Act 9: The Oathbreaker (Part 9)
Nine
Yakov failed to return to the Order before dawn. He missed not only the nighttime morning prayers but also the pre-meal prayers. The knight, born a slave, steeled himself and headed towards the chapel under the watchful eyes of the black-robed soldiers. "The Free Man," he heard people whispering sarcasticly about this controversial nickname. Everyone knew he had broken the rules—a common sign of piety. But Yakov had no time to ponder such things.
Sancho was waiting patiently in the chapel, as if waiting for him. "Don't take it to heart," Yakov said, his words a mix of comfort and sarcasm. "The longer you stay here, the more people everywhere start speaking ironically, like the Greeks."
“I didn’t take it to heart.” Yakov knelt down on the mat next to him, clasping his hands together. “I also don’t think you deliberately spread that nickname.”
“…I must say, your sincerity is truly infuriating, just like a harsh slave.” Sancho turned to look at him in surprise, then turned back with displeasure. “Ah, but I’ve seen plenty of knights like that.”
"You speak your mind so frankly, aren't you afraid I'll get angry?" Yakov frowned and closed his eyes. "And what kind of knights have you seen?"
“I don’t like to lie, especially not before God,” Sancho said. “Things are different now. Knights either go to the Holy Land to get a title or they covet wealth and use the name of the Order to benefit their families. I’m a naive idealist, not a fool.”
"So which type do you think I am?"
Sancho snorted with his round nose, "What does this have to do with me?"
"If you find out I'm doing more things that violate the rules of the group, will you report me to the group leader?"
"If reporting someone were effective, how did you even get into the Knights?"
"Since you think this is a rotten and decadent place, why did you travel all this way here?"
“Nothing is simply black and white,” Sancho said slowly. “Pilgrimage without killing enemies can save many people from the ravages of war; commerce without reciting scriptures can facilitate trade and promote peaceful exchanges.”
Yakov, upon closer examination, found some truth in these seemingly nonsensical words. He couldn't help but secretly open his eyes to scrutinize the burly Spaniard, marveling at the intelligence emanating from his curly beard. "...I'd like to borrow some boats for some business," he tentatively began. "Could you help me?"
"It's not something heinous, is it?"
“Of course not.” Yakov shifted his gaze back to the cross on the shrine. “Just to get some spices.” He thought for a moment and added, “If it works out, I’ll give you a share.”
“Alas, what a sin!” Sancho shook his head helplessly and began to confess. “‘The love of money is the root of all evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.’”
“‘We should repent, that is, repent from the bottom of our hearts and be willing to accept God’s love and mercy.’” Yakov bowed his head and followed him in prayer.
Amen.
Amen.
The two knights rose from the cushion and walked out of the chapel.
“In a few days, I’ll take you to the port to have a look.” Sang Qiao changed his loud voice and said softly, “If you care, this matter will be your responsibility from now on.”
Yakov's hectic life became like a spinning top, constantly whipped and turned. The crimson twilight, like a sharp knife, descended, not only severing day and night, but also Yakov's wandering thoughts, and the path between Golden Horn and the Knights. When the sun rose, he was the most devout paladin, offering porridge and praying, polishing his gleaming sword before the shrine; when the moon rose, he was the most wicked guardian, watching the fire from the corridor, guarding the slaves' honeyed blood beside the devil.
Frustration, worry, fear, and anxiety were all mixed together into a chaotic mess, filling his mind and making him hate the coming of night and question the meaning of his struggle. Yakov thought he felt as if he were splitting into two people: one the most despicable of the kind, and the other the noblest of the base.
Yubi initially hesitated to touch someone else's skin, wary of his expression; but after a few days, the delicious blood brought a beautiful, full smile to the vampire's face, making Yakov jealous yet also giving him a different kind of relief—since no one was making him bleed every night, his body had become noticeably lighter and stronger, and even his spirits had improved considerably.
“It feels like I’m a kid again,” Yubi told him. “Everyone is so kind and cheerful, and they have joy in their blood.”
“That’s fake,” Yakov replied. “You’ll know the world isn’t like that once you’ve drunk my and Naya’s blood.”
“I know,” Yubi laughed, looking both innocent and wicked, “but I still prefer the taste of happiness.”
The villa in Golden Horn Bay had become a theater of deception—Yakov thought, not as upright as the Knights of Favonius. He did indeed prefer the Knights: they were all straightforward warriors, with nothing fragile or delicate for him to protect, and far less intrigue and scheming for him to contend with. The tedious financial affairs were none of his concern; monks skilled in arithmetic and bookkeeping were everywhere. And this wasn't the eastern front, where war and conflict were too far away. Life was like in a monastery, a simple cycle of training and prayer—Yakov found himself, ironically, the one with the most secrets, the deepest cunning, and the greatest power within this vast, pious institution.
But as he tried to escape in this moment of carefree joy, the ring on his chest began to sting.
When Sancho invited him outside, the sun was shining brightly, so bright it was hard to open one's eyes. Summer hadn't arrived yet, but the weather in the south was already getting hot. "Take a horse," Sancho said, handing him a rudimentary map. "We'll be walking all day."
Yakov glanced at it briefly and noticed the crooked drawings and symbols. "...Are these all the ports of Golden Horn?" he couldn't help but ask. "Can't you read?"
“Pilgrims come everywhere, and ships are in every port.” Sancho turned to look at him, his mouth agape. “Could you perhaps read?”
“…My former master taught me some things.” Yakov frowned. “I don’t know much.”
“Your slave background now seems more noble than that of many nobles,” Sancho remarked without reservation. “Sometimes, a poor knight who can be a horse and a suit of armor is not as good as a slave favored by the powerful.”
These offensive and blunt remarks made Yakov mutter to himself. He thought to himself, "It's fortunate that the outspoken Spaniards are considered fools, otherwise they would offend countless people every day." He also thought, "Perhaps this is a unique philosophy of survival."
The two mounted their horses and rode into the street, heading towards Golden Horn Bay. Yakov's mind was preoccupied with many thoughts, so he continued to chat idly to distract himself. "You look quite old," he asked absentmindedly. "When did you join the Knights?"
“Almost ten years ago,” Sancho said. “Back then, I had a fiefdom in Toledo, an estate, and a beautiful and kind woman.”
“If that’s the case, why bother living the life of a monk?” Yakov glanced at Sancho’s hair. It was cut as short as his own, curled and plastered to his scalp, making him look even balder. “Abandoning such a perfect life is truly being blinded by fantasy.”
“Alas, it was perfect.” Sancho sighed deeply. “But a perfect life is like a complete and luxurious fur; even if a worm eats a bite out of it, it is no longer worth anything.”
Why do you say that?
“Her name is Adele, the same name as the Queen of France.” Sancho turned his head. “We were childhood sweethearts, we knew and loved each other since we were young. I am an only son, she is an only daughter. I was fifteen when we got married, and she was fourteen. Our two families’ fiefdoms combined, the fields were so vast that they stretched as far as the eye could see, and they were planted with Garnacha grapes. The farmers made them into a strong wine, which was very fragrant, and many people came from far and wide to taste it.”
Yakov listened silently, waiting for him to show off.
"We've been married for six years, but we still haven't been able to have a child. We've tried everything. We've seen doctors, consulted priests, donated money, and given out porridge." Sancho recounted his pain as calmly as if he were chatting about everyday life. "My father and her father, who were once as close as brothers, gradually started blaming and sowing discord between them, encouraging each other to have affairs, and saying that this marriage was not blessed by God and that they should get a divorce."
"Even the purest and most beautiful love can't overcome this. Rather, if I truly loved her, how could I imprison her in this mess? She's a girl who adores children and could be the gentlest mother. I couldn't bear to see her in pain, nor did I want to betray her, so I had no choice but to agree to the divorce."
"Then I joined the Knights."
“I see,” Yakov teased him. “That’s the real reason you joined the group, not some nonsense about wanting to coexist peacefully with the [unclear].”
“So many years have passed, people can’t stay the same forever, and suffer for this their whole lives.” Sancho laughed, not finding Yakov’s words harsh at all. “Dreams are dreams, and reality is reality. I never think a dream is wrong just because it’s hard to achieve; nor do I get stuck in a bitter reality and be unable to extricate myself.”
The words made perfect sense, Yakov pondered them carefully. Their horses quickly reached the seaside city walls. Yakov noticed Yubi's villa ahead and restrained himself from looking away. "...So, now that you've joined the regiment, what about your fiefdom?" he asked. "And your wife, Adele?"
“I am an only child, but my father wasn’t. Apart from the land he donated when he joined the group, all the vineyards on the mountain belonged to my father’s brothers.” Sancho still smiled, but his gaze drifted to the sky. “Adele, with her fiefdom, easily remarried. Later I heard that she had several healthy children.”
Yakov regretted asking the question. He understood what it meant. Another wave of bitter resentment slowly flowed from the engraving.
“The port is just ahead.” Sancho gently spurred his horse, urging it to go faster. “However, since you want to borrow the ships for your business, I must make it clear beforehand: not all of the Knights’ ships belong to the Knights. Rather, most are rented from wealthy merchants and nobles.” He scratched his curly beard. “Do you know what a joint-stock company is?”
Yakov's head started to ache as soon as he heard the financial term. "What?"
“Alas, I can only try my best to explain my understanding,” Sancho said. “Imagine a merchant who wants to sell his goods to the East to make money. If he doesn’t have a ship, he needs to find a captain to partner with and split the profits. Right? If the voyage goes smoothly, then the profits are split according to the agreement; but what if there are storms, pirate attacks, or reefs along the way? Sometimes the merchant’s goods are forced to be thrown overboard, sometimes the captain’s ship is damaged, and the one who suffers the loss will never remain silent. So, they make a rule: no matter whose loss it is, the final interest will be split equally according to the agreement. In this way, the risk is shared by the two, and the responsibility is also shared by the two. The captain will not deliberately throw away the merchant’s goods, and the merchant will not deliberately damage the captain’s ship.”
"Nowadays, big merchants don't necessarily run trade themselves, and big ship captains are too lazy to sail their own ships. They've become investors and ship owners, hiring other merchants, agents, captains, and sailors to do the work. They only need to put up the money. And the proportion of money they put up is called shares. Do you understand?"
Yakov struggled to understand—but he immediately spotted the contradiction. “How dare they not sail their own ships?” the former bandit asked, his eyes darting around. “What if the agents and sailors take the goods, sail away, and never return?”
“Good question.” Sancho wasn’t surprised. He turned his head with a smile. “The Knights exist precisely to solve this problem.”
Upon reaching the port, the two slowed their pace. Yakov noticed a significant increase in the number of pilgrims and merchants compared to when he arrived. While Venetians were imprisoned, other foreigners immediately filled the ranks. "Western pilgrims mostly depart from Barcelona, Marseille, and Palermo. Eastern merchants mostly set sail from Acre, Jaffa, and Gaza," Sancho pointed to the countless sailors and travelers. "You must have known before joining that the Knights Templar were established to protect the pilgrimage routes. We are like monks detached from worldly affairs; our strict rules keep us pious and trustworthy. Our branches are throughout Europe, with fortresses and soldiers everywhere."
"Um."
"Don't you understand?" Sancho shoved his shoulder. "Think about it carefully. What use are piety and faith? What can weapons and horses guarantee?"
With a shove, Yakov's mind raced. Schumacher had said that the Knights Templar were adept at lending money, engaging in the same blasphemous livelihood as the Jews; yet, merely bearing the red cross, they could knock on the tightly shut doors of monasteries amidst the cold winds and flames of war. He pondered Sancho's words again, and his mind suddenly became sharp.
“I understand,” Yakov said, his mouth agape beneath his beard. “We’re perfectly suited to be the agents and sailors.”
“That’s right.” Sancho beamed. “Who says that the business of agents and sailors can’t be as successful as that of big merchants and captains?”
Koyakov still felt a sense of unease and lingering doubt in his heart. He wondered, was it piety and integrity that made people admire him, or was it weapons and horses that instilled fear? No matter how strict the rules of the regiment, they could not control those in power, and no matter how poor the life, they could not stop the intrusion of wealth.
A new idea unfolded before him. He thought, who says that power and freedom truly belong to kings and emperors, nobles and wealthy merchants?
“However, there have been some issues with the ownership of the Venetian ports lately.” Sancho dismounted and stopped with Yakov in a familiar spot. “It’s one thing if their ships are confiscated, but without an owner, the ports are in complete chaos, with tax authorities and officials in charge. Since this spring, every ship arriving has been charged significantly more fees…”
The Spanish knights sighed repeatedly, but Yakov remembered the ledgers and contracts that had previously caused him so much trouble. He dismounted and called to his comrade.
“Leave the port matters to me.” Yakov grinned. “I have the connections.”
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