Act VII All Roads (Part 3)

three

“Abraham Moshi?” Yakov remounted the chests laden with treasure on the two horses. “I’ve hardly heard a more Jewish name.”

“I think Schumer sounds better…” Yubi complained, clutching the jar containing her mother’s head. “Why can’t they let you stay in the city at night! Just because you’re Jewish?”

“There’s nothing special about it; most cities in the world treat Jews this way.” Schumacher had already deftly and easily slung all his luggage over his shoulder. “I’m used to it. Living in Galata on the other side is quite nice. It’s better than not being allowed to enter the country.”

“Then why don’t you hide your queue like you did in Brasov, or just cut it off and pretend you’re not Jewish!” Yubi said indignantly. “Just by looking at your face and features, no one would think there’s a problem if you said you were Persian or Italian!”

Hearing this, Yakov turned around and tugged hard at Yubi's cloak to remind him. Yubi finally realized he had said the wrong thing and lowered his head in shame. "...I'm sorry, Schumeer," he said, pursing his lips.

“It’s alright, Yakov, you don’t need to remind him. I know he said that because he cares about me.” Schumeer gently patted Yubi’s back. “But in life, it’s not about kicking away everything that gets in your way in anger; nor is it about getting everything by any means necessary to make yourself comfortable and successful. Sometimes, unfair treatment can make you realize how different you are from others, and thus find out what kind of person you really are.” He grinned. “That’s a choice too.”

“You are truly so devout,” Yakov said, staring at his mustache.

“You’re wrong, Yakov,” Schumer laughed as he walked away. “This has absolutely nothing to do with piety!”

Golden Horn was teeming with Italian merchants. They came from Venice, Genoa, Pisa, and Amalfi, bustling about in their respective concessions. The Roman-style lamellar armor of the Salmans and the Greek soldiers seemed out of place here. A group of men, accompanied by porters and soldiers, carried luggage and goods. Yubi noticed that the roads were paved with cobblestones, much wider than in other cities. Sump drains lined the streets, and fountains and taps appeared every few houses. Looking up, he saw an endless expanse of ornately decorated buildings filling his vision to the horizon, as if submerging him in a sea of ​​bricks. He suddenly felt like a tiny ant among millions, pale in comparison to the magnificent columns and ancient statues. Everyone was so busy; no one cared what their names were, no one stared at their faces or clothing—not even a Slavic Templar Knight walking side-by-side with a Jew seemed strange. The deeper he ventured into the city, the more bizarre the people became: Yubi saw Saracen merchants with thick beards and huge turbans; he also saw many Frankish knights and nobles from the west, longswords at their waists; there were also mercenaries from the north who resembled Yakov, wearing fur gauntlets and lamellar armor, with battle axes on their backs; soon, the Africans, much darker than Seilman, whom Schumer had described to him, appeared before him. Yubi was astonished to see their jet-black skin and curly hair plastered tightly to their scalps. The black men, adorned with jewelry and robes, were entering the church.

"Are they Christians too?" Yubi looked at the priest in the church with surprise. "The priests here are dressed differently than those in Brasov."

“The Christianity here is also quite different from Western Christianity,” Schumacher said. “Christianity is divided into many denominations.”

"What's the point of dividing them?" Yubi turned her head curiously. "Don't they all believe in the same God and tell the same story?"

“The same story can be told in many ways. The same fragment can be considered true by some and false by others, and interpretations will differ.” Schumeer frowned and explained, half-concealing his words. “The same God can be interpreted differently by some, who believe that images should be cast and worshipped, while others believe that allowing people to see God’s face is blasphemy; some believe that more stories should be written to spread the message, while others believe that this is a private misinterpretation of God’s will. Thus, different sects have emerged.”

“It’s strange,” Yubi said, examining the church. “People can fight because of these things.”

“How could it really be because of these things?” Yakov retorted from behind. “People fight only for power and resources. Bishops fight with bishops, bishops fight with emperors and kings, because of money, armies, and territory. Only a fool would go to war because of stories in books.”

“What about the Crusaders?” Yubi asked. “Weren’t they fighting for their faith?”

“Faith?” Yakov couldn’t help but sneer. “They left their homes for land and a way out.”

“What about Pascal and Henry?” Yubi pressed on. “What about the Knights?”

“They’ve been deceived,” Yakov replied with absolute certainty.

"You're just trying to fool me!" Yubi angrily hugged the jar tightly. "According to you, everyone has been deceived!"

"Wasn't everyone just deceived?" Yakov wondered. He wanted to argue his case, but found himself knowing too little to know where to begin. Just as he hesitated, Seyleman spoke for him. "The Crusaders came from afar to fight the infidels at the Emperor's request. It was indeed the power of faith." The brown-skinned blood slave smiled slightly, his words carrying a deeper meaning, "However, from Antioch to Jerusalem, they established their own kingdoms and reaped considerable profits. The Knights have their own fiefdoms and castles there, and they've turned pilgrimage into a lucrative business. As for their initial promise to the Emperor and their piety, perhaps they are no longer so pure."

Yubi hadn't expected Seilman to share this view, and his brow furrowed as he pondered quietly. He wondered, did having their own fiefdom and castle prove their lack of piety? Must one relinquish all rewards to prove their faith? He suddenly began to question the standards of virtue and refinement, and who truly benefited from them.

Helen's shop was near the church, a fairly spacious two-story building. A beautiful sign carved with scissors and cloth protruded from the side of the entrance, bearing her surname in Latin and Greek—meaning "beautiful woman," perfectly matching the shop's atmosphere. Porters carrying furs and Yubi's priceless roll of silk entered the porch. Seeing the padlocked trunk, Yubi finally snapped out of his shock and novelty at the imperial capital, remembering the most important reason for his visit. "When can we see my sister?" he asked Seleman, clutching Yakov tightly. "Where does she live?"

“The Kanakakis family lives in the northwest of the city, which is quite far from here,” Seleman replied frankly. “She can only receive you at night.”

"We can only see people at night," Yubi suddenly realized, just like his mother. None of his siblings had this magical ring, and they couldn't enjoy the rosy sunlight or admire the vast, magnificent clouds. "So where do we go now?" he added anxiously. "Shumel... he has to go across to the Golden Horn when night falls."

“Anbichia has no intention of meeting anyone other than you and the Blood Slaves.” Seleman smiled, a wrinkle appearing at the corner of his mouth. “He can leave now.”

These words jolted Yubi and Yakov awake from a dream, leaving them speechless. They looked at their Jewish friend who had accompanied them all the way. "All good things must come to an end. Don't look at me like that, I'm not going to my death!" Schumeer, however, showed no sorrow. As if prepared, he smiled, leading the dizzy donkey, whose back was already laden with all the luggage. "We agreed in Sibiu that once we reached Constantinople, I would be free to go wherever I wanted and do whatever I wanted. Now that agreement has been fulfilled, and the three of us are standing at the finish line perfectly healthy. It's time to let me go, isn't it, Yakov?"

Yakov frowned as he looked at the face with two little braids hanging down, pursing his lips without saying a word.

Yubi placed his mother's head, which he was holding in his arms, into Yakov's hands and brought it close to Shumel. "Where are you going?" he asked anxiously, taking his friend's hand. "Will we ever see you again?"

“Just as the customs officer said, I have to stay in Galata. I’ll send you a letter once I find a place to stay. To the Kanakakis family, right?” Schumer saw Seleman nod at him and let out a deep breath. “Hey, I know this city much better than you do, don’t worry about me!”

"Don't forget to send us letters!" Yubi gripped his hand tightly. "We'll come looking for you whenever we have time!"

Schumer's wrinkles deepened with a smile, but he slowly patted Yubi's hand, gently prying open his tightly clenched fingers one by one. Yubi freed his hand, pulled up his worn hood and covered his head, then extended his palm towards Yakov.

"What are you doing?" Yakov asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Where's my payment? You still owe half, one gold coin short!" Schumeer feigned shock. "Don't tell me you forgot about it and are trying to renege on your debt!"

"Give it to him quickly, Yakov!" Yubi urged anxiously, looking up at him.

Yes, that's true, Yakov thought. He reluctantly moved his arm to remove his gloves and pulled a gold coin from his purse—Yubi squeezed past him, snatched the coin from his hand, and then pried a new one out of his purse—Yakov didn't bother to stop him. Schumer will need it, he thought, unusually kindly.

“Here you go, Schumeer.” Yubi placed two gold coins in the waiting palm. “You’ll need them.”

“I’m sorry, Yubi. I only want my payment.” But Shumel only pocketed one gold coin. “If Yakov had offered me more, I might have accepted it; but I really can’t accept your gift.” He stuffed the extra coin back into Yubi’s hand.

“But…” Yubi’s eyes darted around anxiously, “Can I buy one of your paintings?”

“My paintings are all soaked by the waves and rain,” Schumacher said. “My dear, stop thinking about those tattered papyrus sheets.”

Yubi lowered his head dejectedly. Schumeer kept refusing and pushing him away—the young man finally realized that this was an unavoidable separation. He stared at the gold coin in his hand, tracing the uneven patterns of the portrait with his fingertips, remaining silent for a long time. Schumeer gently patted his shoulder to comfort him.

"Take care, my friends. May your future be bright." Their Jewish friend bowed deeply and bid farewell with a Hebrew proverb, "See you in Jerusalem tomorrow!"

Yubi and Yakov stood on the bustling street and watched Schumacher mount his donkey. His figure, with its long, tufted mustache, waved in the sunlight, and in a moment, it vanished into the vast sea of ​​half a million citizens of Constantinople. His trace, like a mirage, vanished instantly.

“I feel empty inside,” Yubi murmured wistfully, gazing at the diverse crowd. “Schumelt is gone just like that.”

“He doesn’t seem as reluctant to part with it as you are,” Yakov said coldly, staring in the direction the donkey had disappeared. “The city is the perfect place for him. Don’t worry about him.”

“I wish him good luck.” Seyleman also looked in that direction, reminding the two to move on from the sadness of parting. “We still have a lot to do before we see Ambicea.”

"Is there anything else?" Yubi and Yakov exchanged glances. "Shouldn't we have gone to the Kanakakis's house earlier and waited for my sister to wake up?"

“You are her brother.” Seyleman picked up Yubi’s dirty coat and shook it—it was a gorgeous and expensive cloak, but it was covered in mud from days of travel and smelled of the salty sea. He then looked up at Yakov’s filthy robe, “It’s not proper for you to see her like this.”

Yubi then remembered the etiquette and decorum he had neglected for over a month. He looked around, ashamed to find even the street vendors were cleaner than him. The cobblestone streets of Constantinople were so pristine, a stark contrast to the muddy roads of the countryside piled high with cow and horse manure. "We should find a place to bathe!" The murky waters of the Brasov Baths flashed through his mind. "...Are there any public baths here?"

“You don’t need to squeeze into that filthy place with him and the soldiers!” Helen finally finished making the arrangements. As she counted out the porters’ wages, she called out to them generously, “There’s a private bathhouse in the south of the concession; I’ll pay for you to go!”

The baths were located near the Great Arena—a place teeming with baths of all sizes. According to Helen, the area around the Arena was always full of baths; perhaps it was some Greek or Roman tradition—they first walked along a wide road, where they could see four gilded bronze horses standing atop the Arena's gates in the distance. Then, Helen led them into the nearest bath to see the most magnificent and expensive one, where Seymour and his soldiers parted ways temporarily at the columned entrance. Yakov thought that perhaps he didn't stop me from going with Yubi to such a luxurious place so that I wouldn't have to bathe with him and his soldiers and see his mutilated body. This was a good thing; he wouldn't allow Yubi to leave his sight for a moment.

The bathhouse was enormous. Yakov followed Yubi inside, and the first thing he saw in the hall was a large wall covered with bas-relief murals depicting battle scenes he didn't recognize. "That's Artemis, the moon goddess and patron goddess of Constantinople. The crescent moon is the totem of this city," Helen said. "Come this way, and the changing rooms are just across the courtyard."

"Is this...is this a mixed-gender bathing place?" Yubi asked, her cheeks flushed with worry.

“Of course not! We’ll meet in the courtyard after we’re done bathing,” Helen laughed heartily. “This isn’t barbarian territory!”

Yakov thought sarcastically, “The Turks and Slavs were considered barbarians in Brasov, but the Anzas and Franks were also barbarians in Constantinople.” But looking at the magnificent baths covered with patterns and carvings, he couldn’t help but admire that the Greek citizens of Constantinople might indeed have the right to be proud.

Yubi was clearly more suited to this life than he was. They undressed, and Yakov found the Greek-speaking servants surrounding him utterly annoying, having to endure them meticulously combing lice from his hair. Yubi, however, could command them with ease; the two were doused with hot water and then led to a stone bed covered in cotton, where they were smeared with fragrant oils—Yubi was adept at choosing fancy spices, while Yakov knew nothing of them, feeling like a fat pig marinated in oil, waiting to be roasted; a servant approached with a sickle-like object, causing Yakov to jerkly sit up from the stone bed. “He asked if you wanted to scrape off the mud and shave!” Yubi, his face smeared with a mixture of beeswax and egg white, turned to remind him, “That’s a mud scraper.”

"A scraper?" Yakov asked. "Using this to scrape mud?"

“Yes, look.” Yubi stretched out his arm. A servant was carefully pressing the inner curve of the “scythe” against his skin, wiping off the grease mixed with dirt that had been applied earlier. “Like this.”

Yakov had to lie back down on the stone bed. "...I understand." He closed his eyes as if he were being tortured, "...Don't shave."

After this process, they were soaked in hot water again, their bodies smeared with soap to wash away the remaining grease. Emerging from the hot water pool, they entered a sauna filled with the aroma of herbs. When Yakov felt he was permeated with the scent from head to toe, they were taken to a cold water pool—supposedly to tighten pores and prevent illness. This bathing session took up the entire afternoon, leaving Yakov weak and ravenous. He wondered, is this how a life of luxury damages one's vitality?

Finally, the two finished, donned light bathrobes, and returned to the lush courtyard laden with delicious food. Helen was sitting by the fountain, sipping wine, and seemed to have been waiting for them for a long time. Two Greek-style columns covered in vines flanked her, and sunlight streaming through the skylight made it look like a refined and beautiful painting.

"Would you like a haircut?" She pointed to the barber standing respectfully beside her. "This man is quite skilled."

“I want to grow my hair out; it’s grown this long the longest ever.” Yubi, surprisingly energetic after his bath, leaned back in his chair. “Yakov, do you want a haircut?”

Yakov was staring absently at the roast meat on the table. He snapped out of his reverie and said curtly, "I don't care either."

"Won't it be inconvenient to wear a helmet with long hair?" Helen asked curiously. "I thought Templar Knights had to have short hair like monks."

Yakov frowned. He realized he had to come up with an excuse. "...Slavs are used to it," he stammered. "We just like long hair and helmets."

Fortunately, Helen didn't delve into his excuse and went to chat with Yubi. Yakov breathed a sigh of relief, then turned and grabbed a plate of fresh grapes and cherries, and a whole roasted chicken with olives and juniper berries—after two weeks adrift on the ship, he really missed these foods that could only be eaten on land. However, he wasn't quite used to this self-service style at a table laden with food, feeling like he was robbing someone. Fortunately, the Greek servants at the bathhouse didn't give him any disapproving looks. Yakov thought to himself, what a well-trained bunch of lackeys.

“When I came back, my buddy told me that the security situation in the Genoa concession has been bad lately.” Yakov sat down next to them, eating as he listened to Helen’s rambling. “Recently, many Genoese have been attacked, and I suspect it was the Venetians who did it.”

"Why do you guess that?" Yubi pursed her lips in displeasure. "How could it be made by the Venetians?"

“Oh, I didn’t mean it. I know you have a friend from Venice,” Helen smiled apologetically. “Their tax-free privileges are far greater than those of merchants from Genoa, Pisa, and Amalfi. You see, Venetian merchant ships dock in the Venetian concession ports without paying a single penny in taxes. This makes the Venetians incredibly wealthy. But even so, we still stole their business from Constantinople. They must be holding a grudge. You see, they insulted the Emperor on Corfu, and the Emperor has long been dissatisfied with them.”

It seems that Italian merchants have also formed their own factions and are fighting each other. Yakov stuffed a large mouthful of tender chicken dripping with broth into his mouth without saying a word.

"Couldn't it have been done by someone from somewhere else?" Yubi rested her chin on her hand. "I... I don't really know much about these things..."

“Who else could it be?” Helen took a sip of wine. “Hopefully the emperor can quell this and catch the attackers, so we don’t suffer losses for nothing. But how long that will take is anyone’s guess.”

“Hmm…” Yubi looked to Yakov for help. He didn’t quite understand why Helen was telling him this, and the obscure topic made him increasingly uneasy. Yakov, however, just kept eating—he didn’t quite understand the purpose of the conversation either.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Helen said, swirling the delicate glass. “How long has it been since you last saw Ambicea?”

“It’s been a long time. The last time I saw her, she wasn’t married yet.” Yubi lowered her head. “I was too young then…”

“But she cares about you, doesn’t she?” Helen studied Yubi’s expression, her eyes filled with expectation. “She sent Seleman to meet you. Seleman is her most loyal and capable servant.”

But Selman said he had just happened to be going to the Batur tribe, Yubi thought. Perhaps this wasn't something that could be easily shared with outsiders—no matter how kind and considerate Helen was to him, she ultimately knew nothing of the deeper secrets. "Hmm..." Yubi nodded hesitantly, "I suppose so."

"Don't be nervous, child." Helen gently brushed the damp stray hairs from his forehead. "I just want you to ask your sister for me."

"What did you say?" Yubi looked up in surprise.

“It’s what I just told you.” Helen’s voice revealed a hint of anxiety. “Ask her how the Emperor plans to deal with the attack on the Genoa concession. She must have information.”