Act XI: The Promised Land (XIV)

fourteen

Before taking off his iron hat, Yakov tested the temperature with his fingers. It was late November, and at night, the steel was no longer as scorching as it had been in the desert during the day; instead, it was as cold as ice. Yubi emerged from his hat, his naked body transforming back into human form.

"I'm starving," the vampire said, floating in mid-air. "I'm going back to Mount Temple to find Schmel."

Yakov had already unbuckled the leather belt around his neck halfway and found a secluded spot in the army camp. He frowned. "You don't want my blood?"

“You still have to fight a war,” Yubi said. “Besides, you can’t feed me all by yourself!”

“Then go,” Yakov said regretfully, but then grabbed his master’s arm, “…How will you come back? Will you be able to find the army?”

“You don’t need to worry about that. Take care of yourself.” Yubi pointed to her red eyes. “I can see everything. I’ll be back before dawn.”

Yakov nodded. As soon as he let go, his master melted into the night and disappeared without a sound.

By daylight, the knights resumed their secret march. Along the way, the army sent out countless scouts and reconnaissance soldiers to request reinforcements from the fortresses of all the surrounding Christian lords and to investigate the movements of Saladin's army. The baron's brothers from Ibelin arrived with their troops, and the Templar Knights of Gaza successfully joined them—but the entire force still numbered less than three thousand. The army dared not travel along the main road, fearing that the Sultan's spies would also discover their location.

The peasants Yakov had gathered trudged across the rocky, sandy beach with long faces, doing chores like pushing carts and cooking. They weren't entirely useless, Yakov thought, frowning; at least this group obeyed his commands and wasn't considered part of the Knights' forces. But he had to admit that these dozens of men from the village weren't even as capable as his little squire—Daud had been trained by him for years, and he knew his temperament inside and out. Now, the squire was acting as his proxy, training the militia.

"Save some water!" Yakov didn't need to say it himself. He only needed to stand at a distance, arms crossed, and observe Daoud's smug expression. "If Lord Yakov sees you wasting water like this, he won't waive your taxes!"

The knight raised an eyebrow, then turned and walked silently toward Sancho's camel.

His comrade seemed to be ill. Yakov had Sancho's squire examine him, but no wounds were found. "Hold on for two more days, and when we reach the next city, you can go in and rest," Yakov said, scrutinizing his face from horseback. "It won't be a big deal if you're gone."

“You wish.” Sancho also had a turban wrapped around his helmet, making his head look round and large. He raised his hand and pointed to the marching soldiers ahead. “Look at those who are wounded, those who have hit their heads, those who have been hit by arrows, they are all still waiting to fight. The king has leprosy but he is still riding on horseback, what would I be if I stepped down? Besides, I still need to take care of those dozens of men I brought from Constantinople.”

“Just leave it to your squire.” Yakov touched Sancho’s forehead—he didn’t have a fever, but for some reason it was covered in sweat. “What’s so special about you that you have to do it? I’ll talk to the Grand Master. It’s my turn to protect you this time.”

Sancho just shook his head and turned his face away. "It's just that it has to be me, I have no choice but to do it," he murmured. "Lord, bless me."

“If you don’t mind,” Yubi whispered to Yakov that very night, “I’ll turn Sancho into a blood slave too, that way all sorts of strange diseases will be cured…”

“You’re insane!” Yakov interrupted him angrily. “He didn’t have the plague or dysentery, and he didn’t have his hands or feet chopped off. Why do you have to treat this little ailment? He’s not blind like Schumer!”

Yubi reluctantly curled his lip. "If you don't want to, then don't." He wrapped himself in Yakov's cloak, covering his body with a dirty cloth with a red cross on it. "I haven't seen you ask me to treat any people in the team who actually had their hands or feet cut off."

“Mind your own business. They’re either brainwashed by their beliefs or arrogant and incompetent. It’s none of your concern if they get their hands or feet chopped off.” Yakov’s brow furrowed again. “You should think about how we can take a city here.”

Which city do you want to seize?

"Whichever city is occupied by the □, we can rightfully seize it."

Yubi winked beside him, the firelight shimmering in his pupils. "Let me go check," he suddenly emerged naked from under Yakov's cloak. "I'll be right back!"

Yakov, in a daze, tried to grab him, but grasped only air. His master immediately spread his wings and soared into the night sky, disappearing from sight in the blink of an eye. The Blood Slave sighed and sat back down on the ground, picking up the heavy longsword beside him and wiping it. Thinking back, he realized he had used this ruby-inlaid longsword for seven years—it was still as good as when Yakov had first acquired it. Now, on a march, Yakov had neither the energy nor the time to oil and maintain it. He could only wipe the blade with a cotton cloth, observing where new, tiny scratches had appeared.

A thought suddenly popped into the Blood Slave's mind: how else could he use his master in this war?

Yubi could fly through the night undetected, with excellent visibility. Could Yubi even spot which cities had been captured and looted? If he were like his mother, he could instantly kill everyone in the army, scattering the enemy's blood across the desert; or turn them all into blood slaves, regardless of their noble status, military achievements, or even kings and emperors—all reduced to mindless puppets, branded and tortured, lying prostrate on the ground—

Yakov's expression was one of agony, as if he had witnessed something horrific. He put down the sword and stared at his calloused and scarred hands. He opened and closed his rough fingers, clenching them into tight fists as if trying to strangle something in his palms.

He had decided to stop thinking about it. "I don't need Yubi," Yakov kept repeating to himself, as if trying to hypnotize himself. He could do it all by himself; he didn't need Yubi. He insisted on getting what he wanted fairly—but what even constituted fairness? Didn't fairness never exist? He remembered Yesau, who resembled him, also wielding a sharp longsword inlaid with rubies; he remembered the wounds that had been healed by his master during their fight in the Grand Arena. He also remembered Yubi and Ambichai sitting awkwardly together at the banquet table. How could he defeat someone inherently wicked without resorting to all the insidious and evil tricks? If others could abandon morality and law, why couldn't he? Why couldn't Yubi?

Yakov suddenly remembered Schumeer's empty eye sockets—he thought, this is the consequence of never abandoning morality and law. Only when people discard these useless things can they see the truth and truly live in this world.

The Blood Slave waited quietly by the campfire for a while longer. He heard faint snoring coming from the knights' tents behind him. Daoud tiptoed out from the crowd and came to his side—Yakov noticed him easily and grabbed him in one swift motion.

“My lord, I didn’t want to wake anyone…” The young Palestinian servant seemed to have matured considerably, his expression hardening. “I have something I want to discuss with you. I’ve been waiting for a long time… Lord Jubius is no longer here, is he? Nuk told me something… Please don’t punish him.”

Yakov frowned in exasperation and released the servant's wrist. He thought to himself, everyone around him has really become the same.

Daoud swept his robes aside and sat down opposite him, as if he were now an adult capable of serious conversation with a knight. “Sir,” he said, “you know my family are Palestinian farmers, all of them…” He stared down at his black tunic with the red cross sewn on it. “I just learned they’ve all moved away and settled in Damascus. I think they’d never want to acknowledge a converted Christian child who’s killed criminals back home… You know, I converted because I needed a way out. I was hoping to earn some money with the Order and then go home… I wanted my whole family to convert to Christianity.”

“If you encounter your comrades on the battlefield in the future,” Yakov looked at him coldly, “would you be able to bring yourself to kill them?”

“…I won’t, sir.” Daoud stared blankly at the campfire. “Because they won’t spare me either.”

“If you think like this, there’s nothing wrong with you.” Yakov turned his gaze away. “Thinking like this is enough for you to survive on the battlefield.”

"I... I just feel..." The young man suddenly narrowed his eyes, as if he had been stimulated by something spicy, "Sir, from now on I have no home."

Yakov sighed, pulled the servant to his shoulder, and patted the young boy's back firmly to comfort him. Daoud clutched Yakov's robe and wailed, oblivious to whether the soldiers were awakened. On the eve of war, wailing was never considered offensive, Yakov thought. If tears and cries could release the weaknesses in one's heart, making one stronger and more aware of the hardships of survival, then crying could be quite useful, a necessary baptism for survival.

“From this day forward, the Knights will be your home,” the knight said. “Cry your heart out today, but don’t shed a single tear tomorrow.”

“No, my lord,” Daoud sobbed, “from now on you will be my father, and Lord Eubius will be my god.”

Yakov's brow furrowed again, as if from a wound. The servant's words cut into his heart like a knife, causing the scar on his chest to ache once more. He thought, must people in this world find a father, must find a god, or they simply cannot live? Must they kneel down upon hearing legends and stories, witnessing miracles, secrets, and authority? Yet, he felt pity: not everyone is as heroic and powerful as he was. This vulnerable young man, without a home, would have nowhere to find solace in life if he didn't seek a father, a god.

This pity stirred a base sense of self-satisfaction within him, as if he were a superior being, unlike anyone else in the world, as if he had transcended worldly concerns, as if he had become the very person he once hated most—the one who radiated compassion and stood aloof. This feeling was like being on cloud nine, ethereal and intoxicating, an addiction that quickly took hold.

So Yakov didn't refute these sad words. Blood Slave thought, let him call himself his father, and Yubi his god.

“…I will protect you.” He patted Daoud on the back again. “Go to sleep after you’ve finished crying. We have to continue marching tomorrow.”

Daoud, wiping his snot and tears, climbed out of his arms and nodded vigorously. "...I will do everything I can for you," he sobbed, "as a way of repaying the kindness you and Lord Eubius have shown me."

“I know.” Yakov pushed him away. “Go and rest. I have other things to do.”

His attendant smiled shyly through his tears, scratched his head, and quietly returned to his tent.

"...Do you want me to turn him into my blood slave too?" Yubi had been hiding in the air for an unknown amount of time. He floated down lightly, landing beside Yakov, his pale body radiating an eerie light. "That way, I can protect both of you on the battlefield."

“This child is still too young.” Yakov wrapped Yubi in his cloak again—he was growing increasingly disgusted with the vampire’s unrestrained nakedness. “If he gets wounded on the battlefield… you can save him then.”

Yubi snorted, too lazy to argue. He simply used his sharp fingernails to open Yakov's pouch and pulled out a map. "I've looked all around here. Saladin's army is looting everywhere." He spread out the roll of cotton cloth and drew a line upwards along Ashkelon. "Several cities have been ravaged: Ramre, Lud, and Asa. The first two were Ibelin territory; they brought their troops, leaving their cities undefended. The last one belonged to Princess Sibylla, though she lives in Jerusalem. Now the city is full of looters, with fires burning everywhere; you can see it all at a glance."

"...Which one do you like?" Yakov suddenly looked up and asked him.

"What?"

"Ramre, Lud, Asa," the knight uttered the names of these cities with a mixture of indifference and delight. "Which one do you prefer?"

Yubi opened his mouth in surprise. "You said war wasn't such a simple matter, how come you're telling me to pick and choose cities like I'm buying things?" He pursed his lips awkwardly, "As if the Baron of Ibelin and Princess Sibylla's territory could be easily seized by you and me..."

“As long as we seize it first, any disputes will come later.” Yakov’s eyes darted back and forth between the three cities on the map. “If they are dissatisfied, just say that you owe the Roman emperor a favor and tell them to ask that dark-skinned old emperor. By diverting the conflict to others, our 50,000 gold coins won’t have been wasted.”

“…You actually came up with such an idea.” Yubi’s expression was a mixture of embarrassment and relief. “You’re so wicked, Yakov!”

What was originally an insult now sounded like praise, and Yakov accepted it with a smile. He then carefully studied the locations of the three cities. "The army isn't heading towards Jerusalem; they must be short of supplies." He surveyed the roads and mountains. "Thirty thousand men are scattered across these three distant cities, heading towards the sea… Where is the Sultan? Can you see him?"

Yubi raised his sharp fingernails again and tapped them on the sandy wilderness south of Ramree. “His camp is here,” the vampire said, “probably waiting for the army to return from their looting before heading to Jerusalem.”

As dawn broke, the scout on horseback brought exactly the same news as Yubi had said. "This is a good opportunity," Yakov said ambitiously to Sancho. "To win with fewer troops, we must defeat them one by one."

Sancho looked up and saw the sky was filled with dark clouds—winter was approaching, and the rainy season in the desert was coming. "Just follow the commander's orders," he replied perfunctorily. "I know you have something to hide and are thinking about other things... Don't actually do anything despicable like betraying your allies on the battlefield. If you do, it's none of my business if you're executed."

“I’m not that stupid.” Yakov tucked his cleaned sword back into his waistband. “I won’t cause any trouble until I’ve wiped out all the bastards here.”

His Spanish comrade let out a long sigh and hunched over. Yakov suddenly felt that Sancho had also aged—like Schumacher when he knelt before them for help as a beggar. It was as if his spine had been ripped away, as if the pillars of his faith had collapsed, as if there was nothing left in this world to cherish, nothing that could awaken the vitality in their lives.

Yakov couldn't stand anyone acting like that. He kicked Sancho hard.

“Once we drive these bastards away, once we return to the Temple Mount,” he shouted, “I will have Yubi send you ten more camels!”

Before long, a torrential downpour began in the desert. The land, already composed entirely of fine sand and gravel, was now a muddy swamp, the muddy water reaching up to the horses' bellies. The army marched without shelter from the rain, and Yakov's turban, robe, and cloak were completely soaked, making his chainmail feel as cold as ice. He looked up, simply directing himself and his troops to follow the large, misty cross ahead—a memory that strangely reminded him of the forests of Transylvania. His toes, too, were now cold and wet, sticking uncomfortably inside his shoes.

Their grand commander was riding alongside the lords of Transjordan. The army pressed on, finally reaching the valley south of Ramre before nightfall—next to the place where Saladin's camp was, as Yubi had pointed out to Yakov. The two thousand men hid along a secluded path. The young king, suffering from leprosy, along with all the lords around him, rushed into the tent to urgently discuss tactics.

"Do you like seaside towns?" Yakov said to Yubi sweetly and longingly that night. "You used to love the view of Golden Horn."

"The view from the sea is only beautiful during the day." But the vampire, with his eyes closed, nestled in his arms, said, "I can't bear to look at the view during the day."

The next morning, the weather remained gloomy. Yet the enormous, gilded cross still cast a faint glow, illuminating the army with a sun-like brilliance. Everyone quietly climbed the hillside—from there they could see Saladin's troops below, trapped in the mud by the sudden downpour, their eyes still sleepy, each looking exhausted and weary.

The king knelt before the box containing the True Cross and gave a final pep talk to the army.

"I will go with you into battle." His words shocked and impressed everyone. "Warriors of Christ, we have no way out. God has given us this only chance. If we fail, there will be no more Jerusalem, no more Holy City of the Lord."

"If you desert, you will betray the Lord, and shameful sins will accompany you for the rest of your life. You will fall into the hell of remorse. But if you die in battle under the sword of the pagans, your souls will ascend to heaven. Christ will forgive all the sins you have committed, simply because you were warriors who gave your lives to defend the Holy City!"

Knights, remember your oath! Warriors, defend your faith!

"The glory of the true cross shines upon us. As God desires!"

Yakov's horse led the charge. He neighed as he charged down the hillside with a band of Templar Knights. The damp, cold wind seeped into his ears through his chainmail, drowning out the deafening roars around him, as if he couldn't hear anything at all. The iron cavalry stormed into the Saracen camp, many of whom resembled Saladin—Salad was surrounded by his most elite Mamluks, and Yakov felt a surge of pleasure at their panicked, tense expressions. It was so muddy that the blood from his sword fell to the ground, leaving no trace of color.

Yubi could heal all his wounds, but not his mount. These men were all fighting with their backs against the wall; no one wanted to desert. The fighting hadn't been going on for long when all three of Yakov's swift horses collapsed in the mud, some with broken legs, others with slit throats. The rider fell from his horse, only to rise again in knee-deep mud. He still had countless strength at his disposal, his burgeoning ambition propelling him to continue cutting down countless enemies before him—Yakov didn't know what the others were thinking. Whether it was to defend their homeland, their faith, or their families, he thought, the ambition for power was clearly no weaker than these seemingly noble reasons—in fact, ambition was the most brutal and powerful of all! Ambition was like an aphrodisiac for war, a key to unlocking potential. He was no kinder than any of them, but he was also no weaker!

"That's Saladin's nephew!" Yakov heard maniacal laughter erupt from the chaotic battlefield. He looked over and saw the head of a young Saracen commander being held in the hands of the Transjordanian lord.

He roared with fury along with all the warriors whose bodies were embroidered with crosses. This would be a victory! Yakov looked around frantically, where was that cowardly Sultan, the legendary commander who would unify the land? Capture and kill him, and the world would be turned upside down, all danger extinguished!

The knight plunged his longsword into a soldier's neck and ripped the body apart. Just then, a caravan of tall camels galloped across the battlefield, knocking him to the ground. Yakov, clutching his iron helmet, rolled out of the mud and spat out the dirty water he had swallowed. A thin, masked general wearing an intricately carved helmet flashed past him. Yakov glimpsed the military flag hanging beside the camel saddles—covered in Arabic script he couldn't understand. But it was red and yellow, and the flagpole's top was cast in the shape of a crescent moon—Yakov knew that this crescent moon symbolized new life and hope, a symbol of [unclear - possibly a type of military organization].

"Saladin!" he shouted, "Saladin is here!"

All the knights struggled through the mud, their legs unable to outrun camels, so they grabbed the remaining horses and desperately gave chase. Yakov didn't follow them, thinking he should hurry to Ramrei, Lud, or Asa to kill the remaining remnants of the [unspecified] army and capture a city for Yubi. He too, with his cloudy eyes, almost groped his way through the blurry vision for his squire, militia, and mount.

The rainwater accumulated deeper and deeper. A round object was bobbing up and down, rolling and tumbling on the surface of the water, eventually bumping into Yakov's legs.

He turned and grabbed the object, holding it up to his face—it was Sancho's severed head, already cold.

As if waking from a mad dream, Yakov looked around. He then realized that it was getting dark, and the battle had continued from dawn until dusk. Of the remaining warriors standing around him, those with crosses sewn into their bodies, less than half remained.