Act Ten: The True Knight (Part Five)
five
The argument erupted fiercely. Schumer was the first to sneak away along the wall, followed by Naya who ordered the servants to leave. Finally, Yakov chased her away as well. "Get out, all of you!" he roared, his face dark, his voice and demeanor like a howling bear. "Get out!"
Naya looked at the man reeking of alcohol with wariness and fear. "Go, Naya," Yubi nodded, "I can handle him."
These words enraged Yakov even more. "Deal with"? What did he mean by "deal with"? How had he become someone Yubi needed to deal with? Shouldn't he be his closest companion? Disappointment and shock washed over him. Seeing the female slave leave, he looked around for his sword—but then immediately realized something was wrong and looked for a riding whip. But his servant wasn't there, and he didn't want to call someone to the stables and let the servants know about this shameful affair—in desperation, Yakov picked up his leather belt. It was studded with iron rivets and looked extremely dangerous. He threw that aside, deciding to teach Yubi a lesson with a slap.
The blood slave had only taken a couple of steps when his heart began to clench so painfully that he couldn't breathe.
"What are you looking for?" Yubi got up from the recliner and picked up the belt he had dropped. "Didn't I tell you not to settle things with your fists?"
“You won’t listen to me.” Yakov had to squat down to ease his blurry vision. “If I don’t teach you a lesson, you won’t remember anything.”
Why didn't you ask me why?
"You kept it from me, yet you expect me to ask you for a reason?" Yakov roared, clutching his chest.
“How am I hiding anything from you? Ever since you came back, first that Saracen kept talking, then Shumer kept counting gold coins. Then you started talking about Egypt… When have I had a chance to talk to you?”
"You dare talk back?" The Blood Slave struggled to his feet from the carpet. He blocked Yubi's path like a wall. "When did Ambicia take your ring? When did she get pregnant?"
"Well, actually..." Yubi finally stammered, shrinking back as she looked at him. "You know, women don't know they're pregnant until they're very young. If they start preparing, they have to wait two months for news from inside the belly..."
"When was the last time you wore that ring?" Yakov interrupted his argument.
"...This March, when I saw you off at the dock."
Blood Slave closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths, but still couldn't quell the burning rage within him. He bit his chapped lips, drawing blood. Now, he felt as if he bore half the responsibility—if he had taken the ring to the East, perhaps this trouble wouldn't have happened. "...I told you to keep an eye on the ring every time I came back," Yakov said, forcing a sore throat. "Why did you lend it to so many people?"
“How can you just lend it to anyone?” Yubi protested. “I’m all grown up now, and it’s no use to me anymore. I asked Schumacher, and he didn’t think it was a big deal either. My sister is so good to me; when the shop first opened and there were no customers, she even sent perfumes directly to her bathhouse… What’s wrong with lending it to her?”
What an ingenious trap! Yakov thought through gritted teeth. "I really don't know what to say to you." His wrinkles twitched as he tried to make his words sound strong. "I've told you so many times, but you've ignored me... I'm utterly disappointed in you."
Yubi lowered her head, annoyed by the criticism. "...But I don't understand," the vampire said, fiddling with the studded leather belt in her hand, "why do you think that ring is so important?"
Yakov forced himself back into his seat, maintaining a reasonably respectable human form. "Sit down!" he said emphatically, pointing to the recliner behind Yubi. "I'm going to make this clear to you today."
“Then you speak!” Yubi stubbornly obeyed him and sat down properly.
This clueless attitude infuriated Yakov. He rubbed his chest, moved his lips beneath his beard, and hesitated for a moment before speaking.
"Only by wearing that ring can you taste your favorite food and smell your favorite spices."
"But now I can let others taste the food, smell the spices, and drink their blood."
"...If you don't wear that ring, you can't see the sun; you'll only live in darkness."
"My eyes can see everything in the dark, much more than the average person can."
"You can't grow up without wearing that ring!"
“I’m already 23, Yakov!” Yubi stared at him with wide, red eyes. “Without that ring, I won’t get hurt, I won’t age, and I can perform miracles. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t that what ordinary people hope for and dream of? Why do you think it’s a bad thing?”
Yakov was speechless for a moment, hating his own stupid tongue and brain. Was this really just him, basking in a melancholy mood, completely irrational? "...If that's the case, then what does Ambichai want it for?" he forced himself to say. "Since this thing is so bad and useless, why did she have to take it from you!"
“Because… my sister wants offspring!” Yubi’s face suddenly turned red. “That’s how new vampires are created. She has to wear this ring and sleep with men to conceive…”
Yakov then realized the weight of the word "pregnant" in the sentence. His mind, which had been drawn away by the lost ring, had only just returned. "...Whose child is Ambicya in?" he asked, rubbing his forehead with his fingers in distress, his furrowed brow aching from the tension. "How did she get pregnant?"
"Don't speak so vulgarly!" Yubi awkwardly twisted the belt in his hand, making it crack. "My sister married Isaac, so shouldn't Isaac be the father of the child?"
"If she wears that ring and sleeps with a man, she can give birth to a vampire child?"
"She said her mother gave birth to us in the same way."
"So you three siblings," Yakov looked up, "were born to Camilla and three different men?"
“…That should be it.” Yubi kept avoiding his gaze. “That’s why we all look different.”
"Look me in the eyes, what are you hiding from!" Yakov stepped forward and grabbed his restless shoulders. "...You dare to lie to me again?"
"I didn't!" Whether from embarrassment or anger, Yubi's blush deepened, turning a deep pink even around her ears. "It's your fault for always asking me these kinds of questions!"
Seeing his expression only fueled Yakov's anger, which felt like it was hitting a brick wall. "What's wrong with asking you such a question?" he stared intently at Yubi's face. "Didn't you say you were 23, all grown up? You can't even talk about something like this between your legs?"
“I…” Yubi pursed her lips, not daring to look at him.
"What?" Blood Slave stared intently at him and asked.
“…I don’t like sleeping with girls.” Yubi’s eyelashes trembled and drooped. “I…”
“I know that, don’t change the subject!” Yakov pinched his face, forcing him to look at him. “So what? Does that mean you can just give your ring away to anyone?”
The rough action made Yubi dodge uncomfortably. "Anyway, I don't need offspring, so I don't need that ring either!"
"Oh?" Yakov laughed in exasperation. "You can wear that ring, stay warm, sleep with a girl, and she'll get pregnant with your child and give birth to a little vampire?"
Yubi stopped arguing. The color drained from his face, his chin was stuck in Yakov's hand, and he just glanced at him sideways.
What's with that look?
"Don't pinch my cheeks."
"Don't change the subject. Do you know you're wrong?"
He guessed that Yubi might be angered by him, and was waiting to lecture her a bit more—"I told you not to pinch my cheeks." Yubi abruptly shook off his hand, "How dare you treat me like this!"
The studded leather belt lashed Yakov's face—a stinging sensation on the blood slave's forehead. The pain was too subtle for him to notice; he was only shocked at how he had brought this upon himself. His master was writhing in demonic rage, his neck and face flushed crimson with veins. Suddenly, blood pooled in the color of his eyes, sliding down from the piercing eyelids—Yakov was paralyzed by the terrible tears. He instantly remembered Camilla's dying moments. A surge of anger mixed with confusion and helplessness crushed him like a boulder; he couldn't rise and could only slump blankly onto Yubi's recliner.
He froze, watching as Yubi trembled as she dropped the belt, then approached him repentantly, cupping his sharply defined face in her hands. The vampire's two neat, thin eyebrows furrowed, revealing a heartbreaking expression. "...Does it hurt?" Yubi asked cautiously, tears of blood falling one by one. "I'm so sorry... I never remember people feeling pain. I haven't felt pain in so long, and seeing you injured makes my heart ache, as if I were in pain myself."
“…It doesn’t hurt.” Yakov’s mark felt numb and sore. His master’s tears fell on his hand—only then did the Blood Slave realize with sorrow that if he wanted to teach Yubi a lesson, he would be more effective by whipping himself. “I add new wounds of this severity every day.”
“Forgive me, Yakov…” Yubi hugged his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. “I will never do it again…”
Yakov stared at his fingertips. They were covered in blood—it was hard to tell if it was his wound or Yubi's tears, a trail of crimson blood running down his knuckles and pooling in his palm. "I don't forgive you." The red blood instantly sobered him up, completely relieving his drunkenness. "Look at the state you've become."
"But you said you weren't in pain..."
"Just because I'm not in pain, I should forgive you?"
The vampire on him clung tightly to his clothes, buried its face in his neck without uttering a sound, too ashamed to lift its head.
“You must answer my questions.” Yakov stood frozen like a stone. “Get up.”
After a long while, Yubi finally listened to him and slowly raised his head. He forced back his terrible tears, his face covered in blood. He dared not look directly into Yakov's cold, harsh eyes.
What would happen if Ambikia took off that ring now?
"My sister said that would cause a miscarriage..."
"Will she return the ring to you after she gives birth to the child?"
"If that's the case, then the baby won't grow up."
Upon hearing this, Yakov's anger reignited—he had intended to take Yubi eastward and never return. But now, that plan had clearly fallen apart. Unless he was willing to relinquish the ring: letting Yubi drift further and further away from humanity, transforming her into another aloof, unprincipled, and incomprehensible Camilla or Ambicea. Yakov had thought this would take decades, even centuries.
“…We must get the ring back, so you remember what it felt like to be human.” The Blood Slave grabbed Yubi’s robes from behind, almost lifting him up. “What Ambikia and her unborn child do is none of your business. Once she gives birth, we’ll get it back. Do you understand?”
Yubise hunched his shoulders, pursed his lips, and remained silent.
"Do you understand? Don't pretend you didn't hear me!" Yakov asked again in a louder voice.
“…You asked for the ring back so that I would remember what it means to be human,” Yubi said, confused and guilty. “But in doing so, I would be depriving my sister and the child in her womb of the feeling of being human.”
Yakov slowly loosened his fingers, setting his master down. "Not everyone is noble and virtuous. Humans are more often greedy and base, suffering and bewildered." He leaned back in his chair, the long-simmering anger leaving him dizzy and exhausted. "Depriving them of these things is not unreasonable."
"Then why do you still want me to get that ring back?" Yubi leaned closer to his face. "Am I kind, and my sister evil?"
“…I don’t know.” Yakov closed his eyes. “But I just have this wish.”
The vampire seized the opportunity to coil back around his neck like a cold, slippery snake. Yakov knew what he was going to do—he knew this trick all too well. He found that his hands still remembered how they had rested on the vampire's back.
“You want me closer to you, don’t you?” Yubi whispered in his ear, “I can taste your blood, it’s wonderful…”
Yakov didn't know how to answer him. He simply held the vampire's hair, letting the fangs pierce his own neck.
That night, Yakov dreamt he was wandering through the dark underground Basilica Cistern. He walked among those cold, towering stone pillars, the path beneath his feet only half-submerged in water—which seemed to be drying up, revealing the massive pillars' foundations. Yakov looked up and raised his candle. A huge, inverted Medusa statue, as tall as him, appeared in the firelight. Her eyes, like those of countless venomous snakes, turned and stared at him, emitting a sickeningly loud clicking sound. Blood flowed from those countless pupils, and increasingly piercing wails echoed all around him.
Yakov awoke trembling from his petrifying nightmare, then closed his eyes wearily. He forgot about the dream in an instant.
Vampires don't need sleep. Behind him, Yubi's cold hand moved from his neck to his spine, stroking from fresh bite wounds to old whip marks. "You're really tough," his master murmured, appraising his muscular physique. "I think you've gotten a bit tanned."
“Nonsense,” Yakov retorted wearily. “I’m not going to stand in the desert sun with my back exposed.”
"Why? Isn't the sun good?"
"The desert sun can burn a person's skin off in no time." Yakov shivered from the corpse-like heat on his back. "At the hottest time, a person will die of thirst after walking for a day."
“But I think it’s better to have sunshine in winter.” Yubi finally let go of his hand. “Naya, fetch us a stove!”
Yakov reluctantly opened his eyes, got up from his master's bed, and grabbed a shirt to put on. In the familiar bedroom, the balcony, which usually connected to the magnificent Golden Horn Bay, was completely blocked by heavy curtains and clutter, not letting in a single ray of light. The slaves arrived in the darkness, carrying candlelight and charcoal. Yakov turned his head away from them, his fingers touching the curtains, and carefully lifted a hole.
The sky outside was overcast and bright; it was snowing. A thin layer of white covered the walls and docks of the Golden Horn. In the garden on the ground floor, Azad, the Saracen who had stayed the night before, was kneeling in the snow performing his morning prayer. He muttered incantations, joyfully scooping up the fine snowflakes and placing them on his head—clearly, this Persian from Isfahan was seeing snow for the first time. Yakov couldn't help but scoff inwardly. This kind of light snow, melting as soon as it hits the ground, was nothing in the north.
“Do you know the Greek proverb?” Yubi asked, being dressed by a slave in the shadows. “It doesn’t snow much here. If you don’t see a person for a long time, you say he is as rare as snow.”
Yakov angrily straightened the curtains. "You still dare to peek outside?" the blood slave scolded him, "Aren't you afraid the sun will burn your eyes out?"
“I wasn’t standing in front of the window!” Yubi retorted, turning his head away indignantly. He moved to a large mirror, where new slaves brought candles to illuminate him and adorn him with jewelry.
Yakov didn't know when the mirror had been acquired, and frowning, he leaned closer to examine its polishing and edging patterns. He was about to say something when Yubi cut him off, "It was a gift from an acquaintance of Schumeer's, as a way of repaying a favor from a few years ago."
"What favor?"
“When the Venetian governor came, he took the man back to Venice as a favor.” Yubi tilted his head, letting Naya pin a feathered gemstone pendant to the center of his headband. “I managed to rescue all the glass merchants from prison.”
Yakov vaguely remembered something like that. "Is it worth such a fine mirror?" He stared at himself in the mirror, scrutinizing every tiny wrinkle on his face.
“I saved their lives,” Yubi said, looking at him in the mirror. “What is this reward compared to that?”
Yakov frowned at these words. He recalled the spot where Yubi had slapped him the night before, assuming it had bled and left a scar—but upon closer inspection in the mirror, he saw no mark on his forehead—it seemed Yubi hadn't hit him hard enough to leave a wound. The Blood Slave could only helplessly notice the messy bite marks on his neck.
Just then, his servant Daoud came up the stairs leading to the drawing room. The boy glanced at his superior, then at the master of the house, and awkwardly bowed in the dark, cluttered room. “The Saracens have something to discuss with you, Lord Euboeus.”
"What is it?" Yubi casually straightened his robe.
"He wants you to find someone to take him to the nearest mosque."
"Isn't he planning to stay a few more days?" Yubi finally turned around. "Why?"
“…He said the diet here is against the precepts.” Daoud pursed his lips.
Yubi and Yakov exchanged glances, then simultaneously turned their gaze to Shumel on the other side of the corridor—he was being helped around the corner by Nuk. "Sorry, we don't have an imam in our kitchen," Shumel said, his tone devoid of apology. "It's better to leave early, lest you go hungry. Don't translate this part for him."
Yakov laughed at the Jew's sarcastic remark. Yubi, looking in the mirror, also laughed. "Don't be so rude to your guest," he said. "Yakov, please see him off on his way to the Knights."
“He also wants his water compass back,” Daoud said, leaning closer to Yakov. “Sir… after this man leaves,” the boy asked cautiously, “can I ask for two days off?”
Yakov sent a slave to fetch the compass, his face hardening. "What do you need leave for?"
“I…I want to go to the market to buy some snacks.” Daoud’s eyes darted around furtively.
Yakov knew his servant was lying. The boy had reeked of a strong fragrance ever since he disembarked—he probably wanted to resell the spices he'd hoarded while prices were high. "You can go after the guests arrive at the mosque," Yakov said kindly, "but you must be back before dark tomorrow."
"You're wonderful, sir!" Daoud exclaimed, crossing himself on his chest. "You're a true saint!"
Yakov mounted his horse and saw their guest, Azad, bowing to him at the door—this fellow quickly remembered Yubi's name. "Honorable Lord Yubius…" he scurried to Yakov's feet, "Is he unable to see anyone during the day?"
"He has a disease that makes people's eyes bloodshot and their hair turn white," Yakov said casually, making it up. "His whole family has it, to varying degrees. He has a mild case, but he still can't be in the sun."
“Oh! I’ve heard of this disease.” Azad said alarmingly, “In some ignorant villages south of the Sahara, people believe that eating the flesh and blood of these patients will grant them immortality, and their corpses can be sold for millions of gold.”
Daoud, who was yawning sleepily behind them, gasped in shock upon hearing this. "...This is terrifying!"
"Do you find it terrifying?" Azad feigned surprise. "Don't you know that your Frankish commander also eats human flesh and drinks human blood?"
"...I don't have a Frankish commander." Daoud glanced at Yakov's retreating figure.
“I am not a Frank,” Yakov sneered, retorting sharply. “You Saracens think that everyone with blond hair and blue eyes is a Frank, and you arbitrarily pin the cannibalistic crimes committed by the Crusaders during their siege a hundred years ago on other people.”
“But you also call all the people of the East Saracens,” Azad retorted. “I am a Persian, unlike the Bedouins, Kurds, and Turks.”
"Gentlemen, please stop arguing!" Daoud pleaded pitifully, tugging at their saddles and sleeves. "Do you really want to fight in the street?"
Koyakov laughed, and Azad laughed too. "If everyone laid bare their innermost thoughts, there would be countless less conflict in the world!" the Persian poet sang in a foreign tune. "The knight speaks fluent Arabic, and the enemy will naturally understand his intentions!"
The group chatted idly as they walked along the city wall by the Golden Horn, soon arriving at the area where Syrian merchants gathered. As soon as they caught sight of a corner of the mosque, Daoud hurriedly ran off—Yakov didn't bother to stop him. He led Azad out of the city gate, facing the Golden Horn.
The ghetto of Constantinople was small and densely packed. The mosque was not large, but it still appeared magnificent amidst the crowded shacks. They had their own dock, far less convenient and bustling than the Italian one. Syrian merchants came and went there, hawking dates and sweet almonds. They stopped some distance from the mosque, and Azad bowed to Yakov.
"God bless you," he said.
“God bless you,” Yakov replied.
Azad sang a few more words of blessing, then shouldered his bag and headed towards the temple—but he was stopped by the local officials. Yakov watched coldly, listening intently to their conversation.
"Where are you from?" the person guarding the mosque asked.
“I come from Isfahan,” Azad bowed to him, “on a pilgrimage.”
The man scrutinized his rough wool sweater, a look of distrust on his face. "When you perform ablution, do you wash your face, hands, or feet first?" he asked, his eyes wide.
Azad stared back at him, his eyes painted with charcoal black eyeliner. "I'll wash my head and ears first," he said from beneath his large beard. "Only with clear eyes and ears can I converse with God."
"You're wrong!" The gatekeeper seemed to have seized on his weakness, kicking and stomping his feet. "You should wash your hands first, otherwise how can you cleanse other filth with your hands!"
The two argued endlessly about this absurd issue, unable to reach an agreement. Yakov rolled his eyes, too lazy to bother with such trivial matters anymore. He gently spurred his horse into the city gate and headed towards the Templar branch—he had no squires these past two days, so he had to do many chores himself.
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