Act VI: The Bitter Sea (Part 3)

three

“Civilization and order, ha.” Yakov crossed his arms and watched the people disembarking from the ship carrying boxes and leading horses. “I never knew such a place existed in the world.”

"Can't you just say less?" Schumeer was untying Muse when he accidentally kicked his elbow, making him wince and clutch it in pain. "Do you have to ruin my good impression of you just when I think you might have a tiny bit of humanity?"

Yakov chuckled dryly, a hint of schadenfreude in his voice, too lazy to continue the teasing. Yubi stood beside him, cradling his mother's head, lost in thought. "Why did you call that man Seleman, that rootless thing?" he finally whispered to Yakov, "What did that mean?"

“Because he doesn’t have that job,” Yakov said.

"What kind of work?"

"That thing between your legs."

"ah?"

“He’s a eunuch!” Yakov scoffed. “He can’t sleep with girls.”

Yubi finally understood what Yakov was saying, and he was shocked. "How do you know he didn't?" He craned his neck to stare at Seilman's broad back, as if he could really see something. "How come he didn't... that job?"

“He doesn’t have a beard, eunuchs don’t.” Yakov followed his gaze and examined him closely. “Listen to his name, it’s an Arabic name. □□ has the most powerful army, which is full of castrated boy slaves who are trained hard in riding and archery from a young age. If they can survive and grow up, they become useful and loyal soldiers.”

“I’ve heard that rumor too.” Schumer leaned in and whispered, “That army used to be called Ghulam. I think they changed their name later, it was called… what was it again?”

"What's your name?" Yubi stared at him, waiting for him to remember.

“My memory is terrible, I can’t remember…” Schumacher scratched his head in embarrassment, “It’s the Arabic word for slave! I can’t remember how to say it!”

“Why don’t you go ask him?” Yakov gestured with his chin toward Seyleman’s retreating figure. “He must know.”

“That’s so rude!” Yubi muttered under her breath, but she was clearly wavering. “He should know we’ve been discussing this!”

“Do you think he doesn’t know we’re discussing this?” Yakov added fuel to the fire. “Just ask him how to say slave in Arabic.”

Yubi was persuaded, but dared not move. He glanced at Schumeer's face, but Schumeer indifferently did not stop him. Just as he hesitated, Yakov reached out and gently nudged his shoulder—Yubi, unable to resist his curiosity, slowly walked towards the dark-skinned figure wearing a red-tasseled helmet. He looked back every two steps, and finally reached Seilman, called him back, and began to stammer a conversation with him.

"Where do you think he's from?" Schumacher crossed his arms and gazed into the distance. "Egypt, Persia, Iberia?"

“I don’t know.” Yakov rubbed his hand back and forth on the hilt of his sword. “He has blue eyes.”

Schumer glanced at him. “That’s what I was about to say.” He cleared his throat. “Did you know that most of the slaves in the □□ are Turks? And many of the Turks further south and further east have blue eyes.”

"What's wrong with that?" Yakov scoffed dismissively. "Does that mean only Slavs are allowed to be slaves, and Slavic children are kidnapped from a young age?"

Schumer shrugged, offering no further comment. Yubi, seemingly having found the answer, was running towards them.

“Mamluk!” Yubi said. “The Arabic word for slave is Mamluk!”

“That’s right, that’s the word!” Schumacher tapped his forehead.

Yakov stared intently at Seilman's retreating figure, observing his every move. He saw the vampire's servant glance at him from afar, then turn back without complaint, continuing to direct his men and assign tasks with an unchanging expression and calm demeanor, seemingly unconcerned whether the question, tinged with ulterior motives, carried a sordid connotation—Yakov couldn't quite comprehend this virtue of remaining humble and submissive despite provocation. Rather, he had long since disenchanted such things. Yet, it seemed something deeper and more stable supported this blood slave.

But Yakov couldn't understand it now. He wondered why the Mamluk wasn't angry, or felt that his fate was unfair. How could he be content with the status quo? Yakov couldn't find the answer.

Suddenly a Greek soldier stepped forward. "Would you like me to help you move this?" the man asked Yubi.

Yubi realized he was being asked about the package in his arms and suddenly tensed up. "No need, I can carry it myself." He quickly tucked the fine linen cloth around his neck.

Fortunately, the Greek soldier stopped asking questions and immediately turned to Schumeer. Yakov stared at the man until he was out of sight. “Yakov, you should learn Greek,” Schumeer said, handing the reins of the Muse to the man and dusting his hands. “Once you get to Constantinople, you might have to stay there for a long time. Without Greek, life will be very difficult.”

“He’ll be by my side. I have plenty of time to teach him Greek.” Yubi raised his head. “I also want to teach him to write and recognize words—Latin alphabet, Greek alphabet, Cyrillic alphabet, I want him to learn them all!”

“That will take quite a bit of work,” Schumacher sighed. “You’ll be living the same life as little Batur before!”

Yakov was suddenly struck by these words, realizing he seemed to be standing on a vast, seemingly endless, and boundless highway. "Once we get to Constantinople, where you go and what you do is no longer my concern," he said, turning to Schumeer. "What do you plan to do?"

“That’s a city the world longs for, and I’m a Venetian, with a concession and tax-free privileges!” Schumeer proudly patted his bundle of documents. “That’s where I truly shine, and you’re worried about my livelihood? I just beg you not to cause me any trouble!”

“You said it yourself.” Yakov, feeling awkward, grabbed Yubi’s arm. “They’re done. Let’s go count them.”

The keys to the locks on the two chests were still in Yakov's small leather pouch. They had brought two horses: a Norman horse and a Turkic horse—the Tatar wagon was so shabby that no one wanted to push it onto the boat, so they unanimously decided to abandon it on the riverbank. All of Schumeer's packages and painting supplies were neatly arranged and had not been opened by the Tatars. His donkey, after being untied, was restless and refused to go into the water. The Greeks managed to blindfold it, and eventually, it reluctantly stepped onto the boardwalk and into the cabin.

By the time the group finished their work and went up to the deck from the cabin, it was completely dark. The two oars at the stern were slowly turned, changing the ship's direction and propelling it eastward along the wide Danube. Yubi had intended to explore the entire ship first, but even from the deck, the scenery of Ruse captivated him—the city's glittering lights shone like stars across the land, their reflections shimmering in the mirror-like river, as if the Danube were a bowl overflowing with silver and diamonds. As the ship moved, Yubi felt like a tiny speck of dust in the bowl, drifting and migrating with the lightest ripples and breezes, feeling every subtle sway with his feet on the deck.

“I’ve heard that... Roman ships can breathe fire!” He turned to Seymour, who had been following them, and asked, “Can this ship do that too?”

“No,” Seymour answered without any attempt to hide his opinion. “There are very few ships like that, and most of them cannot sail long distances.”

Yubi was a little disappointed, but he quickly had a new question. "How long will it take us to get to Constantinople?" he asked, blinking. "Where will we pass through along the way?"

“Two weeks,” Seilman said without hesitation. “The first week will pass, and the ship will travel from the Danube to the Black Sea, where we will stop at the port of Constanta. The second week, we will cross the Black Sea to Constantinople.”

"So fast?" Yubi stared, noticing that Yakov and Shumel were completely unresponsive. "...But it took us over a month just to get out of Transylvania, and that was on horseback!"

“The Empire’s shipping routes are extensive.” Seyleman observed his astonished expression. “It’s not like crossing mountains and valleys over land.”

Yakov stood behind Yubi, his eyes narrowed with displeasure. Their conversation seemed to have a hidden meaning, a subtle criticism of his shortcomings or a compliment on his hard work. "You used to be a Mamluk?" he shifted awkwardly, his chainmail inexplicably weighing him down. "And how did you get to Rome?"

Yubi's attention was successfully diverted, and she stared curiously at the dark face, waiting for an answer.

“I am indeed,” Seleman said, not shying away from the topic. “When I was four, I was taken to Cairo, where I converted to Allah, received my current name, and served as a slave soldier for over thirty years.” His tone was both heavy and light, sincere and frank, like a steady, unwavering scale. “Later, during a war, Ambikia took me away. After that, I converted for the second time. She came to Rome, and I went with her to Rome.”

Yakov hadn't expected such an unvarnished answer, which only made him seem like a despicable person. But this only further convinced him of the eunuch rumor. He stared silently at Seymour's smooth chin, a mixture of smug satisfaction and disappointment.

"When was that?" Yubi propped herself up from the deck railing. "How long have you known your sister?"

“Not that long,” Seleman said. “It’s been almost a hundred years since I first met Ambicya.”

The three people present were all taken aback by the number. They looked at each other, unsure of what to say, and remained silent, each harboring their own secrets. Seeing their shock, the ageless blood slave smiled, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "I'll take you to the cabin and show you the way." He immediately started walking, his footsteps thumping on the wooden deck. "It's getting dark. Anbichia said you're not afraid of the sun; perhaps you prefer to sleep at night."

Yubi thought he had overestimated the comforts of water travel. Seilman led them down another path in the ship's cabins they hadn't explored before—a path mostly occupied by the rowing soldiers. This group ate and slept in one place, the cabin smelling salty and sour, nauseating, with rats scurrying among jars of olive oil—thankfully, he didn't sleep there.

They followed a large, fat, and sturdy orange cat across the central path to the bow of the ship, torches in hand. There stood a spacious, airy bedroom, exactly as Yubi had imagined, or even more so—a beautiful large bed in the center, covered with soft cotton fabric and stuffed with goose down. Yubi craned his neck to look around and found tables, chairs, wardrobes, lamps, a fireplace—everything was there, even a delicate dressing table. He looked down and noticed a clean, bright handwoven rug on the floor. He quickly pulled his boots back, afraid of soiling it.

“There’s a small bathroom to the right.” Sellerman handed him the torch. “If you need hot water, go to the kitchen.”

"This room is wonderful!" Yubi exclaimed timidly. "...Is this the only room this nice?"

“Yes,” Seyleman added, “this is Ambikia’s room.”

Yubi's eyes darted around nervously. "Isn't it a bit too much for us to be staying in such a nice room..."

However, the seasoned blood slave immediately interrupted him. "Not you," he said expressionlessly, moving his lips. "Only you."

“Then where will Yakov and I stay?” Schumer hurriedly peeked out from behind the narrow passage. “...Who will take care of Yubi?”

“You will live and eat with the soldiers,” Seilman said. “He won’t need you all the time.”

Schumeer wanted to say something more, but the words caught in his throat and he swallowed them back. However, Yakov immediately sensed the eunuch's intention upon hearing this—the obnoxious blood slave was warning him and Schumeer to behave properly, understand their place, and not to cause trouble with their noble master—Yakov was very familiar with this kind of rhetoric and rules from his childhood. He couldn't help but let out a contemptuous laugh, not too loud, just loud enough for Seilerman to hear.

“If he insists that we stay here with him tonight, we have to comply.” He saw the blood slave turn his head and point to his neck with a show of pride, “I have to feed him every day.”

“I know.” But Seylman, like a superior chess player, anticipated his words and refused to show even a trace of anger or frustration, just as Yakov had hoped. “I never forbade you from entering this room. I was just telling you where you should be.”

Yakov stared grimly at the eunuch, who was about his height. He wanted to rush up and punch him, to replace the man's confident demeanor with his pitiful scars—but he turned to Yubi, who was now hunched over on the soft bed, and asked, "Where do you think we should stay?" Yakov stared at his master. "Tell him clearly."

A large wave crashed against the gunwale, causing the entire cabin to rock violently. Yakov's gaze tightened suddenly; he noticed that Yubi's face had turned ashen.

“I feel terrible, Yakov…”

The three people at the door were astonished to see Yubi run off the bed, rush into the bathroom next door, and vomit into the wooden tub with a loud "whoosh".