Act One: The Shadow of the Gods (Part Three)
three
They moved forward, their robes trailing in the wind, accompanied by the flickering candlelight in Camilla's hands. Whispers rippled through the crowd. The page, leading the way, chatted casually with the lady, seemingly trying to show off his manners and erudition, since most of the rough men in the procession didn't speak refined Latin. Yakov followed silently behind, carrying Father Ferenc on his back. The old man was as light as a cat. Yakov thought he'd probably frozen his hands and feet outside and wouldn't recover.
This mansion, which Yakov wouldn't call a castle, was far larger and more complex than it appeared from the outside. Contrary to its orderly symmetry, it presented a chaotic layout of repeated additions, deletions, and alterations, as if they were in another labyrinthine building. The procession passed through similar stone corridors, the echoes of their footsteps growing ever deeper. At first, Yakov tried to remember—he hadn't given up on the idea of stealing the horse and leaving, and if the snowstorm subsided in the latter half of the night, perhaps this plan could still be carried out—but he quickly forgot his bearings, unable to distinguish which way was the hall or the main gate. Yakov suspected that Madame Camilla was deliberately confusing them. She was chatting and laughing with the young page, seemingly in a good mood, as if these smelly, filthy visitors had never managed to fill her exquisite halls with slush and stench.
"How old are you?" she asked with a light, cheerful laugh. When she smiled, two delicately curved creases appeared on either side of her lips, making her look like some kind of adorable little animal.
“I’m 18. My name is Peter!” The page blushed and stammered at her smile. “I’ve been Father Ferenc’s page since I was 14. I used to be a monk in a monastery.”
“Really? You’re the same age as my youngest son,” Camilla said. “What a coincidence, today is his 18th birthday.”
That's utter nonsense. Yakov thought silently. Mrs. Camilla didn't look like she'd had a child 18 years ago. She was probably referring to the adopted children of one of her much older husbands; these nobles always had such complicated relationships.
"Then we've come at the worst possible time!" The page boy nervously withdrew his hands.
“No, you’ve come at just the right time,” Camilla said elegantly, calmly, and without revealing any emotion. “This is it.”
She pushed open the door—the movement was so light that Yakov could barely see if her hand actually touched the door, and he noticed that her fingernails were black, sharp, and long—inside was a large room with several beds, and in the middle was a fire pit with firewood already laid out, the flames making the whole room warm. “I’m so sorry, I don’t have enough beds,” she said with a smile. “You can come to the hall later; I want to show my guests some hospitality, especially since it’s Yubi’s birthday today.”
“Yubi?” the page asked. “That must be the name of your youngest son.”
At the mention of that name, Camilla's face lit up with a blissful intoxication. Infected by this happiness, the cold, lonely chill that surrounded her melted away for a moment. "You're right," she said, her eyes crinkling into a smile that concealed the bloodshot veins in her eyes. "Rest here for a bit. I'll be back later."
After saying that, she tidied her messy long hair and went out, her figure quickly disappearing behind the door.
The pageboy seemed to have something he hadn't had time to say, and hurriedly chased after him to the door, only to be stunned.
"That's strange, she's gone," he muttered to himself. "I was thinking of giving her my coat. She looks so cold."
Yakov was dragging Father Ferenc to the bed. The priest was still weeping incessantly, the murky tears streaming down his face and the wrinkles around his eyes. "God has abandoned me, God has abandoned me," he muttered softly, like a mantra. Yakov ignored him and instead pulled the smug page to the bedside. "Check the color of his hands and feet. If they haven't turned purple, put him by the fire to warm him," Yakov said in a low, angry voice. "Don't make me do your work." With that, he turned and left.
"Oh, where are you going?" the page complained indignantly.
“I’m hungry too, kid. I haven’t had a drop of water yet.” Yakov put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Never mind me, do your own thing.”
He grabbed a torch, slammed the door shut, and fled immediately.
That was, of course, a lie, though Yakov was indeed hungry. He clutched his helmet, the cold metal making it hard to breathe. It had just been filled with snowflakes, and now the melted snow was trickling down his neck and hair, soaking the wool lining of his chainmail. He desperately wanted to take the helmet off. He had to avoid people.
Holding his torch, he noticed that not a single servant wandered about in the vast mansion. Yakov was both suspicious and grateful for this. He felt he had walked far enough, winding through several turns in the corridors, until he arrived at an unfamiliar room. It seemed empty and silent. A metal stand for torches stood on the wall, and Yakov inserted his torch into it. Then, he braced his hands against the square metal cylinder and struggled to pull it upwards.
The moment his head emerged, Yakov felt a refreshing coolness in his throat and nasal passages. He gasped for breath, bent over, and sat back down on the ground, the chainmail parts clanging. Yakov rested his head against the wall. He wearily tried to close his eyes, but then noticed something flashing across the way.
He got up, took a torch, and went closer to look.
To his astonishment, it was a crystal hand mirror, its back layered with silver and inlaid with diamonds, displayed on an exquisite gilded stand. It was said that only Venice could produce such mirrors, and a small piece could be exchanged for ten acres of fertile land. Yakov had never seen anything like it before. He stared in astonishment at his reflection. This expensive and exquisite mirror could reflect every detail, both desired and unwanted; it was truly a marvel of craftsmanship, utterly breathtaking. Unfortunately, the face reflected in the mirror only disgusted Yakov.
Yakov hadn't paid attention to his appearance in a long time. He disliked his looks. Not the wrinkles, the unkempt blond beard and hair, the scars etched by the wind and sun—Yakov hated his face simply because it was so distinctly Slavic, instantly recognizable. He had wolf-like light blue eyes, a broad, long nose, and unkempt eyebrows that grew thickly on his prominent brow bone. He thought that much of his life's suffering stemmed from this face, a thought that stirred up painful memories. So he gave it only a quick glance before looking away.
He quickly noticed two gleaming Byzantine coins next to the hand mirror, and silently slipped them into his hand. "These are much more practical than the fragile mirror, and easier to spend," Yakov thought.
He walked cautiously, torch in hand, searching for something valuable yet portable. He saw a huge, expensive Arabic hand-woven tapestry hanging on the wall, its colorful, orderly patterns vibrant and striking in the firelight. Yakov thought it was probably priceless, but too heavy to carry. His torch then reached an intricately carved cabinet, inside which sat a complete set of oriental porcelain teaware. When the light shone on it, a translucent bluish-green hue appeared from beneath, the patterns seemingly floating within. But like a mirror, it was fragile; broken, it would be worthless. Yakov walked a little further and saw a floor-standing bowl with a stand. Approaching it, he discovered it was a hollowed-out incense burner, filled with a thin layer of incense ash. Even in the cold night, a faint fragrance lingered. Unfortunately, Yakov didn't recognize what kind of precious incense it was.
A slight annoyance crept into Yakov's heart. Of all the luxurious and expensive items in the room, he had nothing to take with him. He wanted nothing more than to burn them all. He needed some jeweled and gold jewelry that he could slip into his clothes and pawn, not these bulky things.
Yakov walked a little further and entered a new room. He found the floor covered with paint and brushes, surrounding a huge canvas shelf—Yakov knew some paints were as valuable as gold, but he didn't recognize them and had nowhere to sell them, so he gave up. He then looked at the tightly stretched canvas on the shelf.
This is a full-body portrait, and it looks like it's almost finished.
The painting depicts a tall, well-dressed youth, resembling a king—a fact Yakov judged from his proportions. The figure has long limbs but is not tall—the youth stands upright before a beautiful glass vase, now behind Yakov, suggesting the youth's head only reaches Yakov's shoulder, not to mention the heeled boots he wears. He has smooth black hair and a ruby ring set in obsidian on his left hand. He wears an expensive deep red velvet shirt, a black half-fur cloak draped over his left shoulder, a beautiful patterned calfskin belt wrapped from his back to his chest, secured by an exquisite, carved rose gold square buckle—Yakov illuminates the face of the portrait with his torch, revealing a blank area. It seems the artist is dissatisfied with this part and wants to revise it; or perhaps this section has stumped him.
Soon, following the trail of paint and brushes, Yakov found another stack of papyrus. Someone had drawn on it with charcoal. Yakov frowned; it was clearly worthless. But seeing some simple sketches already on it, he couldn't help but reach out and take it out of curiosity.
Don't touch it!
Suddenly, a figure leaped out from some corner of the room and rushed behind him. In an instant, Yakov's hair stood on end. He swiftly pulled his helmet back over his head, drew his sword, and confronted the man. A head of thick, dark brown curly hair, topped with a small round hat, emerged from the shadows, followed by a pair of amber eyes glaring angrily. Yakov panicked, wondering, "Did he just see my face?"
"A Templar Knight? What are you doing here?"
Knights Templar? Yakov seemed to recognize the word. It was just that the man spoke Latin with a strange accent and used overly refined language. Yakov looked closer and saw a bird's nest of dark brown curls with two small, curly braids hanging down from his temples—he was Jewish. He had a small, upturned mustache that was trembling nervously. His thin body was clad only in a loose, oversized nightgown, and he was shivering in the room where the stove had been extinguished.
“I am a guest of the Grand Duchess.” The man opposite him was unarmed, and Yakov realized he had the upper hand. He pointed his sword at the small mustache and demanded aggressively, “Who are you?”
“Put down your sword, please?” Seeing this, the Jew slowly backed away, trying to appear friendly. “I’m not questioning your identity. I’m also a guest of Madame Camilla. I’m a painter from Venice. Perhaps you’ve heard of me; my name is Schumeer.”
“A Jewish painter.” Yakov, of course, refused. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. “The Grand Duchess has hired a heretic,” he threatened like a true crusader.
Perhaps Yakov's limbs were too stiff, or perhaps he was simply too tired. The two Byzantine coins he had just casually stolen jingled and fell from the gap in his fingernails as he moved closer to the Jew, rolling around on the carpet. He saw the Jew opposite him suddenly frown.
“…You know, I’ve seen plenty of people like you, who take advantage of me just because they have the sign of the cross on their bodies. They talk about piety and virtue, but when it comes to petty theft, they’re all the same.” The Jewish man named Schumeer muttered angrily, his lips moving and the tip of his mustache swaying. “I didn’t see anything, and I won’t say anything to Mrs. Camilla. And please, stop bothering me here, okay? It’s the Grand Duchess’s right to choose whomever she wants to be a painter.”
"You want to make a deal with me?" Yakov said coldly. "I don't trust you."
"If you resort to violence, you will soon be discovered by the guards and servants, and it will be a losing proposition!"
"You're dreaming. There are no guards or servants here."
These words sent a cold sweat down Schumacher's forehead. "How is this possible?" he exclaimed, raising his hands in surprise. "It's Yubi's birthday today, and there's supposed to be a banquet tonight. Where are all the servants?"
“Who knows,” Yakov said casually. “Maybe it was eaten by a vampire in the forest.”
Upon hearing this, Schumacher's droopy eyes darted nervously, and he exhaled frosty white breaths into the cold room. As if finally understanding his predicament, he blurted out with lightning speed, "I have money!" He jumped back clumsily, "I've given you all my money… Don't kill me! I don't know anything!"
He trembled as he backed away, took his coat from a hook on the wall and draped it over himself, then threw the valuables he found in the pockets at Yakov one by one. This action disgusted Yakov, who laughed. He remained fixed on the Jew, completely ignoring these distracting tricks. Soon, all the pockets of the coat were turned inside out. Schumeer began to ramble on like a clown, muttering something Yakov couldn't understand, as if in prayer. Suddenly, his face turned deathly pale, all color drained from him, and his eyes stared blankly behind Yakov, as if terrified.
This made Yakov uneasy. "What's going on?"
“Vampire…” Schumeer shakily pointed to the corner of the plaster ceiling.
Yakov's expression changed, and he had no choice but to turn his head away.
He'd been tricked; there was nothing there. In that instant, the Jew turned and fled, his footsteps quickly fading into the dark corridor.
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