. Behind them, as if an invisible barrier had been erected, all the other strangers huddled there: a warrior in full armor knelt humbly on the ground, a beautiful young woman held a garland of flowers, and a well-dressed bishop prayed with tears in his eyes—Schumel thought, the bishop's prayer must not have been to Christ, not to Allah, not to God. A doctor was buried in the [unclear text - possibly a place name], peering in. This was a male doctor, utterly shameless—who knew what he was doing all that, besides telling Mrs. Camilla to strain herself? Schumacher turned his face away in disdain. He couldn't help but think of some impolite and offensive things. Who was the child's father? Perhaps he was hiding in the crowd? But this question remained unanswered; Schumacher dared not ask anyone. It was none of his business anyway.

Suddenly, the doctor emerged from that shameful place. He had a bald head, glistening with sweat. The crowd stirred, and Schumacher couldn't help but crane his neck to look. Like everyone else, he was startled and gasped—a gruesome bloodstain stretched across Mrs. Camilla's round belly, like a giant earthworm crawling on it.

The doctor first went to the red-haired Ambichai. He whispered something. Then he went to the right and whispered with Inard. Schumer noticed that the two men seemed to have received some news, their anxiety seemed to have increased, but they remained silent and unmoved.

"Avicenna!" Camilla cried out the name weakly yet forcefully from her bed, "Avicenna!"

It seemed to be the bald doctor's name, and the person called immediately returned to the bedside. Schumer thought, judging from the name, he was a Persian doctor. That wasn't surprising; it was well known that the people there were highly skilled in medicine. He held his breath, waiting expectantly with everyone else. Camilla whispered something to Doctor Avicenna, who nodded, but his face was full of sorrow, as if he had swallowed a bitter melon seed. He hunched over, took a human-shaped root from a box beside him, plucked a few leaves, and handed them to the maid. Schumer looked closely; it was a herb he had seen in the medicine cabinet at home, one that his father had taught him to identify when he was a child: a mandrake, unusually complete and large. It symbolized fertility, and its leaves could be used to calm, induce sleep, produce hallucinations, and relieve pain.

What is this medicine for when a pregnant woman is in labor? Schumer thought with a bad feeling. But he kept his mouth shut and didn't tell anyone.

The maid took the leaf, and the hall returned to its previous dull and suffocating atmosphere. Schumeer felt tense and uncomfortably tired, even the lingering, piercing cries of pain had become commonplace. Judging by the time, they had been waiting there from dusk until dawn; soon, the sun would be rising on the horizon. Schumeer felt drowsy and wanted to yawn, but could only raise his hand to cover his mouth. He found a corner and secretly leaned against it, trying to relieve his aching toes. He wondered if everyone in this hall had such great willpower, standing or kneeling all night without feeling unbearable? Fortunately, this rule wasn't set for him.

Half a day later, the maid returned with a pot containing a pot of hot, greenish-white liquid—it looked like the herbs had been stewed with milk. Schummel watched as they ladled the liquid into exquisite glasses and handed them to Dr. Avicenna. The doctor held the liquid to the lips of Madame Camilla, who was too weak to even cry out, pressing the rim of the glass against her sweaty lips. The entire hall fell silent.

“Drink it, master,” the doctor said, trembling.

Schumer watched the Grand Duchess drink the juice, and couldn't help but swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Sure enough, after a short while, Madame Camilla calmed down, closed her eyes, and her breathing became much smoother. Schumer breathed a sigh of relief, thinking, perhaps this was to help the pregnant woman concentrate better and conserve her energy?

But Dr. Avicenna leaned closer, examined her eyelids, and then turned to pick up a silver knife.

Schumeer didn't dare look. For the umpteenth time, he was thankful he was in the back row, spared the need to witness the scene, and able to pretend otherwise. Yet he still glimpsed the maids and servants still carrying hot water back and forth, the water and cotton cloths now completely red. Clearly, the hypnotic effect of mandrake was far from enough to put someone to sleep while being stabbed—the desperate sound was like an apocalyptic revelation, as if all people, whether commoners, nobles, or royalty, were destined to fall to a state worse than animals, tormented in hell, nailed to racks and tortured—Shumer couldn't help but wonder, was it worth it? Must every mother endure such terrible pain to welcome her child into the world? Would she even survive?

He watched everyone's reactions with a mixture of curiosity and fear. The other two members of the Noctenias family remained standing there, watching with dignity and composure, as if the sight of their mother being disemboweled did not move them in the slightest; while others, some had already fainted from fright; those who had not fainted were in tears, clenching their teeth, some even curled up on the ground, as if their hearts were aching to the point of death. Schumeer wondered, was this a frenzied performance, or a morbid obedience? Not a single person seemed to behave in the way he perceived them to. But Schumeer did not know how one should behave properly and reasonably when witnessing such a scene; he also did not know how he himself should behave like a human being.

He tried to defocus his eyes, to blur the image in the center of his vision as much as possible—a hazy, reddish-white blur, yet he could still discern human movement—many arms were pressing Madame Camilla down, like nails hammering her into the soft goose-down mattress. Dr. Avicenna changed the silver scalpel in his hand several times, some large, some small. Gradually, the blurred red covered an increasingly larger area. Camilla's pale legs lay flat on the bed, trembling slightly, reminiscent of a corpse.

Time dragged on, as dull as a rusty blade. After an unknown amount of time, the arms finally released the woman in labor. She lay motionless, leaving it unclear whether she was dead or alive. The horrific screams finally subsided.

Dr. Avicenna's eyes widened, holding a bloodied baby in his arms. Wet baby hair clung to the tiny head.

He raised his hand and slapped the baby's back hard, but to no avail. Schumacher suddenly realized that the hall was eerily quiet; no one was crying or shouting: Mrs. Camilla, her relatives, the doctor, the servants, and the newborn child—no one made a sound. It was as if a heavy stone was pressing on Schumacher's chest.

A stillborn baby?

“My lord,” Doctor Avicenna stammered, his mouth agape, “your child, a boy. He is ice-cold…”

Camilla moved her fingers—perhaps the only thing she still had the strength to do. Dr. Avicenna placed the silent infant on her, knelt, and kissed the bloodless, withered hand adorned with a ruby ​​ring. A maid covered Camilla's broken body with a soft white cloth—Schumel could no longer bear to look; he turned away without hesitation, inwardly cursing whoever had made this decision. Whoever it was, anyone in this hall, even Camilla herself, was utterly foolish and cruel. Suddenly, he felt tears welling in his eyes, streaming down his face. Schummel thought of his mother and siblings. He had three siblings, and four heirs in total, but two had died young, one had left home, and his parents had only a youngest sister. Had his mother also endured such horrific suffering?

Schumacher bent down, the parchment letter pressing hard against his chest.

Suddenly, a tremendously loud baby's cry came from behind him. Like the rising sun tearing through the night, it instantly filled the gloomy hall with the glow of dawn. Schumeer turned around in a daze, and amidst the rising and falling cheers, tears made his amber eyes shine even brighter.

Lady Camilla, draped in that smooth fabric, shone like a statue in a Greek temple, all traces of pregnancy's weariness vanished. She cradled her child in her arms, her smile flowing like a soft stream down her back, filling her with tenderness, making even the bloodstains seem sacred, like strings of red pearls, like the tears of the Virgin Mary. Everyone prostrated themselves before this miracle, including Ambichia and Inarth. Dressed in their finest, luxurious robes, they offered the most humble adoration to this divine act.

Schumacher was mesmerized. He saw the ruby ​​ring on the baby's hand, and the baby's arm thrashing helplessly but powerfully until it grasped the mother's finger.

“Look, he’s grabbing my finger!” Camilla’s expression was a mix of crying and laughing. “I will love him. I will repay his birth with all my love. Love, that’s his name. Yubi!”

Schumeer untied the knot in the morning light and read his letter.

Rose-colored sunlight shone through the expensive parchment, not the cheap papyrus he usually used at home. It was written in Radino, both familiar and strange, concise and austere.

"My son, Abraham Moshe,"

Your mother has passed away at the age of forty. Only your sister Judith Mosey and I remain at home.

I forgive all your mistakes, and I hope you will come home immediately.