Act VI: The Bitter Sea (Part 7)

seven

Yakov had heard that storms were common on the Black Sea in winter, but whether by sheer luck or experience, they hadn't encountered any. He'd been eating olive oil and cured pork for almost two weeks. Seilman had also given him hard, rock-hard wheat biscuits, which he was to soak in wine, like the Greek soldiers, before he could drink them. The wine was incredibly sour; Yakov didn't even want to call it wine. But he'd also heard that if you didn't drink it, you'd contract a strange disease, starting with ulcers in your gums and eventually bleeding to death—this wasn't just hearsay. He'd seen sailors like this at the docks of Kherson and in the bay of Novgorod. So, he chose to believe in the wisdom of the Romans and drank the vinegar-like wine daily. It was certainly better than the bitter fresh water of the port of Constanta.

The large ship sailed south in a straight line, heading towards the Bosphorus Strait. Days passed, and the weather grew increasingly warm, so much so that Yakov forgot it wasn't even February yet. He had never experienced such a warm winter; even the sea breeze felt gentle on his face, without any icy shards cutting into it—Yubi's seasickness was completely gone, and he was too tired to try those monotonous foods anymore, feeling much more energetic. Yakov heard him jumping around on the deck, leaning on the railing and shouting.

"I see a big fish!" Yubi exclaimed excitedly, his words slurred. "A big fish is flying on the sea!"

A big fish? Yakov thought lazily. Maybe it was a dolphin, or a whale; he'd seen them all before and wasn't particularly interested. But Yubi continued shouting. "It has a blue body and yellow fins!" The vampire stomped his feet impatiently on the wooden plank. "What's that, Yakov? Come and see!"

Yakov propped himself up on his knees and strode over. He stared intently, and his mouth immediately watered—a huge school of enormous, shimmering silver tuna was swimming rapidly not far from the boat, diving in and out of the water one after another.

“Seleman!” Yakov shouted immediately, “I need to borrow your boat and spear!”

Tonight, Yakov became the hero of the entire ship—pinkish fish fillets were grilled, the rich aroma of oil filling the entire cabin, and even the Greek soldiers, who couldn't speak the language, praised him highly. "This is top-quality fish!" Schumeer exclaimed, oil clinging to his beard, his eyes squinting with happiness. "Even the emperor wouldn't get fish this fresh!"

"I want to try some too!" Yubi whispered, clinging to Yakov. "Just a little bit!"

“Alright.” Yakov sighed, cutting off the best piece and handing it to him. “It’s not worth vomiting for this fish.”

Yubi snatched the piece of meat from his knife and immediately jumped up to cover his mouth. "It's too hot!" Steam billowed from his mouth, forcing him to stick out his tongue and exhale, utterly lacking in manners—the crowd laughed at the sight, making Yubi turn away in embarrassment, refusing to show his face. Yakov thought, as if he were just an ordinary nobleman with a fragile stomach, rather than a terrifying monster who lived by sucking blood every day. But a smile still appeared on his face, etched on his chest, beating warmly.

“I painted you today, Yakov.” Schumeer, having taken a sip of wine, spoke more boldly. “No matter how you refuse, I have already painted you.”

"You can paint?" Helen sat cross-legged next to Thalerman, placing her wine glass on her lap without any ladylike manners. "Let me see!"

“My paintings are quite famous in Constantinople!” Schumeer rummaged through his bag for a painting; the turbulence of the waves made his fingers clumsy, but he still managed to find the thin piece of paper. He was about to hand it to Helen when Yakov blocked his way and snatched it away. “Let me see what you’ve painted,” Yakov said, examining the painting by the firelight, “before deciding whether to keep it.”

The papyrus depicts him spearing a fish from a small boat—though the angle is clever, making his figure appear like a solitary, indignant warrior struggling between the sky and the sea—"I named this painting Atlas of the Sea," Schumacher said, swirling his glass.

"Who is Atlas?" Yakov asked, looking up.

“Sometimes I don’t remember that you’re illiterate.” Schumeer snatched the painting back from his hands and proudly handed it to Helen. “He was a giant, punished to hold up the whole sky.”

"Then what?"

“And then? There are many versions of that.” Schumer stuffed a piece of fish into his mouth and took a swig of wine. “But the most common version is that he asked the hero Perseus to petrify him with the head of Medusa, so that he could be freed from this punishment.” He raised his hand and pointed to the west. “In the end, he became Mount Atlas.”

This doesn't sound like a good ending, Yakov thought, frowning.

Helen was examining the painting, her brow furrowed. “Your painting is good. I must admit, very good.” She looked up at Schumacher’s face. “Excuse me, may I ask your name again?”

“My name is Schumeer.” The Jewish artist looked at Helen with hopeful eyes. “If you have lived in Constantinople for a long time, you should have heard of this name.”

Unfortunately, the picky lady simply shook her head. "I've lived there for most of the year, for ten years now. But I've never heard of this place before."

“That’s because you haven’t lived here long enough.” Schumeer said disappointedly, snatching his painting back and putting it back in his bundle. “I became famous twenty years ago.”

“Twenty years ago, I was just a little girl!” Helen laughed, glancing at Seymour, who was silent with a cryptic smile. “Back then, my head was full of love stories; how could I possibly remember the names of art masters?”

Schumeer shook his head, unwilling to lose face on the matter any further—Sellerman was staring at him, his calm gaze frightening him.

"I want to hear some love stories too!" Yubi squeezed down next to Yakov. "Tell me some stories!"

"It seems there's someone here who's at the age where they enjoy listening to love stories." Helen took a sip of wine to moisten her mouth. "There's a Jewish man here; how about I tell you a Jewish love story?"

Yubi's face flushed slightly, and he tried to hide behind Yakov—but in the darkness and firelight, no one could see the faint blush on his cheeks. So he nodded boldly. "I'll listen to anything!" he said, trying to keep his voice from being drowned out by the waves. "Tell me!"

“This story takes place in Spain,” Helen began, “in a city called Toledo.”

"At that time, King Alfonso had not yet reclaimed the lost land of Christ—Toledo was ruled by the Moors. They were very similar to the Saracens, speaking a Berber language. Their country originated in the Atlas Mountains, as Schumacher just mentioned. Under their rule, Toledo was inhabited by people of all faiths: Christians, Muslims, and Jews, who lived together in the city, each worshipping in their own church and maintaining their own customs."

"In the free yet chaotic city of Toledo, a Jewish girl and a Christian boy fell in love. Their families, of course, disapproved, but they couldn't stop the two young people from finding ways to meet secretly in the dead of night."

"Why?" Yubi interrupted the story, puzzled. "Why can't Jews love Christians? Why do their families stop them for this reason?"

“Because of the hatred of generations,” Schumeer answered the question, his voice unusually low. “Ever since Jesus went to the cross a thousand years ago, this hatred has continued and grown heavier with each passing year.”

Yubi recalled the story from the Bible—he realized it was a heavy, rather than romantic, love story, and stopped asking questions.

“Thank you for your explanation, Schumer. It’s understandable for a young man to ask such a question.” Helen sighed as she sat by the candle. “Then, the girl’s father found out. For many Jews, a daughter’s affair with a Christian is an intolerable disgrace and sin, a selfish and dissolute act. So, to protect his daughter’s reputation and the family’s honor, he devised a plan.”

He intercepted their correspondence and learned the location of their secret meeting. It was a small garden with a well in the center. He had his guards stand watch at the garden gate, waiting for the Christian youth to arrive late at night as invited.

"The young man came here, but instead of seeing the lover he longed for, he saw only a thug wielding a dagger. He was stabbed to death by the well in the garden by the guard sent by the Jews, and his body was not discovered until dawn."

Yubi let out a soft sigh. But he said nothing.

"The Jewish girl went mad after learning of this. From then on, she spent her days weeping and gazing at the silvery moon reflected in the well, hoping to ease her longing for her lover. But it was all in vain."

"Finally, one day, she went mad and saw her lover's face in the well, so she threw herself into it and committed suicide." Helen made the sign of the cross on her chest, and everyone else followed suit. "After that, the water in the well became extremely bitter and undrinkable. People said that the Jewish girl's tears and pain had all melted into the well water, and that people could not bear that terrible longing, so they found the well water bitter."

The story ended, and the Greek soldiers on deck sighed with regret. Some thought the girl wasn't strong enough, others thought the boy wasn't thoughtful enough, and still others thought the father was heartless. Opinions varied widely. Yubi looked up and quietly asked Yakov, "Why does it have to be this way?" he asked. "Why should one care about others' opinions when choosing a lover? What business is it of other Jews and Christians if a Jew falls in love with a Christian?"

“Because they presuppose that they are all the same. If someone is different from the others, he is expelled from the group.” Yakov looked out at the surging waves. “But sometimes groups are divided by innate things. Blood ties, race, beliefs, appearances, no one can take those away. Then the only thing that can be removed is that person’s thoughts and soul.”

"That's ridiculous," Yubi muttered to herself. "Are there really two people in the world exactly alike?"

Yakov kept his mouth tightly shut. He remembered what Seleman had said in the Constanta Church, and he thought of the smock he was wearing with the cross on it.

"Is the water in Constanta so bitter because of this?" Yubi suddenly looked up and asked Helen, "Is it also because of the girl's tears?"

The question made everyone on the ship laugh. "Of course!" Helen nearly choked on her drink. "The water transported through the canals doesn't taste very good!"

The sea breeze grew stronger, and sporadic raindrops fell from the night sky—a harbinger of an approaching storm. The Greek soldiers packed up their plates and glasses and retreated into the cabins. "Back to your rooms!" Yakov shouted at Yubi, then pulled the limp Schumeer from the deck. "You can't hold your liquor!"

The Jewish man, contrary to his usual behavior, quietly allowed himself to be dragged along without uttering a word. The rapidly approaching salty rain lashed against his cheeks, instantly soaking his clothes and hair.

The storm quickly swept away, leaving the ship unharmed. Yubi hadn't slept well and got up at the crack of dawn. He climbed onto the deck and found the sky clear and cloudless. On the horizon, a faint outline of land could be seen in the distance.

“Yakov, look!” he said, shaking the sleepy-eyed blood slave. “Is that Constantinople?”

"How should I know?" Yakov, awakened by the noise, retorted angrily. "I've never been there!"

Seilerman approached them slowly from behind. "That's not Constantinople," he said with a slight smile, "but we're almost there."

Yubi stared intently at the small piece of land, his eyelids drooping. Soon, he discovered it was a strait—a sea route emerging between two high mountains. The closer the ship got, the wider the sea route became.

"Is that Constantinople?" Yubi asked excitedly, pointing to the scattered houses below the hill.

“No,” Seymour said.

Yubi lowered his head dejectedly, leaning anxiously on the railing. The ship sailed into the strait, and soon, vast fields of farmland and scattered docks appeared on both sides. "Is this Constantinople?" Yubi turned again and asked, "There are docks here!"

“No, not exactly,” Seyleman said.

"Which one is it?" Yubi's boots scraped back and forth on the deck. "Tell me, what is Constantinople like?"

“If you saw it, you would never have any more doubts.” Schumeer yawned as he emerged from the cabin, looking much better. “If you still have any doubts, it certainly isn’t Constantinople.”

What did that mean? Yubi wasn't thinking about that right now. He gazed at the endless mountain ranges on both sides, not missing a single house, his eyes scanning the landscape. The ship moved slowly through the winding strait, and Yubi thought he wished he could just spread his wings and fly into the clear sky, where he would surely be able to see the end of their journey.

The boat gently turned a small bend to the right. Yubi stopped all her fidgeting and stood silently by the railing, mouth agape, frozen like a statue at the bow. "You see," Schumacher laughed, gazing at the view, "if you saw it, you wouldn't have any more doubts."

Yakov was leaning against the railing, dozing with his head down. The storm last night had kept him almost awake all night, and he was in a daze. But upon hearing this, he still absentmindedly raised his eyes and looked towards the bow of the ship.

The city the world yearns for, the queen of all cities, a world of civilization and order—with just one glance, Yakov understood the origin of all these lavish titles. He raised his head, his mouth slowly opening beneath his beard.

It was a vast peninsula, extending from the land into the sea, surrounded by water on three sides. Towering, continuous city walls and numerous harbors encircled the entire coastline, every corner meticulously crafted. Countless ships were moored, their sails resembling termite wings from afar, piled layer upon layer along the docks, where fishermen and merchants were already busy at work. Inside the city walls, countless buildings of all sizes were neatly arranged, among which several stood out exceptionally tall and magnificent, their domes gleaming brightly under the clear sun.

Yakov couldn't imagine how many people and how much wealth it would take to build such a massive city. He thought it might be the safest and most secure place in the world.

Those who have seen Constantinople no longer consider any other city to be a true city.

Tbc.