Act XII: The Destruction of Sodom (Part 9)

Nine

When Yakov woke up, he touched the bed beside him. It was empty—his master had slipped away before sunrise. He pressed the uncontrollable bite marks on his neck as he got up, lazily pulling his chainmail and robe back on, covering the scars with his belt buckle, and went downstairs, his hard and terrifying appearance returning.

The monks, who had been chatting idly, fell silent upon seeing him. "The sandstorm has stopped," Yakov said. "Those Saracens should be dealt with today."

“We’re short-handed, sir, there’s no rush.” The old monk slowly stood up. “Besides, it’ll take many days to auction off 20 slaves…”

“There’s no need to find anyone else, I’ll go to the market myself,” Yakov interrupted them. “Take the person with you, and bring back the gold coins. It’ll make it easier for you to keep accounts. Any other questions?”

The two monks exchanged bewildered glances. "This...this isn't very proper," they said, heads bowed in embarrassment. "As knights, we shouldn't do such things ourselves. Perhaps we should ask your squire..."

"Decent?" Yakov scoffed inwardly at this pedantic and hypocritical charlatan. "You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone in the entire Holy Land more skilled in the slave trade than me." He casually pointed his whip at his face. "'The Slavs are not only good slaves, but also good slave traders.' Three days later, I'll bring the gold coins and give each of you one as your personal property. Deal?"

Now, the two monks' eyes were filled with disdain and disgust for worldly money; yet at the same time, they muttered curses as they took out twenty slave disposal contracts from the counter and handed them to Yakov with considerable hesitation, as if they were offering contracts to sell their souls. This affected manner provoked a sneer from Yakov. "You've become stupid from reading the scriptures," he couldn't help but tease, his face stern. "Since you work for the Knights, you inevitably have to deal with Saracens. I wonder if you regard these enemies of the Lord as human beings or as non-human beings? If you can't even figure that out, how can you define dignity and piety?"

The monks, like silent doves, dared only mutter to themselves. "Give me more paper and pen; I need to find someone to send a message back to Lud," Yakov instructed them again. "Find the fastest horse to deliver it."

"...As you wish." The monk rolled his eyes indignantly.

Yakov took the quill from his hand—the pen was so thin and light that it bent and deformed under his clumsy fingers. Holding the nib, he wrote two short lines on the paper in a crooked and extremely slow manner, the nib almost piercing the paper with force.

"Get rid of that musician named Leili, and never let her see Yubi again."

"I have been summoned and must go to Karak. I will return to the city in two days. The loan and the guest will be delivered by a messenger ahead."

He carefully cut the paper in half, separating the two lines of text, and wrote down the names of the two recipients.

The knight went to the fortress's underground dungeon and ordered his soldiers to bring out the prisoners of war. He examined each man's hands and teeth, rolled up his eyelids to see if his eyes were cloudy, and pulled down his clothes to check if his skin was diseased. "We're going to the port," Yakov said. "Three days should be enough to rent them out for a while."

"Rent it out?" The soldier he brought opened his mouth in surprise. "Weren't you going to sell it, sir?"

“These people are worthless now.” Yakov pinched each slave’s face hard to make their dark cheeks look healthier. “Work as much as you can while you can, and you’ll earn more money than the losses from raising them.”

No one dared to contradict him. So the knight stepped out the door, his iron shoes accompanied by a long, clear clanging sound of shackles clashing.

The port was teeming with people. The sandstorm had passed, and Jaffa was bathed in sunshine, teeming with pilgrims as in previous springs. From May onwards, the Mediterranean shipping routes entered their prime. Travelers hindered by the sandstorms were all gathered at the docks, waiting to set sail all at once, while caravans adrift at sea, unable to find their lighthouses, gradually returned to shore. The entire coastline was more chaotic than the busiest anthill—this was the most profitable time for coolies, something Yakov knew all too well.

He rolled up his sun turban and covered it over his scorching iron hat. The knight found a shady spot, brandishing his whip and directing his soldiers as they watched Saracen slaves, burdened with heavy loads, finally snatch their due wages from the counting Italian merchants—a scene Yakov knew all too well. He thought ironically that he had played every role in this absurd process, each position he had once considered high and mighty far from the comfortable and carefree life he had imagined. Now, these experiences, far from softening his heart, had hardened it to the bone.

Half a day later, the weakest and sickest of the prisoners of war collapsed under the weight of a mere bundle of linen and could no longer get up. Yakov stepped forward and kicked him twice with his shoe, then slowly strolled over to the unfortunate merchant.

“You’ve worked the Knights’ slave to death. Now that he’s gone to see God, he can no longer be Saladin’s bargaining chip.” His eyebrows furrowed one and raised the other, as if half his face was mournful and half was mocking. “How much compensation do you intend to pay?”

"This slave was already going to die!" The feathers on the Italian's soft hat fluttered anxiously. "I'll only pay you one gold coin at most!"

“If he hadn’t been carrying your goods, he would have lived for two more days. Besides one gold coin, you also have to compensate me for two days’ wages.” Yakov felt the surroundings getting noisier and had to raise his voice to shout, “I also need to bury him and pay for digging the grave. You must give me two gold coins.”

"You're trying to rip me off, you despicable knight!" the merchant cursed angrily in the Amalfi dialect he couldn't understand. "Even if I had just bought this slave, it wouldn't have cost me this much!"

"Then you should regret not buying him because you thought it was cheap; now you're losing even more!" Yakov's voice was even louder. "Give me the compensation!"

His tall stature and booming voice were always intimidating. The merchant's eyes darted around, glancing at the red cross on his arm and then at the longsword at his waist, before finally twisting his lips and pulling out gold coins from his purse. Yakov calmly held out his palm—he expected to receive two gleaming Hebron coins, but instead, two unfamiliar currencies were tossed into his glove—"What's this?" Without even looking, he grabbed the Italian merchant's robe collar. "Are you trying to fool me with this?"

"These are gold coins too!" The merchant's expression was extremely strange, a forced smile masking his fear. "These are Egyptian gold dinars, Saracen gold coins, worth more than Byzantine t!"

Yakov suspiciously picked up the gold coin from his palm and examined it closely—it was inscribed with Arabic calligraphy he didn't recognize, without any portraits or totems. The smooth edges, worn smooth by countless fingers, shone brilliantly in the sunlight, dazzlingly bright, and unmistakably the color of gold. Without a second thought, Yakov shoved the coin into his back teeth and bit down hard. His gums snapped open and bled, leaving only a shallow scratch on the coin.

"You dare to try and cheat me with counterfeit gold coins!" Yakov laughed angrily. "Liar, I should cut off your ears!"

He tore at the merchant's clothes and dragged him toward the Knights' fortress. The merchant's sailors and henchmen held him back, while his soldiers blocked his way. Soon, a chaotic scuffle erupted in front of the merchant ship's deck, attracting even more onlookers—and soon, Yakov drew his sword, skillfully dispersing all those pressing against him. "You attacked a knight in the Knights' port," he sneered. "Now it seems it's time to hang you!"

"Go to hell!" the merchant spat at him. "I'd rather be on the gallows than pay those scum of the Knights Templar!"

Yakov thought that even if he killed the arrogant merchant and confiscated all the cargo on the ship, it wouldn't be considered a violation of rules or laws—which was exactly what he wanted. Amidst the crowd's condemnation, a faint smile crept across his face as he considered which ungrateful pleader he would target—

"Yakov, what's going on!" But another group of people hurriedly pushed through the chaotic crowd and rushed towards him. "A knight shouldn't draw his sword against an unarmed person!"

The annoying voice was instantly recognizable. Yakov rolled his eyes in frustration and exasperation. He turned his head and, sure enough, caught sight of another group of knights—each dressed in a black robe with an octagonal white cross sewn on it.

“I understand you hate evil, but this method also undermines your own morality.” Pascal removed his helmet, hot air billowing from his collar. “Even these profit-driven merchants don’t deserve to die.”

Yakov said nothing, only glancing at the Knights' fortress—the Italian merchant who had been caught with a gun had been "fairly" taken to the coin check in Jaffa by others, and would likely spend a year or two in prison. But the cargo on that ship was also under the Knights' temporary custody, and he couldn't touch a single thing. Thinking of this, resentment began to creep into Yakov's heart, and looking at the handsome face beside him, he felt an infuriating stupidity.

Eudosia suddenly squeezed to their side. "I...I brought you some date juice!" she said, trembling, as she placed the water pouch into Pascal's hand. "Please try some!"

Pascal, terrified, hid his hands behind his back. "...God above, I...I cannot accept your favor, I should not drink your things..."

"So many people have donated to the Knights Hospitaller, why not mine?" The little girl looked at him expectantly yet defiantly. "Are you being biased towards me?"

Pascal suddenly found himself speechless, his tongue twirling. Seeing this, Yakov finally felt some of his anger subside. "He's not biased, and you can't be," he waved his hand. "Why don't you offer date juice to all these Hospitallers?"

Unable to think of an answer, Eudosia's face turned as red as a cherry, and he could only retreat to the side in a huff.

“You saved my life,” Pascal muttered, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. “God, I hope she gets rejected a few more times and then stops talking to me…”

“I think it’s going to be difficult,” Yakov chuckled. “When you get back to Jerusalem, you’d better figure out how to get out of this situation yourself, and don’t expect others to refuse for you.”

“Maybe I should shave my head,” Pascal said, squeaking his gloves. “Maybe I should eat myself into a fat man!”

“No, you idiot!” Yakov’s nose wrinkled with anger. “You should tell her: I don’t love you, and you shouldn’t love me. I’ve joined the Knights, and I can never marry!”

Pascal, upon hearing this, suddenly turned to look at him with a sense of unease. "It seems you truly don't understand women's minds at all," the Hospitaller sighed slowly, speaking as if reciting poetry. "If you say that, they will only fall deeper into it, becoming resolute fighters who will do anything for love. That would be going in the opposite direction."

Yakov, too lazy to listen to these stale love stories, merely scoffed and continued to supervise the work, whip in hand. "I want to ask, what brings you to Jaffa?" Pascal shrugged. "I heard Saladin's army is here, and you won a great victory... Where is Lord Eubius now?"

"He is now the lord of Lud City."

"ah?"

“I personally snatched Ludov back from the hands of the [unclear], and then made him make a deal with the Roman emperor.” Yakov turned his head. “What’s the problem?”

He clearly saw a fleeting suspicion in Pascal's green eyes, just like when he'd been choked in the blacksmith's shop in Constantinople, a mixture of contempt and anger—but that suspicion vanished without a trace, ultimately transforming into the envy and admiration commonly seen in others. "...Shouldn't you be in Lud now?" the Hospitaller Knight asked casually, turning his gaze away. "Or perhaps you, like Eudosias, came to Jaffa to greet me?"

“I do need to pick someone up from the port,” Yakov said, fidgeting with his riding crop in his hand. “Not you.”

"Who are you picking up?"

"If you're lucky, you'll see him soon; if you're unlucky, he might have been shipwrecked and you'll never see him again."

"Where did that man's ship come from, Constantinople?" Pascal looked at the northern coastline. "I came back from Constantinople. The ships from Constantinople should have all safely docked by now."

“It’s not a ship from Constantinople.” Yakov followed his gaze and suddenly seemed to understand something. “The Knights Hospitaller went to fight Halim, so why did they go to Constantinople? I thought your ship came back from Antioch.”

Upon hearing this question, Pascal's face visibly darkened and he became dejected.

“…Don’t mention it, brother.” He pushed his helmet up helplessly. “I only dare to say this to you, and only you don’t think I’m being blasphemous…I think the Earl of Flanders didn’t come here to fight at all. We should never have gone with him. The king made a mistake.”

"Why?"

"We were stationed at the walls of Halim, besieging the city until your news of victory at Montgisa arrived, and we still made no progress," Pascal said, frowning and crossing his arms. "All winter long, we besieged the city until we ran out of food and had to ask Antioch for help, but Antioch was suffering from famine. We watched the people in the city starve while we feasted... But in the end, the Count abandoned the siege and took his army to Constantinople to propose marriage to the Roman emperor."

"Arranging a marriage?"

“He’s here to arrange a marriage,” Pascal muttered indignantly. “He’s here to arrange a marriage between the emperor’s only son and the youngest daughter of the Capet family, not to wage war!”

Upon hearing this, Yakov suddenly laughed, laughing so hard he couldn't lift his back.

“What’s so funny? You mean-spirited bastard!” Pascal slammed into him. “To arrange marriages for two children who aren’t even ten years old, we left the Holy Land and nearly caused the Holy City to fall… This evil, foolish, cowardly fellow, God, if the Holy City falls because of him, everyone will rush into his tent and cut off his head!”

Yakov couldn't understand. Pascal was over thirty years old; how could such an old man still be unable to see the truth of the matter, still feel powerless anger over such a high-sounding thing? The more he thought about it, the more he couldn't stop laughing, and he had to squat down to catch his breath. Just then, a dirty little child ran up to him and held out his hand to him.

"Sir, a golden flag with a winged lion is coming from the sea!" the child exclaimed, stretching out his hand. "I've been watching it the whole time!"

Yakov straightened up, patting his chest, and tossed a silver coin to the child from his waist, looking quite pleased. "The person I'm here to pick up has probably arrived," the knight said. "Come with me, I want to ask you for a favor."

"You asked me to do something?" Pascal followed closely behind him, puzzled. "What is it?"

“Help me deliver someone to Ludov.” Yakov looked at the strangely shaped sea monster reef on the sea. “It’s on your way back to Jerusalem.”

“That’s not difficult. I should also meet Lord Jubius,” Pascal asked. “Who is he to deliver this to?”

Two knights walked through a group of beggar children singing songs. The children laughed and chanted strange lyrics. "Golden claws, red wings, three parts pepper, seven parts dirt; gold coins jingling, ledgers thick, stinginess uglier than the Jews." They made faces and threw stones at the merchant ships slowly approaching on the sea. But as soon as the ships were almost at the shore, they all shut up and scattered to other docks, singing other unpleasant nursery rhymes. "Who taught them all this?" Pascal said awkwardly, shooing the children away. "It's one thing to call Venetians impious, but to compare them to Jews is going too far."

“What if it’s a Jew living in Venice?” Yakov asked.

“He must be the stingiest, most cunning, most despicable, and most hypocritical person in the world,” Pascal exclaimed.

“Not necessarily,” Yakov retorted with a half-smile. “You shouldn’t judge a person so superficially based on race and homeland.”

Pascal stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment. “You’re right. I often discover new virtues in you.” He looked toward the berth where Yakov had stopped, gazing at the banner of the two-winged lion. “If everyone thought like you, the definition of piety would be broadened.”

The two men watched as the sailors tied the ropes to the stakes, patiently waiting for the customs clerks and registrars to finish their tedious work. Finally, people began to set foot on this exciting, hot, dry, sacred land—it was a passenger ship, mostly carrying pilgrims. The long trans-Mediterranean voyage had left them all pale and emaciated, their skin puffy. The Jaffa sun and wind, like the words of the Bible, offered them solid comfort, causing them to kneel on the sand, clutching the fine soil, thanking God for protecting their ship and for having mercy on their lives—a scene repeated every spring, one that both Yakov and Pascal had grown weary of seeing.

“The men who disembark from this ship look like they’ve been starving for days,” Pascal remarked. “They must have been delayed in resupplying.”

"As long as we don't veer off course and starve to death, it's fine," Yakov replied indifferently.

He noticed a woman frantically rushing through the pious crowd and frowned sternly—her headscarf was wrapped differently from the others, revealing the outline of a small cap beneath the fabric. She lifted her face, revealing familiar amber eyes set in their sockets, and her dark brown, tousled hair curling like fine wool beside her cheeks—Yakov stared at her face for a few moments, then walked straight up to her and grabbed her thin arm. It was incredibly hard, practically nothing but bone.

The woman screamed. "Are you Schumacher's sister?" the knight shouted, trying to mask his shrill voice with a question. "Your name is Judith?"

“Oh, sir! My name is Judith!” The woman’s eyes widened, her cheeks gaunt and sunken. “But who is Schumeer?”

Yakov clicked his tongue in annoyance and frustration. "Abraham Moshi," he asked again, "are you Abraham Moshi's sister?"

“Yes, sir!” Judith finally smiled—but then she gripped Yakov’s robe tightly. “Do you have any bread, sir? If so, please give me some!”

Yakov's gaze shifted to Pascal. The Hospitaller understood and quickly took out a bundle of unleavened biscuits wrapped in linen from his pouch. "But these need to be dissolved in water before they can be eaten, and they're a bit moldy..." Pascal lifted the cloth halfway before pulling it back, "Let's go to town and find a pie stall; that would be better."

Before Yakov could respond, Judith snatched the food from his glove and choked on it. "...Poor thing!" Pascal looked at her with pity as she choked on the crumbs, then opened his water pouch and handed it to her. "You probably didn't bring enough food before you set off; you'll have to endure hunger more days than others!"

"Probably." Yakov's stern face remained unchanged. "I had someone give you money, why didn't you use it to buy food with someone else?"

"My lord, their bread is too expensive!" Judith smiled shrewdly. "The bread on the ship is seven times more expensive than on land. They're just waiting to take advantage of people's misfortunes and empty everyone's pockets! I'll sell my bread for six times the price, go hungry for a few more days, and I can earn two gold coins, enough to cover the cost of my ship ticket!"