Act XI: The Promised Land (Part 9)

Nine

It was so dry, Yubi thought, as if it would never rain. At night, he sat by the stables on the Temple Mount, gazing at the entire city of Jerusalem. Apart from the churches and mosques—which were now also churches—the remaining shops and houses all had flat roofs, so there was never any worry about rainwater accumulating inside.

Schumacher, carrying a lamp, was selecting a headscarf and jewelry for him, styling him for the portrait. The beautiful, soft fabrics were wrapped around Yubi's head again and again, requiring constant rearranging of wrinkles and patterns after each wrap—it was incredibly tedious. Yubi pondered his appearance in the mirror. "I think it looks better with some hair showing," he said. "During the day I have to be wrapped up like a leper; I don't want to look like this at night!"

“Ah, that’s what headscarves are for!” Schumer sighed and untied the knot again. “If your hair is exposed, the Saracens think it’s sloppy and sand will easily get in!”

Yubi twisted his mouth and thought for a moment. "Let's try other ways of wearing it," he insisted stubbornly, without a care in the world, "Let's try the Turkic and Kurdish ways!"

So Schumeer folded and twisted the wrinkles on his head again. The Jew was dressed very warmly, his fingers stiff from the unreasonably cold nights of the Holy Land. It was so hot during the day and so cold at night, Yubi thought, the summer here is really strange—does this really have four seasons? He picked up the small box of Bedouin cosmetic powder that Yakov had left him and tried to apply eyeliner with the little stick. Daoud had told him that this stuff could brighten one's vision and had a nourishing effect, and that it should be applied day and night; but Yubi didn't care about such things. He only felt that his own application looked much better than Yakov's haphazard smearing, making him look deep-set, mysterious and elegant like an Egyptian mural.

"I think it looks good now." Yubi winked at herself in the mirror. "Let's keep drawing it like this!"

“You’re so picky!” Schumeer stepped back to Nuuk with a sigh of relief and took the drawing paper and brushes from his assistant. “But the more aesthetically pleasing the model, the more picky I am.”

Yubi watched the painter sketch on the paper. He thought regretfully that it would have been better to paint this portrait during the day. Behind him was the Mount of Olives, and beyond that, the deep blue Dead Sea. In the sunlight, these legendary landscapes would have served as his backdrop, making him seem as if he were part of the legend himself.

“My name is Yakov. Before he left, he taught me a phrase in Arabic.” He pulled his long, flowing headscarf to his chest. “Just that one phrase, and you can respond to anything anyone says…”

"Oh, that [illegible] greeting?" Schumeer breathed on the cold nib of his brush to make the expensive paint last longer. "What's it again?"

Yubi blinked and looked up at the sky, trying to recall the tongue-twisting syllables. He tried to repeat them, stumbling over the first time and repeating them several times before he could say them smoothly. But as soon as he finished speaking, he saw Nuk, who was assisting Schumacher, looking at him with a puzzled expression.

"Am I wrong?" he asked the little blood slave in surprise.

“It’s different from what Daoud taught me, sir.” Nuk shook his head awkwardly. “That’s not how the greeting is supposed to be…”

Yubi's expression shifted from suspicion to indignation, finally settling into a slight resignation. "...Go find someone who speaks Arabic, now." He put down the blood-stained cup, rose from his seat, and didn't bother to check how Schumacher's painting was going. "That annoying fellow... he's definitely tricked me again!"

Nuk responded and dashed off, asking each of the knights and attendants on duty in the square. Fortunately, it wasn't hard to find someone who spoke Arabic. Following their directions, he quickly pulled a young man in a black robe with a red cross before Yubi. "What does that mean?" the vampire asked, struggling to repeat the difficult phrase Yakov had taught him. "Please tell me, does it mean you can respond to anything anyone says?"

As expected, the young man couldn't help but laugh when he heard what he said.

“Sir, what you mean is ‘I don’t understand,’” he said. “It’s not wrong to agree with whatever others say.”

Yubi felt the blood rushing up his cheeks. He heard Shumel, who was washing his hands beside him, chuckle, then burst into laughter, laughing so hard he could barely stand up straight. Yubi thought to himself that he had been using that phrase for three days now, saying it to every Arabic speaker he met—Yakov had obviously taught it to him on purpose.

"...When he comes back from the Tower of David," Yubi said angrily, flicking his sleeves, "I'm going to teach him a lesson he won't forget!"

Yakov waited anxiously with a group of people in the open hall of the Tower of David fortress. He was squeezed between two groups; to his left were his fellow knights and Franks, and to his right were Roman generals and officials. Everyone was whispering, waiting for the important figures behind the meeting hall doors to make a decision—the knights of Jerusalem, the crusaders from Flanders, and the Roman fleet. They should have been discussing strategies to deal with Saladin, how to defeat that massive army, and how to divide the lands of Egypt—but now the negotiations for cooperation had become long and arduous, seemingly encountering numerous difficulties, and had been deadlocked for several days.

He suddenly sneezed several times in this solemn place, drawing everyone's attention.

“If you overwork yourself, you’ll easily break out in health problems during the expedition,” Sancho poked at his chainmail with his finger. “Everyone here is getting impatient!”

“I’m more anxious than they are.” Yakov wiped the drool off his beard. “It’s October. If this drags on any longer, the supplies for those Cuman mercenaries will drain Yubi’s savings.”

“The King and the Count think the same way as Lord Jubius,” Sancho patted him on the shoulder to comfort him. “The army has already assembled here, and the military pay cannot be wasted. We will be able to fight before winter!”

"I thought you didn't like war," Yakov said coldly. "Don't you often fantasize about everyone living together peacefully?"

“But I’m a knight,” Sancho shrugged. “It’s no use if only I think that way.”

Indeed, Yakov thought. He bit his lip nervously, his mind filled with the rumored image of Roman soldiers eating palm leaves during the last Egyptian expedition. His heart pounded violently, sometimes threatening to leap from his lips, sometimes sinking into his stomach and causing him pain. This prolonged torment had been utterly exhausting for days.

“Don’t be so tense, let’s talk about something else, let’s change the subject.” Sancho winked at him, “Look at that Templar Knight over there, he looks exactly like you! I noticed that a few days ago and wanted to tell you about it.”

"...I don't have the mind to look at other people's appearance right now."

"It's quite rare for a Koslav to be a Knight Templar!"

Slavs, Yakov hasn't been called that in a long time. In the overseas territories of the East, people from all walks of life are present, and they don't care so much about race and bloodline; faith is what matters—after all, the Greeks and Saracens called all the people of the West Franks, how could they distinguish whether the blond-haired, blue-eyed people belonged to the Onssa, Normans, or Slavs? Just like many superficial Franks who came here, they couldn't distinguish between Bedouins, Kurds, and Seljuk Turks, only knowing that they all wore turbans, wore eyeliner, rode camels in the desert, and wielded scimitars.

Yakov finally raised his eyes and glanced in the direction Sancho was winking—there was indeed a man of similar stature in the hall, dressed in the Knights' white robes with the red cross, standing upright in the corner. The man seemed to notice his gaze, glanced over, and gave him a friendly smile.

A Slavic face. Yakov, shocked, released his chapped lips, which he had bitten until they bled. A rugged face with blond hair, pale eyes, and a broad, long nose. Only the hair was thicker and the skin was redder from the sun. He immediately looked away.

“See, I told you so,” Sancho whispered to him. “You two look like brothers.”

“When I was a slave, I didn’t even know my brothers.” Yakov’s brow furrowed.

“You are all Slavs, it must have been difficult for you to become knights, especially Templars,” Sancho said. “Perhaps you are truly long-lost brothers?”

Yakov instinctively loathed these words. Brothers? He thought, why would I need some random brother from who-knows-where? "I'm too lazy to talk about it," he said, waving his hand angrily. "Talking about it would only be reopening old wounds."

Sancho pursed his lips, too lazy to comfort him any further. Yakov, however, remained silent, lost in thought. Slavs, he thought, as if he had forgotten something important. His mind was filled with the discussion of the Egyptian expedition in the conference hall, leaving him no room for anything else. Anxious waves crashed against him incessantly, as if his eyes were blinded by the spray.

Yakov tried to calm himself and ponder this strange occurrence. But at that moment, the doors to the meeting hall opened. All the knights and generals in the hall looked up and stared at the king and counts who emerged from the doors.

Had they reached a conclusion today? Yakov's heart leaped into his throat again. He stared intently at the leper king—who looked even younger than Yubi, wearing a magnificent silver mask to conceal his festering face, his body wrapped in bandages from the neck down. He was thin and unsteady on his feet, relying entirely on his elders to act on his behalf: the Count of Tripoli, the Prince of Antioch, the Baron brothers of Ibelin, and the lords of Transjordan. Then, the Roman General Condorstefanos, along with the Count of Flanders and his son who had brought the Crusaders, emerged from the room.

Yakov noticed that everyone's faces wore expressions of disappointment and resentment. A sense of foreboding washed over him, as if he were locked in a cage in the sea, about to drown and suffocate.

The king spoke. "Grand Master of the Hospitallers," said the young voice, "come to me."

A man in a white octagonal cross black cloak stepped forward and gave a knightly salute. Everyone in the hall fell silent in tension; the sound of his cloak scraping against the floor could be heard.

"Summon your knights," the king said, his voice sounding utterly weary. "Your troops will follow the Count of Flanders and his son north to attack Halim."

The North? Halim? Yakov's eyes widened. Everyone around him reacted the same way, and the hall erupted in an uproar.

The Grand Master of the Hospitallers looked up in disbelief. “And Egypt, Your Majesty?” He hurriedly rolled up his cloak and glanced at the Romans who had been breached—General Condor Stefanos stood there, his face ashen, as if he were about to breathe fire.

“Egypt is too far,” the leper king said weakly, “the expedition is cancelled.”