Act 9: The Oathbreaker (Part 8)
eight
"I'm just really hungry..."
"I will not turn others into blood slaves."
"What if you tell someone!"
What if I had your blood?
Yakov couldn't tell if he was dreaming. He seemed to have entered Schumeer's story, finding himself standing beneath a myrrh tree, seeing Adonis, half in the underworld and half on earth. He had the same handsome face as Yubi, and was asking the blood slave for myrrh to recreate the miracle of resurrection. But the resin of the myrrh tree only solidifies in the nest when the phoenix is reborn. Yakov thought, I can't give it to him, I don't have the ability to get myrrh. This thought made him anxious, sweating profusely, dizzy, and he even found a poisonous snake biting his foot. Yakov thought that he seemed to have lost the power to refuse, countless things piling up and swirling around him. Spices, the Knights, ships, blood, masters, slaves, freedom, duty, obedience, love.
He woke up suddenly to find himself lying on Yubi's bed, clutching a silk blanket in his hand.
“He’s awake!” Yubi was sitting by the bed when a distressed face came into view. “That’s great, you’re finally awake. I was so worried about you… I was just so hungry, I’m so sorry.”
Yakov felt a sense of déjà vu about the scene. The first thing he did was feel his neck, following the wound to find the thin hemp rope—the mysterious and precious ruby ring was still safely strung on it, untouched by anyone. "What time is it?" He closed his eyes painfully again, his ears ringing and his head throbbing.
“It’s almost morning,” a deep, gentle voice said. “Don’t worry, I gave him my blood.”
That voice instantly shattered Yakov's will to rest—he thought, he wasn't allowed to lose his composure and act so pathetic and manic again; it would be shameful and immature, like a stray dog barking on the street. He slowly sat up in bed, his eyes scanning the room, and unsurprisingly, he saw Seymour's repulsive, dark face behind Schumeer. The blood slave was leaning against the balcony, scrutinizing his frail appearance.
A jumble of emotions choked Yakov, making him feel as if he were about to spew fire from his mouth. "Your blood?" Yakov slowly moved his lips beneath his beard. "You let him bite you?"
Seleman raised his wrist, showing Yakov the wound. Yakov stared at the mark, examining it closely—there were no teeth marks, only scabs from a knife cut. “I know what you’re thinking, Yakov. This is a private and honorable matter,” the seasoned blood slave said. “I won’t fight you for it, but when the masters have this need, and you can’t satisfy it alone, you must learn to abandon your narrow-minded possessiveness.”
Yakov's anger burned ever brighter. This was utterly absurd. Why was he being lectured like a wife expected to uphold traditional virtues? Why was he being treated like a petty, narrow-minded person, occupying some private, honorable position? He pursed his lips, remaining silent, his gaze shifting to Yubi's face—his master, with a guilty and ashamed expression, lowered his head, staring at the ring on his chest. Those lips, concealing sharp teeth, moved slightly, as if wanting to say something, but remained silent for a long time.
He tucked the ring back into his shirt so Yubi wouldn't see it. "When did you arrive?" Yakov asked, feigning composure. "Did Anbichya send you?"
“It was Yubi who sent me. Your appearance terrified him.” Seleman smiled sincerely. “So I brought some blood slaves. Now that you’re awake, you should take a look at them.”
He clapped his hands, and immediately three men carrying candles gracefully entered through the stone colonnade. The first was a strong, robust Gaulish man, his body hair shaved clean, his exposed skin painted with oil, revealing a beautiful sheen of muscle. The second was a graceful, voluptuous woman with black hair and snow-white skin, seemingly from the south. The delicate skin of her neck beneath her headscarf and jewelry was reminiscent of fine linen lined a warm cradle. The third was a young girl in her prime, with mysteriously dark skin. She was slender and youthful, full of vitality, her hands and feet long and slender like works of art.
“Donatus the Gentleman, Mattia the Merciful, and Zahra the Vital,” Seleman said to Yubi, but stared into Yakov’s eyes. “According to your sister, all three have excellent flavors.”
Yakov felt a throbbing pain in the veins on his forehead, and he almost vomited—the three blood slaves smiled as they undressed, revealing swollen, red marks on their chests, a shocking sight—what did their nicknames mean? Could a person's character be called a flavor? If he were standing among these men, would "The Free Man" also become the name of a dish?
“I like the man and the woman. They both look healthy, happy, and peaceful…” Yubi leaned down quietly, his lips close to Yakov’s ear. “I’ve never drunk black blood before, and I want to try it too… Let’s leave all three of them here.”
Yakov's blue eyes scrutinized Yubi, silently waiting for the young man to utter another frightening remark. Yubi's face showed embarrassment, and he immediately complained, "Why are you staring at me like that?" He shook off Yakov's hand. "Why are you allowed to buy slaves, but I'm not? You're allowed to eat delicacies and exotic animals, but I'm not allowed to eat anything good?"
“You can’t feed him all by yourself now.” Seleman wasn’t surprised by Yakov’s reaction. He sighed, “This will save you from losing blood every day and running around every night. You have more important things to do for him, don’t you?”
Yakov turned and glared at the blood slave, forcing him to shut his mouth in frustration.
"Does his blood taste good?" he asked Yubi, pointing at Seymour.
"...Not particularly good, but better than yours."
"How is it better than mine?"
“I told you so,” Yubi said, his eyes darting around, “Yakov, I’ve never tasted blood worse than yours…”
“I want to know the truth,” Yakov said, closing in on him. “Just how bad does my blood taste?”
“I’ve told you that before.” Yubi raised his head, no longer avoiding his gaze. “Blood tastes best when people are happy, but you absolutely refuse to feed me your blood; it’s like torture every time. Not to mention you always look so gloomy, either angry or distressed, never a day without something on your mind. I know everything, Yakov; I can tell the moment I taste your blood.”
"Since you're unwilling, why are you so bothered by it? Not having to give me your blood would reduce your burden, wouldn't it?"
A strange sadness washed over Yakov, as if something had completely slipped out of his control, drifting away like a kite released from its grasp. He laughed in anger at the words, feeling like a clown hanging himself, unable to move forward or backward. Yakov thought the mark on his chest must be acting up, but it seemed the overwhelming emotions masked the pain, leaving him like a numb, empty shell. He found this numbness absurd: six months ago, he had indeed thought it was a good thing that his blood tasted bad.
“We’ve known each other for almost half a year,” he said. “For the past half year, you’ve been tormented by my blood and have been suffering.”
“Don’t misinterpret my words like that. I like you. You’re different from everyone else.” Yubi touched his hand again and grabbed it back. “But you don’t want me to be tormented by you, and I don’t want to torment you either.”
“Torture makes people clear-headed,” Yakov said. “I would rather you be tortured than be deceived.”
“No, you clearly want me to be free from both torment and deception.” Yubi’s voice was both light and heavy. “You want me to stand on my own two feet, to recognize reality, and to face cruelty; yet you also want me to hold fast to my original aspirations, to be compassionate and kind, and not to deceive myself or others. According to you, this is clearly a contradiction. I must first learn not to be humble and base before I can understand what it means to go along with the crowd.”
The room was quiet except for the crackling sound of burning incense.
How could he keep him? Yakov closed his eyes and thought for a while, his soul torn between selfish desires and morality. He got out of bed, the feeling of his feet on the ground still making him dizzy.
“I’d like to know,” he asked, “that these blood slaves all have excellent taste and enjoy their daily lives?”
“That’s right.” Seyleman nodded. “They were selected, and each one is an outstanding individual.”
“The best of the best,” Yakov muttered. “I agree to let them give Yubi blood, but I have conditions.”
“Go ahead and say it,” Seymour shrugged.
"First, I forbid any of them from staying here overnight, whether it's day or night. They're not allowed to stay here except for feeding time." Yakov stared at the dark, smiling face. "Second, I must be present every time Yubi eats. Whether it's drawing blood into a cup or biting directly into the neck or wrist, it must pass before my eyes."
“There’s one last thing,” he suddenly shouted. “Naya! Come in here.”
The sound of something being overturned came from outside the porch—the Greek slave girl finally emerged tremblingly from behind the pillar after a long while. She was so frightened that her hands and feet trembled, and she fell to the ground as soon as she stepped over the threshold. A blue and white eye amulet fell from her clothes. The crowd exchanged bewildered glances, then looked at her pitiful state.
"Master," she cried, her voice breaking, "I have a child, please spare my life!"
Yakov, supporting himself on the bedpost, approached the female slave, scrutinizing her trembling shoulders and tense arms. "She saw me being bitten; she knows about it," Yakov said, pointing to her brown, curly hair cascading down the floor. "Do vampires really need to drink the blood of their slaves?"
Thalerman remained silent. He then adopted an expression as if he had witnessed someone wasting precious resources.
“If she can, why can’t I?” The blind Jew understood Yakov’s meaning and suddenly spoke up, “It would be better if more people shared the burden of cutting flesh and bleeding every day.”
“Shut your mouth, Shumel,” Yakov interrupted him, frowning. “Are you insane? You are not his slave.”
Schumacher quieted down, looking rather annoyed.
“I want this female slave’s blood.” Yakov stared intently into Seleman’s eyes. “Youbi is not allowed to drink only the blood of those few blood slaves. Even just a mouthful, a drop, you must drink her blood every day.”
"So you insist that your master drink this foul-tasting blood every day?" Seleman shook his head with his eyes closed. "You insist that the blood be supplied by those who resist and reject it?"
“This is my bottom line. If you don’t agree, tell all these blood slaves to go back.” Yakov grabbed Naya by the clothes and lifted her up. “Don’t cry, you won’t die. According to some spineless people, you’ve even gotten a good job.” He gave a sarcastic bitter smile and turned to look at Yubi.
"Do you agree?" Yakov asked. "Do you understand? Are you willing?"
Yubi didn't answer him, only nodded quietly. Seeing this, Seymour sighed deeply.
The room was deathly silent; no one raised any further objections.
They saw Seleman off at dawn. "Anbichia has another message for you," the dark-skinned blood slave said, pulling the reins as the horse circled the gate. "Do you remember your mother's fiefdom in Transylvania?"
Yubiben was dejected and listless, but he looked up again when he heard his mother's voice. "What's the news?" he asked, leaning closer to the horse.
“Your mother left no will. According to the law, the land and village there have been entrusted to your eldest brother, Inart.” Selman reined in his horse, trying to tame it. “Of course, he had no children. If he unfortunately ‘passes away,’ his property and land will legally be passed to you.”
Yakov was shaken to his core by these words. He saw Yubi pursing his lips and lowering his head, pondering their meaning.
"Don't think that there's plenty of time to discuss and wait. If you don't act, someone else will," Seleman casually warned him. "That's all. I'll take my leave now."
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