Act 9: The Oathbreaker (Part 6)
six
Before sunrise, Yakov, unusually, performed his morning prayers before the shrine in his study. Like every true Knight Templar, he stood before the image of Jesus on a cross, lit with frankincense, and recited verses from the Bible.
"When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. But when I became a man, I put away the ways of childhood."
"For now we see only a reflection in a mirror, and we cannot see clearly. But then, then we will see face to face. And now I know in part, but then I will know fully, as the Lord knows me."
Yakov closed the book and handed it to the altar. He took out a thin hemp rope, threaded the ruby ring through it, and tied it around his neck, hiding it under his chainmail and shirt, close to his chest.
He went to the kitchen first and took two pieces of leftover Easter bread from yesterday. They were shaped into knots, with red-dyed eggs embedded in the center, symbolizing the cycle of life. Before dawn, the two Slavic maids were fast asleep in their bed beside the stove—Yakov didn't wake them. The Great Lent had just ended, and the servants and slaves deserved plenty of rest.
He went around to the north-facing balcony through the side door and looked at the garden facing Golden Horn Bay. The wisteria stump Helen had sent had been planted less than two months ago and was still low to the window. Its branches tentatively climbed the trellis, but the short vines insisted on producing flower spikes in their first spring after taking root, heavily weighing down the tender buds—Yakov wondered if the gardener should prune the flower spikes so that it could focus on climbing. But he knew nothing about gardening and felt he was not qualified to interfere.
Yakov circled the house once and stopped at the stable in front of the gate. The Egyptian groom was already awake. Seeing him arrive, he led out the tall, chestnut Norman horse and handed him the reins. The horse's breath brushed against the back of his hand, nuzzling him affectionately—the horse had already pledged itself to its master, but it was already clad in heavy riding armor marked with a cross, waiting to be sent to the Knights' stable.
Yakov summoned the Greek slave girl.
“Your master intended to dismiss you and release you,” he said, “but now that you have new work to do, you don’t have to leave.”
"What's the new job?" Naya asked, her head bowed. She didn't dare look Yakov in the eye.
“From today onward, you will be in charge of that blind Jewish man. His name is Schumeer.” The Templar Knight pointed to his cloak emblazoned with a red cross. “He will take over my duties after I join the Order. You will help him familiarize himself with the documents and ledgers.” Yakov paused. “His Greek is better than mine; he is a learned man, fluent in both speech and writing, and will be more suited to this job.”
"And what about you?" Naya asked cautiously.
“I won’t be here often,” Yakov said. “If the master is looking for me, go to the Templar branch. It’s on the edge of the concession; you know the way.”
Naya nodded and said nothing more. Yakov mounted his horse and gripped the reins tightly.
"...Hang the thickest curtains on all the balconies." Blood Slave couldn't help but turn back and add, "This is the most urgent thing, do it now."
He gently nudged the horse's belly with the heel of his boot. The horse snorted and galloped off in the pale dawn.
The Templars' branch had a flag with a comical emblem: two adult knights, each holding a cross shield, riding close together on a horse, their lances stacked on top of each other—Yakov knew the meaning of this emblem; it symbolized the virtue of fraternal love in poverty, calling on the brothers to share all their wealth and dedicate themselves wholeheartedly to God's cause.
Yakov noticed that the blacksmith shop in front of the branch also displayed the same sign—this didn't surprise him. Yubi had donated the blacksmith shop and the land to the Knights Templar, which was one of the conditions for his admission. In the morning sunlight, it wasn't the original Greek blacksmith who went to the anvil, but a soldier in a black robe with a red cross who opened the door. Yakov recognized the attire: the Templar's support soldiers weren't entitled to wear white robes with red crosses like knights; they had to wear black robes with red crosses. Of the many members in the Knights Templar, only one-tenth were truly knighted, entitled to wear white robes and expensive heavy armor—all the knights were nobles.
Everything about the place, the two guards on one horse, seemed particularly comical. Yakov sighed and dismounted, entering the fortified stronghold where, according to legend, there were more ledgers than scriptures. A Frankish sergeant greeted him. “I’ll go fetch the priest so he can show you around…” the sergeant lazily rose from his seat and took the reins from Yakov. Before he finished speaking, a hoarse voice came running enthusiastically.
"So you're the new guy!" A burly knight with a long, curly beard suddenly appeared out of nowhere, like a gust of hot wind blowing into a cold room. He grabbed Yakov's shoulder, pouting as he kissed his cheek. "Oh, no need to call the priest, I'll show him around. We've even fought before!"
Yakov's stern face was firmly kissed on both sides, sending goosebumps flying from the soles of his feet to the top of his head as if struck by lightning. "Who are you?" He searched his memory for this unfamiliar face, but to no avail. "I don't remember you."
“Looks like you have a bad memory! You kicked me hard when you were fighting that Mamluk! I’m the one who wields a two-handed greatsword!” The knight shoved him in the back and gestured. His voice boomed, “I am Sancho of Toledo, Sancho Valerón.”
To be honest, Yakov had no recollection of anyone on the field except for Seilman and Pascal. He felt both embarrassed by his past embarrassment and the need to behave more composedly now. Toledo—Yakov felt he'd heard that name somewhere before. The two Templar Knights approached the storeroom and chapel. "Where's Toledo?" Yakov asked in a low voice, trying to sound sincere and friendly. "My geography isn't very good."
“Ha, I understand the Slavs’ ignorance. It’s not as famous as Santiago, after all. A hundred years ago, it was still [illegible] territory.” Fortunately, Sancho seemed to be a broad-minded person. “Toledo is in Spain, belonging to the Kingdom of Castile under King Alfonso VIII.”
Yakov finally remembered where he had heard of Toledo—he had heard the love story of the Bitter Well with Yubi and Schumacher on the ship, and it had taken place in Toledo, a city once ruled by the Moors. “…You are very far from home,” he replied with difficulty. “I have heard that it is a city where Christians, Muslims, and Jews can live together peacefully.”
Unexpectedly, the knight's dark eyes lit up. "You know quite a lot! Who says Slavs, born slaves, are unlearned?" Sancho's tongue was loosened, and he launched into a long, excited monologue, making Yakov worry he was about to smack his cheek again. "Do you know why I crossed all of Europe, traversed the Mediterranean, joined the Knights Templar, and went to Jerusalem? If every city in the world were as beautiful as Toledo, there would be no more war or intrigue! Who says people of different faiths can't live together peacefully? I must spread this belief to every holy city, seeking true happiness for the people! This is the true Gospel of Christ!"
"Unfortunately, whenever I mention this, everyone laughs at me, calling me a naive dreamer. I can't even go to Jerusalem; I'm only told to stay in the branch office in Constantinople..."
Yakov's brow furrowed slightly. If it were up to him, he would, like everyone else, refuse to send the Spanish knight to the front. A naive dreamer, he thought, that assessment was entirely accurate. How could the hatred of blood and fire be so easily extinguished? Conflicts between nations are reconciled by ethnic groups, and conflicts between ethnic groups are reconciled by religions. But humans always have all sorts of identities, and it's impossible not to harbor resentment.
Seeing Yakov remain silent, Sancho gave an awkward laugh—it seemed this wasn't the first time he'd experienced something like this. "I know your name is Yakov," he said, scratching his thick neck. "Where are you from?"
“You can see my face and know I’m a Slav,” Yakov said calmly. “I was born a slave, and I have no homeland.”
“Just standing here in your burqa speaks volumes about your arduous and inspiring life story,” Sancho praised him, then looked troubled. “But how am I supposed to introduce you to others?”
"My surname is Zashchtnikov."
"But I've heard that every Slav who comes here uses this surname."
Yakov's eyes darted around without betraying any emotion. "Is that so?" he said. "Then please introduce me truthfully."
“Perhaps you need a title. A knight as skilled as you deserves one.” Sancho patted his back with a broad, chubby hand. “Let’s call you ‘The Liberator’ to celebrate your new life! ‘The Liberator’ Yakov!”
The free man. Upon hearing this word, Yakov felt an overwhelming surge of disdain and sorrow. He had shaved his head, wore a cross, carried a mission, and harbored secrets—how could he possibly be associated with freedom? It was as if the definition of freedom was monopolized by this group, and only by assimilating into their ranks could one be considered free.
But he still looked up, gave a forced and brief smile, and nodded. "Sounds good," Yakov said casually. "I've heard there's a fleet here. Which ports are they going to?"
That day, he had never felt the day pass so slowly. The sun rose like an old man climbing a mountain, and set like a heavily burdened ox. He longed for the bells that signaled the sunset to ring quickly, yet he also wished they would never ring again, so he would never have to return to that hellish cave in Golden Horn Bay. Unreasonable worries occasionally surfaced in Yakov's mind—what if the slaves disobeyed Yubi and Schumer? What if Seilman immediately sent men to take Yubi away? What if the vampire, exposed to sunlight, burned and festered? What if his master went mad and bit the maids and slaves to death?
Koyakov thought again that he was overthinking things. Since Yubi had decided to grow up and change, there would always be a day when he would be without his watchful eye. This thought made the Blood Slave's left chest itch constantly, requiring him to rub it several times to calm it down.
“This is only the first day, and you’ve already spent the whole day looking at the ledgers and voyage logs,” Sancho called out as he appeared from the doorway, a candle in hand. “You must be eager to get to the Holy Land too.”
“…That’s about it.” Yakov rubbed his temples. He finally realized that the sunlight on the paper was thinning, making it impossible for him to see the words.
The Spanish knight gave him a meaningful look. "It's best to take a good look at the rules on the first day." He made way for Yakov to leave. "Would you like to come with me to pray? We'll have dinner together, and then we'll go see the dormitories."
As Yakov watched the pink hues of the sunset fade from his round, bearded face, the thought that had been troubling him all day suddenly became clear. "I have other things to do," he said, rising from the table. "I can't stay here tonight."
He thought he would have to use a lot of persuasion to convince Sancho—"I have no authority over the other knights." However, Sancho, though looking displeased, simply shrugged indifferently. "Although according to the rules you should be punished by eating on the ground, you can go wherever you want."
Yakov's previously clear thoughts suddenly became blurred again. Anger and helplessness intertwined and pulled him apart.
“It’s fine if I don’t go.” He stopped at the threshold, gritting his teeth. “I’ll go with you to pray.”
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