Act XII: The Destruction of Sodom (Part 6)

six

In Yakov's common sense, if one were born a creature as terrifying and powerful as a vampire, wouldn't it be natural for them all to have this "ideal"—to turn everyone in the world into blood slaves? When mortals are in power, they are like jackals; even if they only taste a speck of flesh and blood, they will crave more for the rest of their lives, until their teeth loosen and their claws break. Who doesn't want to be a lord, a king, or an emperor? Who doesn't want to trample others underfoot? Who doesn't want to make everyone their slave? Writers and poets call this a sordid ambition, yet they also praise royal power and keep servants; monks and bishops call this evidence of evil, yet they also amass wealth and are worshipped.

Thus, the contents of Ambicia's letter puzzled the Blood Slave: Why did Ambicia also think this was an absurd hysteria? Could it be that beneath her burgeoning and icy ambition, there was still morality and compassion?

What about Yubi?

Yakov felt his mind was foggy, and the morning heat made him dizzy; all he wanted to do was rush to the well and pour water over his head. The knight practiced his swordplay in the monastery grounds, working himself to the bone until his back was drenched in sweat and his muscles ached. In his daze, Daoud scurried up beside him again, his magnificent Damascus steel dagger gleaming ostentatiously at his waist. “My lord, I didn’t ask much…” the squire whispered furtively, “I heard from other squires that Yesau also has a title, called ‘The Humble One’…”

The Humble One? Yakov scoffed at the title. "Where is that man now?" he asked, catching his breath. "Still near the monastery in Montgisa, not back on the Temple Mount yet?"

“My lord, there’s a reason he didn’t return to the Temple Mount…” Daoud’s voice trailed off. “With Lord Sancho gone, according to the rules, you must have a knightly brother to accompany you, in pairs. The Grand Master is arranging for him to come and team up with you, so he’s been following you everywhere…”

"This is utterly ridiculous," Yakov thought bitterly. His gaze shifted to the side of St. George's Church, a silent curse rising from the cross on the stone roof—where the child's cries echoed day after day. "Didn't Schumeer's wet nurse arrive?" He dropped his longsword and gulped down the water from his pouch. "Why is the child still crying?"

Daoud's dark eyes darted around, as if hesitating about something. Yakov only needed to glance at him to know what he was thinking. "What are you hiding from me?" The knight lowered his voice, startling the squire who stood at attention, trembling. "What happened to you last time you hid something from me?"

“My lord, I… I won’t lie to you, but please don’t let Nuk know that I told you this,” Daoud said in a tense voice. “Nuk told me that Lord Shumel used to feed the child donkey milk… Now that the wet nurse has come, the child doesn’t like human milk…”

"Jesus Christ!" If Yakov were truly a Christian, he would have uttered that curse. "...That damned Jew, that idiot with a brain full of mush!" He propped himself up on his knees, trying to get up, but then angrily sat back down, his face grave as he pondered something—Daud timidly observed his expression, racking his brains for words to quell his superior's anger. "M-Sir, actually, donkey milk is a good thing; it won't harm children," the servant stammered. "Donkey milk is expensive; ordinary families can't afford it."

“You don’t understand, it’s not what you’re saying.” Yakov said irritably, stood up and walked away. “From today onwards, you will supervise the construction site for me, and I will go to Jaffa myself.”

"Are you going to the port yourself?" Daoud asked in surprise, taking two steps forward. "You only need to pick up one person; I could have done that too!"

"Don't ask so many questions." The knight had already stepped under the eaves, his voice fading into the distance. "Listen to me, mind your own business!"

The "office" of the "treasurer" and "judge" had been moved to the copyist's room in St. George's Church. Yakov stepped inside, his foot landing on a crisp piece of paper. He looked around the room following the paper: the floor was piled high with messy sheets of paper, leaving almost no room to step. They were either tax regulations, land deeds, or IOUs, along with numerous Arabic dictionary annotations. All the text was covered with messy lines and distorted drawings, no longer the lifelike depictions of the past—but at least the annoying child wasn't there. Instead, a row of bald monks were bent over copying things at a slanted table.

Schumeer, looking haggard, buried himself in books at the largest table, writing and eating bread from his plate as he went. Yakov noticed that he had somehow become like a monk, needing a handheld mirror to read. The delicate glass contraption with a handle reflected the sunlight, illuminating even the dust motes dancing in the air. Seeing his companion arrive, Schumeer got up from the table and led him to a quiet corner of the room, away from unrelated people.

"When are you leaving?" Schumeer asked, his eyes darkening. "Remember to borrow money from the Knights before you come back."

A parchment was handed to Yakov. The knight unfolded it and examined it closely. It was filled with complex and eloquent wording, followed by a string of numbers after Yubi's name. "...One thousand silver marks," Yakov counted laboriously on his fingers, "You've written it wrong. One thousand silver marks is equivalent to more than ten thousand gold coins. Building a new house doesn't cost that much."

But Schumacher sighed and shook his head. “If you want to hear it, I’ll calculate it for you in detail when we get back.” He forgot to put down his quill, his fingers covered in ink stains. “We gave some money when we went to Nablus for the wedding, and donated some more to the church at Christmas, New Year’s, and Easter; your soldiers need to eat, drink, and train every day, the scribes in the house need to be paid, and the horses and camels in the stables need to be shoveled for manure and fed. The fortress has been in disrepair for years, and the market was smashed to pieces by Saladin’s army… Do you want to know how much money we brought from Constantinople is left?”

The more Yakov listened, the more unsightly the wrinkles on his brow and at the corners of his mouth deepened. "No need," he said helplessly, rolling up the parchment in his hand and retying the knot with the rope. "...You can take care of everything as long as I borrow it?"

His Jewish friend simply waved him out. “Since you’re doing this for me, trust me,” Schumacher whispered. “Just find a way to borrow it, and everything will be fine.”

Yakov went to Yubi's room again—now, not to mention the musician playing the expensive grand piano, even the wool carpet on the floor, the incense smoke rising from the fireplace, and the finely bound books on the table could make his eyelids twitch with anger. He took off his boots, roughly pulled back the thick curtains that blocked the light, and a heavy, damp steam hit his face.

Yubi's face peeked out from the side of an unusually large wooden barrel, turning to look at him amidst a group of slaves carrying towels. "Are you going to Jaffa?" he said, half aggrieved and half envious. "If only you could take me with you! There's nothing here, it's so boring!"

"You're taking a bath during the day?" Yakov nearly crumpled the parchment in his hand. "And when did you buy this wooden tub?"

“I can’t go out during the day!” Yubi’s hand was stretched out from the edge of the tub, her black, sharp nails dangling back and forth. “I can’t just wait until the hot spring pool in the new house is finished before I can take a bath.”

“I have business to attend to at the Knights, and Schumeer is overwhelmed with things in the city, while you’re just enjoying yourself here.” Yakov turned and made a move to leave. “It seems there’s no need for you to even look at this request.”

"You're so annoying! You always pick on me when I'm resting, as if you guys don't rest at night!" Yubi's face was flushed red from the hot water as she stood up from the tub, dripping wet. "You say I can't do this or that, but if I don't do it, you complain that I'm idle. It's all my fault!"

"So what have you been doing these past few days?"

“I’m discussing philosophy and reading books with people, and I’m also busy learning Arabic!” Yubi insisted, “I’m not only learning to listen and speak, but also to read and write. Soon I’ll know better than you how to talk to Saracens!”

Yakov felt a ache in all the muscles of his face, unable to make a gesture. He glanced discreetly at the candlelight on the table—Yubi hadn't lied; there was indeed a book there, written from right to left, filled with ornate, scribbled characters. Before he could think of a rebuttal, the young lord stepped out of the tub, and all the towels in the slaves' hands rushed towards him.

“If you have time to go to Jerusalem, please check on Eudosias for me.” The vampire tidied his dripping hair. “Also… ask Naya for me. If Eudosias is doing well, she should be back.”

"A female slave makes you think about her so much?" Yakov stared warily into his eyes. "I thought you had long forgotten about her."

“She was my first blood slave! I feel terrible when she’s not around. No one else is as skilled as her at doing things.” Yubi flicked her wrist. “If it’s on your way, just ask her for me. Come back as soon as possible.”

How could he borrow this money? Yakov pondered for a long time and decided to discard his most burdensome asset—the prisoners of war he had captured, whom he had used as laborers to build the foundation for Yubi's new house for four months. Now that the house was taking shape, the remaining fine work could only be left to the craftsmen, rendering these men useless. If he handed them over to the Knights, the most likely outcome was that they would be used to provoke Saladin, pushed to the front lines and have their throats slit during the battle. Yakov thought that for the prisoners, this might be a more dignified way to die—and most importantly, it could be used as collateral to obtain the Knights' loan.

The knight skillfully bound each of the prisoners with shackles, fastened heavy iron chains around their ankles, and tied them together with ropes. He then selected three soldiers to accompany him, leading the horses out of the city gate.

It was late spring, May. In other beautiful places, this time of year would be a vibrant display of life, the most pleasant season. But in this holy land, the climate was growing drier day by day, and the rare greenery was gradually disappearing. The group had only been trekking for a short while when a sandstorm arrived.

A parched, orange sun hung in the sky, turning the clear expanse into a hazy, silent gray-yellow. Soldiers had to cover their own and their horses' mouths and noses with headscarves to avoid swallowing the gritty sand floating in the air; the prisoners, their armor long since stripped off, trudged through the sand beneath their horses, too thirsty to even utter a prayer. Yakov's undergarments were soaked with sweat. He looked back; the prominent cross of St. George's Church was now obscured by the haze, nothing could be seen. It was as if they were isolated in the windswept, silken desert—Yakov inexplicably thought of the heavy snow in the Transylvanian forests. Then and now, it was so similar; the whole world was utterly silent.

"Sir, will we get lost?" a soldier asked nervously. "Do you know the way?"

Yakov dismounted. He tore off the hemp rope from his turban and tied all the horses' bridles together, linking them with the prisoners, like a haphazard caravan. "Jaffa is close, we'll be there soon, no need to worry," he said. "I've traveled this road many times."

The soldiers exchanged relieved smiles. "You're so reliable, sir." They patted their chests in relief, even their mounts seemed less agitated. "It's so good to have you here."

“I’m so thirsty,” a prisoner of war pleaded with him again in Arabic. “Give me some water.”

Yakov glanced at him, untied the water pouch from his belt, uncorked it, and, pinching the man's face, restrainedly poured the water into his mouth. The prisoner of war opened his mouth wide like a fish out of water, not wanting to spill a single drop. "Thank you, sir," he choked out, "God will protect you."

Upon hearing the grateful knight, he pushed him away as if burned by the praise. "It's time to continue," Yakov said, hiding his water pouch under his cloak. "No one is allowed to ask me for water again."

The caravan followed the official road built by the Romans a thousand years ago, occasionally encountering crumbling walls and broken stone tablets buried in the dried-up riverbeds, covered by sand with only a corner showing. The knights counted these markers to lead the way, quickly guiding the group out of the vast desert and into a place dotted with farmland and villages. The sand was so dense and thick that they only saw the walls of Jaffa clearly when they reached its base. Looking up, they had to strain to make out the long red cross flag hanging from the towers—this was a major coastal city guarded by the Knights Templar.

Yakov circled the city gate to the south and glanced at the sea. The usually bustling port, teeming with pilgrims, was shrouded in dust and fog, forcing the soldiers to carry lanterns even during the day to patrol the embankment. "No ships will be able to dock today," he told the soldiers as he returned. "We'll go into town and wait a few days."

The men obeyed his instructions, dismounting and taking their reins. Just as Yakov was about to lead his men into the city, he saw another group of travelers being led through the dust by a familiar Templar Knight, heading towards the Jerusalem Gate where they were—a girl wearing a headscarf was walking quickly toward him.

"What a coincidence, Lord Yakov! It's been a long time!" Eudosia's smile was as bright and warm as the sun, and his voice was as clear as a wind chime. "Is Lord Jubius here too?"

“He didn’t come along,” Yakov said.

“Oh, that’s true. It’s not very convenient for Lord Jubius to go out.” The girl lightly made the sign of the cross. “Please give him my regards. I pray to the Lord every day for his health.”

Yakov nodded perfunctorily. He used his rough hands to untie his veil and glanced at the figure behind the girl with a somber expression—Naya was helping her unload her luggage from the camel and talking to a Templar Knight with a rolled-up turban. The Templar Knight was dressed in the same white robe with a red cross as him, was tall and muscular, a Slav, and had a similar, brotherly face.

Seeing him look over, the figure waved.

The blood slave stiffly feigned piety, placing his right hand on his chest as he greeted another blood slave.

“Yesau,” he said. “I remember you.”

“Yakov, my comrade-in-arms.” Yesau smiled when he saw him, his long beard covering his lips. “Your prisoners are dying of thirst, why don’t you take them to the well?”

The knight waved his rough, sun-reddened hand, pointing to the well beneath the city wall for the poor souls. The prisoners of war behind Yakov crowded forward, outstretched hands pleading. He watched coldly as his saintly comrade raised a ladle and fed it to each shackled hand. The moist spring water flowed between their chapped lips, washing away some of the ashen pain from their faces. All of them revealed long-lost, satisfied smiles.