Act XIV: The Dance of the Seven Veils (Part 10)

ten

The pain struck Yakov like a dull thud on the mark on his chest. He stumbled from the wind and fell to the ground, his bandaged hand pressed against the sand.

"...It must be fake!" His mouth opened and closed again as he grabbed the blanket under Thurana's saddle. "Vampires love to play these tricks, lying that they're dead!"

Turalya glanced at his ridiculous appearance, then spurred her horse straight onto the road, not caring whether the horse's hooves would kick Yakov's arm. "Don't go!" Yakov scrambled to his feet and shouted angrily, "You haven't figured out the truth yet, I'll take you somewhere else to ask!"

“You’re so stubborn.” Turalya cracked her whip with a mixture of pity and arrogance on her horse. “What use is the truth? She says she’s dead, so I’ll just say she’s dead. If she’s dead, I’ll be free, and my son will be free too.”

"Where are you going? What will you do after that?"

“Of course I’ll go back to the grasslands, back to my son’s side.” Turana smiled, her face full of wrinkles. “I’m waiting for him to get married and have children, so I can have many grandchildren. My tribe will prosper, and my bloodline will continue.”

Confusion and resentment bound Yakov like ropes, rendering him immobile. "...Aren't you afraid she'll return and force you to be her slave again?" the blood slave blurted out, uttering contradictory words in a panic. "Don't you want protection? Don't you want eternal life?"

I really misjudged you before.

"What?"

"As a warrior, how can you be so afraid of death? Don't you understand what death is?" A chilling killing intent appeared in the female Khan's eyes. "If you have no regrets in this life, if you have enjoyed everything you should have enjoyed and suffered everything you should have suffered, what is there to fear in death? Everyone must die. The past belongs to those who came before, and the future belongs to those who came after. When it is time to die, it is time for your life to end and for you to return to heaven. Humans should not defy the will of heaven."

"What if your tribe eventually dies out, and your bloodline eventually becomes extinct?" Yakov asked her maliciously.

"By then, I'll be long gone and won't know!" Thurana laughed as she pulled on the reins and spurred the stirrups. "Whether your curse comes true or not, I don't care!"

She rode off alone, disappearing into the hazy dust, looking utterly free. Yakov was driven nearly mad with jealousy, yet filled with disdain and suspicion. He gripped the longsword at his waist, wanting to bend the hilt until it snapped—the wound on the Blood Slave's palm had reopened, warm blood soaking through the dirty bandages, seeping from between his fingers; no one could heal him. He looked at the small, simple monastery, then at the desolate mountains, feeling as small and insignificant as dust, freedom seemingly invisible and nowhere to be found. He felt the shackles hidden beneath his turban around his neck being pulled tighter from one side, heavy and narrow, shameful and suffocating.

The blood slave clutched his chest and scrambled onto the horse's back. "...Damn it," he muttered, "Is it really necessary for me?"

For three years, Yakov dared not approach the gates of Lud. He spent two days returning, reining in his horse on the low hill to look ahead. The road leading from the port to Jerusalem forked, one leading to Lud and the other to Ramree. The two small towns stood side by side like twins.

He descended the hillside, angrily removing his headscarf, adjusting it, putting it back on, then taking it off again, repeatedly trying to conceal the gleaming, conspicuous iron ring around his neck. Yakov thought that perhaps he should shave his beard, get a shaved head, and change his clothes; maybe then he wouldn't be recognized by his old acquaintances and could slip into town—but then he thought, with that mark still on his chest, he couldn't escape the vampire's eyes, and even hiding in the marketplace wouldn't help. At times like this, he would bite his lips until they bled, only stopping when he cried out in pain.

The sound of galloping hooves came from the other side of the ridge. Yakov snapped out of his reverie, gripped his sword hilt, and led his horse to investigate. On the muddy sand, a small caravan was rushing towards a wagon. The riders, wearing turbans and brandishing scimitars, were shouting something crude; the coachman on the wagon screamed in terror, and he and his servants drew their weapons in self-defense—a common sight. The pilgrimage route was becoming increasingly dangerous with the decline of the kingdom, and bandits were a frequent occurrence. Yakov remembered how he, as a Templar Knight, often did this to Saracen caravans. So he watched coldly, waiting for a disgraced nobleman or merchant to be dragged out of the wagon, either to be bloodied or enslaved—

But a short, armored warrior charged out, sword in hand, seemingly oblivious to his own death. He had loose, honey-colored curly hair and looked like a young woman.

Yakov gasped, immediately mounted his horse, and drew his sword from his waist. "Get out of the way!" he shouted in Arabic, spurring his spurs and sending the horse neighing as it charged down the hillside.

“I thank you for saving my life…” After Yakov pulled down his mask, Margot immediately dropped all her dignified and wary facade. “What are you doing here?” The girl was so happy that she wanted to grab his rough hand, but then she pulled back with lingering fear. “…I won’t tell anyone about meeting you, don’t worry.”

“I thought you were married.” Yakov pointed to her full suit of armor and the sword in her hand. “Why are you still fiddling with these boys’ things?”

“It’s precisely because I dabble in these things that I’m able to stay single.” Margot pouted in displeasure at this. “I’ll give you a return gift. Judging from your disheveled appearance, you must be short of money.”

“No need,” Yakov refused her with a straight face. “…I just want to ask you some questions.”

"What is it? Please ask."

"...asking about Lord Ludov." Yakov adjusted his headscarf awkwardly. "I heard that his sister, Ambicya, passed away last month."

Upon hearing his words, Margot's face hardened, and she waved her hand, signaling the servants and maids beside the carriage to move aside. The two walked a few steps on the sand and stopped beside a withered bush. "You don't know, do you? Ever since you left, Lord Eubius and his elder sister have been estranged," the girl said in a low voice. "I've heard some rumors, whether true or not, that Lord Ambicea has adopted the decadent and licentious ways of the Greeks, and once bought more than a dozen young and handsome boys in one night. The next day, they were all carried out of their chambers backwards, some of them already dead... Lord Eubius disapproved of this and accused her of corrupting morals and losing her piety."

Is it strange that this happened to Ambikia, or to a vampire? Yakov forced a smile. "It's not uncommon for nobles to do this," he commented hastily. "Just because of that?"

“Please continue, I’m not finished yet.” Margot crossed his arms. “You know that after the king led his troops to Karak, he became bedridden, right? After that, all the nobles were divided into two factions: one supporting Princess Sibylla and her husband Guy to inherit the throne, and the other supporting Princess Isabella and her stepfather, Bellion of Ibelin. Lord Ambicea came from Constantinople and had a personal relationship with Princess Isabella’s mother, so naturally he sided with Ibelin. But now Rome has a new emperor, and she has lost her husband and daughter. If she wants to side with those in Ibelin, she will have to find a way to return Lud… Lord Jubius will absolutely not agree to this.”

Yakov listened blankly for a while, then opened his mouth. "...For the city," he muttered, "that's a reason."

But in his heart, he thought, with Schumeer gone, Yubi wouldn't bother with Ambikia for a city. That naive and carefree vampire didn't care about such material things. Thinking of this, Yakov felt sad and resentful. What a strange figure Yubi had become! He dared not speculate. Suddenly, he seemed to feel that the ownership of Lud City was no longer so important to him.

“This struggle should have started long ago.” Margot hesitated, then lowered her head. “...I think you probably know more about this than I do.”

"Why?" Yakov frowned.

“You should know best why you were abandoned.” Margot looked bravely into his eyes. “Three years ago that night… it was Lord Jubius who made the cruel decision to send you to kill Lord Ambikia’s only daughter, causing her to lose Komnenos’s protection, right? Shifting the blame onto your comrade is a necessary but dignified way to handle things, isn’t it?”

Yakov chuckled, shook his head, and walked away from Margot. The girl was oblivious, detached from the situation, and no more information could be gleaned from her. He mounted his horse, about to leave, when he heard Margot call out behind him.

“I’ve heard that Lord Jubius is going to see the King about Ludwig before Easter!” she said. “If you are looking for him, go to Jerusalem then!”

Yakov waved goodbye to her. "Thank you," he said, and his horse galloped away.

Holy Week, preceding Easter, is the busiest time of year for pilgrims to the Holy Land. Due to the increased number of evening prayers and vigils, the curfew in the Holy City is more relaxed. According to the Bible: On Monday, Jesus was welcomed into Jerusalem with palm branches; on Tuesday, Jesus spoke seven plagues to the Pharisees in the Temple; on Wednesday, Jesus was betrayed by Judas for thirty pieces of silver; on Thursday, Jesus had the Last Supper with his disciples; on Friday, Jesus suffered, walked the Via Dolorosa, and was crucified; on Saturday, Jesus was buried; and on Sunday, Jesus rose again.

On the Day of Final Judgment, the universal resurrection will begin in the Holy City. Yakov thought that Christians, Muslims, and Jews alike believed this. On the way to Jerusalem, he saw countless coffins and skeletons of all sizes, simply or luxuriously wrapped and dragged along. Nobles and commoners alike hoped to be buried in the closest place to the Holy Land, to receive the blessings of being among the first to rise from the dead. For this, they were willing to travel thousands of miles to gather there before Easter, even if it meant spending all their money, wearing out their shoes, and risking shipwrecks and war, their hearts as firm as stone.

On Sunday, the last day before Holy Week, the blood slaves entered the city mixed in with a funeral procession.

How could he find Yubi? Yakov decided to try his luck at the Tower of David first. He knew the vampire procession all too well. He knew what style and pattern of robes Yubi's blood slaves would wear, and how long and heavy the weapons their attendants would carry; the most conspicuous and unique item was undoubtedly the magnificent and luxurious parasol. It was extremely heavy and cumbersome, requiring ordinary slaves to lift it with great effort. Whenever Yubi went out during the day, that large parasol imprisoned him, like a small, cool cage.

“Someone asked me to come and collect unpaid wages,” Yakov said dismissively to the guard, glancing towards the King’s Square—an entrance reserved for nobles with entourages. “Where should I go to find whom?”

"Go to the gate by the stable." The guard shoved him impatiently. "Get out of the way."

"Which side is the gate to the stables?" Yakov feigned anger. "How am I supposed to know if you don't explain it clearly?"

While the guard was forced to explain, his gaze penetrated the doorway, scrutinizing each servant walking inside—he found neither the large umbrella nor anyone he recognized, nor the vampire he so desperately longed for. "What are you still standing here for?" the guard demanded, holding his spear in front of him. "Did you understand what I just said, barbarian?"

Yakov had already searched all the shady corners he and Yubi used to frequent. To his disappointment, every place was empty. "What a nuisance," he said, not bothering to argue with the guards. "I'll look again."

The Blood Slave retreated to the edge of the Patriarch's Pool. Perhaps he should ask Pascal; the knight knew nothing about vampires, so he was certainly capable of keeping a secret. A few steps to the left, and there lay the Hospitaller's monastery.

So Yakov walked through the begging orphans and the disabled, hurrying to the monastery threshold. “Pascal died two years ago,” the nun told him. “Who are you to him? What brings you here?”

Yakov was speechless, feeling a pang of guilt for his belated mourning. A farmer herded a large flock of smelly pigs past him, grunting loudly. "I've finished teaching my Greek lesson for today, time to head back to the shop," a nimble, thrush-like voice drifted from the depths of the monastery, "I'll bring some new books tomorrow... Who is this?"

Yakov pulled his headscarf tighter and turned to run away. "...Ah! Granny, this is someone I know." Eudosia bravely stopped him. "Come to me, sir. Don't worry, Naya has already left."

Yudosia grabbed a sharp knife—Yakov sat under the olive tree, expressionless, watching the girl pick up a piglet, deftly cut off its genitals, and then smear a handful of lime on the wound. His eyebrow twitched involuntarily.

“I raise pigs myself now, which earns me some extra money.” Eudosia wiped the blood from her apron and smiled shyly. She skillfully grabbed the next piglet and squeezed it between her knees. “…I guessed you came to ask about Lord Eubius, didn’t you?”

"Where did Naya go?" Yakov gripped his sword hilt tightly. "Why did she leave?"

“Since you left, Lord Jubius must have been missing someone he could trust. So I allowed her to go back.” Eudosia sighed, but her hands continued working. “When Pascal was alive, I was the same way. I understand the feeling of loving someone you can’t have, of loneliness and desolation. Without anyone to support you or rely on, life loses its center, and you’ll be like a wandering ghost all day long.”

Yakov felt his eyebrows and eyelids twitching. "Has Yubi visited you?" the Blood Slave asked, then cautiously fell silent. "...Does he know about Pascal's death?"

“I wrote to Lord Eubius to inform him of this, but he was too busy to attend the funeral,” Eudosia murmured calmly, his eyes no longer showing any sadness. “From then on, Lord Eubius and I had less contact. He was a nobleman, a city lord, but I was just a pork and sausage vendor, and I shouldn’t have troubled him with so many things.”

Yakov didn't know how to comment on the matter, only staring seriously at the small pottery jar at Eudosia's feet—in a short while, the pig testicles she had cut off and squeezed out had piled up there, and the piglets' screams echoed one after another. "I heard he's in Jerusalem, petitioning the king about Lud," the Blood Slave frowned, his tangled eyebrows furrowing. "But I can't find him. He probably doesn't want to see me."

“He didn’t want to see you, but it was for your sake.” Suddenly, Eudosia put down the knife and stared straight into his eyes. “He loves you, he’s devoted himself to you… He drove you away entirely to protect you. How can you not go to him just because he doesn’t want to see you? If you do that, you’ll be betraying him!”

Yakov was bewildered by these illogical statements, and his teeth even started to ache.

"You're so stupid!" Eudosia shouted angrily at his stunned face. "Three years ago, Lord Eubius found someone to take the blame for you in order to protect you, didn't he? And he even poisoned Lord Ambicia and his own sister so that you could come back, didn't he?"

What exactly do these girls talk about in private? Yakov didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so he just sat up straight on the bench, his back stiff. "I've told you everything I need to say," Eudosia sighed heavily. "I heard that Lord Eubius recently bought a small house near Jehoshaphat. If he comes to Jerusalem, he'll stay there tonight."

Upon hearing this, the blood slave immediately lifted his buttocks, as if he had just been freed from a bed of needles. "Thank you," he said, and left. "I'll go right now."

“You should buy a small house here,” Yakov remembered Yubi saying to him every time he came to Jerusalem, and he always refused. It was as if a blood slave wanted to imprison his master in Lud, locked in a small, well-managed town. But now, whether it was a distaste for the hustle and bustle or a disdain for piety and loyalty, he could no longer fabricate reasons to stop Yubi from living somewhere he didn't know.

The knight once walked east along Temple Street, turning at the Western Wall, passing markets and bathhouses, until he reached Jehoshaphat Gate—where he saw penitents carrying crosses along the roadside, and suddenly remembered that he had once walked this Via Dolorosa with Yesau. As Holy Week approached its first day, the number of pilgrims remained high even by evening. At night, they would carry candles up the mountain, filling the path with the sound of prayers, keeping vigil for the Lord. This activity would continue for seven days, reaching its grandest on the last day, Easter.

Just around the next corner, he would see Yoshafamen. Yakov stopped and tucked his headscarf tighter. Suddenly, he dared not, and did not want to, continue. That bone-chilling confusion spread like fog, shrouding everything ahead—what could he say, what could he do, what use would it be if he went to see him? Yakov couldn't help but wonder. Did he need him? Did he find him repulsive?

He found his own imprint throbbing painfully again with this confusion. Yakov thought it was as if someone was watching him from the shadows, scrutinizing him, waiting to judge his every move. As if his hesitation proved his weakness, and all his wavering and resentment were evidence of his insignificance and baseness.

The Blood Slave lingered in the shadows of the temple ruins, hesitant to move forward amidst the city's celebrations and repentance, unwillingly wasting his time until nightfall.

A chanting arose from the beginning of the Via Dolorosa, and a shimmering river of lights flowed from the old courthouse. Many footsteps pounded in the air. Yakov craned his neck and saw in the distance a heavy, opulent black sarcophagus carried at the head of the procession, the route strewn with spices, swirling ashes, and burning with sacred fire—yet another funeral procession, Yakov thought, too conventional, too superstitious. Could burying someone at Easter, crammed under the Mount of Olives, truly guarantee resurrection, salvation, selection, and forgiveness?

Until he spotted a familiar silver bust in the procession, before the coffin. Its beautiful, cold face was illuminated by the bright red lamplight.

Yakov broke out in a cold sweat and instinctively tried to hide. He clutched the mark on his chest, hoping it wouldn't be recognized by the vampire through flesh and chainmail—how could that be? He recalled countless moments when he realized Yubi's keen senses: the vampire could hear his footsteps in the room before he even stepped into the courtyard, could discern his mark in the darkest night and the most crowded military camp. He was now as naked as could be, with nowhere to hide.

The crowd had reached Yakov. He frantically searched for Yubi among the chanting monks and the slaves carrying lanterns and coffins: he hadn't seen Yubi for three years, yet that face and figure were etched in his memory—he had imagined nobles petitioning the king to be dressed in fine robes, adorned with elaborate jewelry, still the same delicate figure with a turban and long hair as he remembered. But he only saw a figure encased in exquisite armor, strangely familiar, almost like himself—the leader of the procession was a slender, upright young man, armored from head to toe, the cold, sharp metal reaching his fingertips. He wore a robe and cloak embroidered with red and black emblems, and his airtight helmet was adorned with menacing ostrich feathers.

For a moment, Yakov thought he was seeing things and had mistaken the person. As they passed by, the heavy, sturdy helmet seemed to tilt slightly toward the blood slave, but then, with a cold, clattering gait, it led the group onto the path of suffering.