Act VII: All Roads (Part 6)

six

Yakov slept soundly that night, without a single dream—he had been keeping watch at the foot of Yubi's bed, trying to force himself to get through the night, but his chronic insomnia had unexpectedly abandoned him at the crucial moment. The blinding sunlight streaming in from the spacious balcony dazzled his eyes. He opened them, and a vast expanse of intricate and beautiful ceiling patterns filled his vision, the shadows of green leaves and vines swaying gracefully. Yakov jolted awake from his low stool, finding the bedding and pillows neatly laid out, the bed empty—last night, he had clearly watched Yubi change into her pajamas and sleep there.

In an instant, he felt a great calamity looming over him, his soul nearly leaving his body, and the inscription on his face immediately throbbed with pain—"You're finally awake." Seleman was lifting a deep red curtain, standing by the door of the room, looking at his panicked state. "Come with me, and tidy yourself up."

Yakov followed Seilman to the courtyard, where he caught a glimpse of the entire Romanesque mansion—by day, it was like a paradise. The entire courtyard soared like a temple. The long corridors were deep and tranquil, the massive columns were imposing and steadfast, the ceramic tiles were strung together like pearls, and the murals were rich and intricate. Fountains and flowers added life to the brickwork, and servants moved about humbly and politely, their laughter echoing throughout. For a moment, Yakov thought he was dreaming, or had fallen into a fantasy world. But soon, he came to his senses.

"Where did Yubi go?" He wanted to grab Seymour's neck and demand an answer, but reason stopped him. "Did you tell him not to wake me?"

“He was taken to the Senate,” Seilman replied casually. “You don’t need to go with him.”

"The Senate?" Yakov asked in shock.

“He needs an identity as soon as possible.” Seyleman turned around and gestured for him to stop by the pool. “Wash up here.”

Yakov looked around and found they had come to a secluded corner of the courtyard. The surrounding rooms were neatly cramped and not so ornately decorated—clearly the living quarters of the servants. “I’m curious,” Yakov said with a somber face, taking a pre-wetted handkerchief from a young page, “you also live with these tea and water servants?”

“That’s exactly what I did when I stayed here overnight,” Seyleman said, unperturbed by the provocation. “That was my room.”

Yakov washed his face with bitter water, glancing sideways at the direction Seymour indicated. It was a small, shabby bedroom, windowless and dark. It contained a single bed, a rough table and chairs, and an old oil lamp. Yakov shifted his gaze and noticed that the toilet was next door, and the stables were a few steps away. It was arguably the most dilapidated room in the entire mansion—"Nobody else really liked this one," Seymour said with a laugh, "so it was assigned to me."

"Hypocrite, is he trying to teach me a lesson?" Yakov thought. "You must not live here often." He picked up his cup to rinse his mouth, noticing the scent of mint and lemon in the water, and spat it forcefully into the flowing pool. "Helen said you are Ambikia's most loyal and capable servant."

“That’s true.” Seilerman didn’t deny his words at all, neither arrogant nor humble. “Most of the time, I live in military camps or on ships.”

What was he trying to tell me? Yakov wanted to retort, but this frankness left him speechless. Just as he was wallowing in his despair, the servants walking beside them stirred. Men and women excitedly spoke in Greek, which he couldn't understand, and rushed toward the gate.

"What did they say?" Yakov asked urgently.

“They say the ‘master of the day’ has returned,” Seyleman said with a smile, looking in the direction the crowd had gone. “Aren’t you going to go and see?”

Before he could finish speaking, Yakov threw down his cup and ran away.

The mansion's main gate was intricately carved, tall and heavy. The side portico was crowded with Greek servants, excitedly and discreetly discussing something. Yakov, tall and strong, fully armored, roared and forcefully pushed through the crowd to get to the door and see what was going on. He had assumed Yubi had arrived on horseback—but when the gatekeeper opened the gate, a sedan chair came into view. Four Egyptian slaves, each carrying a corner of the chair, knelt down smoothly and skillfully, ensuring their esteemed master landed gently without a jolt.

Yubi wore a double-pearl-encrusted crown, with four glittering golden chains dangling from the back of his head. A heavy, heraldic-embroidered robe draped over his body, layer upon layer, a large wad of fabric piled beside his left arm; thankfully, his right hand was still free. He tentatively stepped onto the palanquin, but his shoes were caught by the intricate, stiff hem of the robe—Yakov rushed out the door, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him out. The robe, adorned with gold ornaments, stung Yakov's palm.

"Yakov!" Yubi's eyes gleamed with a strange excitement. "These clothes are so inconvenient!"

“You’re dressed like a woman!” Yakov couldn’t help but scold him. “You’re wearing all your jewelry in the house?”

“That’s how Romans dressed,” Yubi retorted. “Only barbarians would look down on that!”

A chill ran down Yakov's back. "Who taught you these words?" He gripped Yubi's wrist tightly, the gold beads digging into her skin. "Who found you the jewelry and clothes?"

Yubi didn't answer him, only pursing his lips in displeasure. Yakov then noticed that behind Yubi was another palanquin, carrying a young man dressed similarly and adorned with jewelry. He had thick eyebrows, a hooked nose, a thin beard on his cheeks and chin, and fine, curly black hair that curled across his forehead—a Greek who couldn't be more Greek, Yakov thought, but he was frail, unlike the muscular sculptures by the fountain in the square. The man wore a crown and was wrapped in thick, stiff, and intricate fabric. He rose from the palanquin with extreme slowness, as if he were young yet old. Yakov noticed fine purple stripes on his clothes.

“This is my sister’s husband, Isaac Komnin Kanakakis,” Yubi said, extending his hand to Yakov. “He’s the one who told me to dress like this to go to the Senate so I could get this.”

"What is that?"

“This, it’s on my hand!” Yubi held out his left hand again in front of Yakov’s eyes. “This ring!”

Yakov's eyes glazed over. He strained to focus, searching through the heavy, ornate pile of jewelry for Yubi's hand—his middle finger still firmly adorned with the mysterious ruby ​​ring, while his index finger now bore a bulky gold signet ring. Yakov examined the slender finger closely, discovering a pattern he had seen many times before: like the markings of a blood slave, symmetrically stacked side-by-side, top-bottom, forming a flamboyant, openwork cross.

"What is this?" Yakov asked blankly. "You ran out so early in the morning just for this?"

“This is the coat of arms of Kanakakis! See, this is how you stamp a seal on sealing wax.” Yubi demonstrated by stamping the seal on Yakov’s hand, leaving a shallow, raised mark on the rough skin. “Isaac said that wearing this ring makes everyone know I’m a nobleman.”

Everyone knew Yubi was a nobleman. This thought echoed in Yakov's mind, making his head throb. Just as he was lost in thought, the Greek servants who had been waiting by the pillars greeted their two masters as they entered the room. Some removed their crowns, some helped them take off their robes, some brought them a basin of fragrant flower-scented water to wash their hands, and some used ostrich feather dusters to brush the dust from their garments.

Yakov followed them, as if in a trance, to the entrance hall. A large retinue of servants escorted the two richly dressed masters to the reception room in the central courtyard—Yakov remembered the route; this was the place where they had met Anbichya the previous night. Sunlight streamed into the room, allowing him to clearly glimpse the massive mural on the wall: a naked man with his head adorned with grape leaves was leading a large group of disheveled men and women up a mountain, birds and beasts weaving among them, everyone singing and dancing with expressions of ecstasy. Yakov thought that although this was decadent, it was far more normal than the cruel depictions in Camilla Castle. He found Seleman waiting for them there, surrounded by servants. In the courtyard behind, musicians played on the lyre and panpipes, the music blending beautifully and soothingly with the sounds of flowing water and birdsong. Inside the room were three spacious chaise lounges surrounding a large table. The table was laden with various luxurious and exquisite dishes served on golden platters, the names of which Yakov did not even recognize. The enticing aroma of food wafted over, instantly whetting his appetite.

"Excuse me," Isaac, dressed in a purple robe, suddenly said.

He spoke in a weak, listless voice, as if he had said the same thing countless times. Seyleman nodded to him and made way. Isaac skillfully slipped away from the crowd and quickly left the spacious dining room with a retinue of servants.

“Please take a seat.” Sellerman walked to the left and sat down on the recliner. “It’s lunchtime.”

“What about Isaac?” Yubi asked anxiously from the doorway. “...Isn’t he the owner of this place?”

“The nominal master.” Seyleman smiled meaningfully at him. “Don’t worry, he prefers to dine in his own room.”

Yubi responded and asked no further questions. Koyakov had already keenly sensed the oppressive atmosphere—he thought that even royalty, with Komnin in his name, couldn't prevent a terrifying monster like Anbichya from taking control of everything—Isaac was probably already a blood slave, his true status even lower than the eunuch before him. He hesitated, then led Yubi to the seat opposite Seleman. "You shouldn't sit there," Seleman suddenly reminded him, "Please come to the chaise lounge in the middle. That's the seat for the most honored."

“I…” Yubi turned his head to look at Yakov’s face.

“He can’t eat this stuff.” Yakov’s expression darkened. “You’ve already seen him vomit.”

“I didn’t insist he eat.” A napkin was draped around Seymour’s neck by a servant, and he calmly picked up two polished, gleaming gold cutlery pieces. “I think it’s time to teach you some of the dining etiquette here. Let’s eat and talk.”

The servants—whom Yakov now felt were more like slaves—were kneeling before the square table, knives in hand, cutting food into bite-sized pieces and setting out forks for each. Yakov, half-compromising and half-rebellious, ignored the cutlery and grabbed a large piece of pie with his bare hands—the filling contained meat and vegetables, and the sauce had an indescribable aroma, neither fishy nor fresh, which made Yakov frown and hesitate to take a bite.

A rather composed lady approached him, speaking gently and kindly in Greek. "This is a leek and asparagus pie, with fish sauce." Yubi climbed up from the recliner and leaned over the pillow, translating the words while staring at the pie in Yakov's hand. "Try it! Tell me how it tastes."

Yakov frowned, mentally preparing himself before shoving the substance into his mouth—it couldn't possibly taste worse than the rotting liquid of a puffin, he thought. "Fish sauce is a good thing," Seleman said slowly from across the table. "It's made by putting raw sea bass and salt in a barrel and fermenting it in the sun for two months. It's just that the smell during the making process isn't exactly pleasant."

Yakov choked, unsure whether it was from the offensive remark or the complex flavor in his mouth: the aroma of chives was already strong enough, but combined with fish sauce, it felt like the entire ocean was concentrated on his tongue—salty and astringent, yet accompanied by an extremely intense umami flavor. "How is it?" Yubi stared intently at his tightly closed mouth; it seemed Seleman's words hadn't intimidated him. "Can I try some?"

“If you don’t mind vomiting right now,” Yakov said, unusually not stopping him.

Yubi reached for the pie, but was gently stopped by the maid. Yakov glanced at his elaborate sleeves, guessing that the Greek servants were about to help him change—but the maid helped him lie down to his left and placed a soft pillow under him. The servants cut the pie into small pieces and skewered them with slender forks so that Yubi could easily put the food into his mouth in just the right amount using only his right hand.

“He has hands,” Yakov couldn’t help but accuse. “These people want to raise him into a useless piece of trash who can’t even eat.”

“They did nothing wrong. This is how nobles should eat, not like you and me,” Seleman said. “Ambicya will need him to act more naturally at these banquets.”

What kind of banquet could it be? Yakov's expression grew increasingly grim. Yubi lay there awkwardly, looking at him, clearly unaccustomed to this excessively luxurious lifestyle. But his embarrassment couldn't overcome his craving; he quickly learned to pick up small pieces of fish sauce pie with one hand. Yakov and Seilman stared intently at his face, awaiting his assessment.

"...I actually think it's not bad." Yubi swallowed the substance. "It wasn't so bad that I'd throw it up right away!"

Yakov let out a sigh of relief, whether from annoyance or relief; he couldn't be bothered to lecture Yubi today. The servants were pushing more dishes towards Yubi—roasted guinea fowl with rosemary; rice wrapped in grape leaves with sour cream; and tiny, golden-brown mille-feuille tarts topped with a dollop of tart jam, meant to be eaten with a delicate, fine gold spoon. Yakov decided to satisfy his own appetite first. He grabbed a piece of "snack" that resembled a chunk of fatty meat, dripping with oil, topped with caviar, and garnished with a dill leaf. "What's this?" he asked Seleman, popping it into his mouth and finding it soft and creamy.

“This is foie gras.” Sellerman said calmly, moving his knife and fork. “You have to pour cream into the goose’s stomach through a tube to make it grow such a plump liver.”

Yakov savored the food in his mouth, and also pondered Seleman's words. Suddenly, the delicacies became tasteless, like cream forced down his throat, turning him into a dumb goose. "I understand," he immediately lowered his hands, now stained with oil and sauce. "You and I eat this food to make our blood more delicious, so our master can taste it. That's your purpose, Anbichia's purpose." Yakov squinted at the detestable eunuch opposite him. "Is that so?"

Yubi and Seymour both stopped to look at him, their faces showing astonishment.

“I have a question.” Seyleman met those icy blue eyes without flinching. “What do you think is the value of a human being, and what is the value of a blood slave?”

Yakov didn't understand why he was being asked such a profound question. "I can't judge the value of a person," he said, frowning as he racked his brains. "But once a person becomes a blood slave, a slave, their value becomes the property and possession of their master, a base, lowly, unfree, and undignified measurable commodity. Like Isaac," he said scathingly. "Even if he's a nobleman, even if he's royalty, isn't he still held in the palm of Ambikia, forced to provide blood like a lowly slave?"

“If that’s what you think,” Thalerman patiently listened to everything he had to say before retorting, “then what value do you think you have to Uby?”

Yakov's voice caught in his throat. He found his young master looking at him with a mixture of expectation and fear, awaiting a potentially hurtful answer. "...I think that's a question for him," Yakov said restrainedly.

"Then can you answer this question for me?" Seleman went along with him and turned to hand the difficult question to Yubi.

“I…I don’t want Yakov to think like that.” Yubi lowered his head, speaking frankly and bluntly as always. “He is indeed a blood slave, but he is also my friend, my teacher, or rather…” He suddenly blushed and tossed his hair. “This is a crucial question…I think he is an important person. He not only gives me blood to drink, but also cares about me, protects me, takes care of me, and teaches me many things I don’t understand. If I had to talk about his value, perhaps that’s it.”

Yakov looked away uncomfortably. He thought to himself that things would never have turned out this way if it weren't for that irritating mark on his left chest. Suddenly, a secret sense of shame crept into his heart, making his chest ache slightly.

“That’s an excellent answer.” Seleman picked up a walnut pastry, broke it in half, popped one half into his mouth and crunched it, and handed the other half to the silent Yakov. “You see, to your master, you are far more than just a goose fed cream, waiting to have your liver taken. It depends on your own perspective. If you insist on considering yourself a fat goose, then there will be no one in the world who doesn’t covet your liver.”

Yakov slowly and hesitantly took the half-pastry. He held the sweet treat in his hands, examining and kneading it, nervously pursing his lips and biting the crust. Countless faces flashed through his mind. "I can't agree with that right now," he finally said stiffly after a long silence.

“You have plenty of time to think,” Seleman said casually. “You just had fish sauce, remember to have some figs to freshen your breath.”