Act Ten: The True Knight (Part Two)
two
Every year, Yakov would depart from Constantinople three times, in March, June, and September.
First, he needed to cross the Aegean Sea to the south. The islands, ports, and city-states there were numerous, making the journey relatively pleasant; but after Rhodes, heading towards Armenia, life became increasingly fraught with anxiety. The Turks of the Sultanate of Rum were already quite troublesome, and in recent years, a name had been circulating widely in the East—that man was Saladin. He was said to have first become the Caliph of Egypt, and then, a few years later, the Sultan. Under his conquests, the Saracen territory was gradually consolidating from a fragmented state, making the rule of the Holy City unknowingly precarious. Therefore, after a final stop in Cyprus, the last leg of the journey was indeed the most dangerous and difficult. The port of Acre was always surrounded by Arabic-speaking infidel ships; which one, and when, would shatter the fragile peace remained unknown.
As Yakov gazed at the Golden Horn Bay in the early morning, he thought that compared to the treacherous front lines, the Queen of the Cities now appeared gentle and serene, unlike the terrifying sight he had witnessed on his first visit.
A dark-skinned boy, dressed in a black robe with a red cross, yawned as he climbed onto the deck. “Aren’t you going to get some sleep?” he said quickly and flatly in a Saracen accent. “Every time you come back, you volunteer to keep watch the night before, and then you’re busy with port matters in the morning.”
“Don’t worry about me, Daoud,” Yakov waved his hand. “Go do your own thing.”
The inexperienced servant chuckled and turned to tidy the sails and ropes.
Under the gentle, beautiful dawn, thousands of seagulls flapped their wings, welcoming the returning ships. This clear, beautiful scene was endlessly captivating. But Yakov had no time to appreciate it; he was eager to identify the bustling crowd at the port below the city walls—a throng of citizens surrounded three men standing in the center of the docks at Yubi. Yakov looked closely and recognized them all: one was a familiar Spanish comrade, his face stern, his eyes glaring at the sky; another was the customs officer Schumerto Cicero had planted at the port, writing something on a piece of paper with a silver-tipped pen; and the third was a hunched, frail old man with white hair, leaning on a cane, speaking passionately and spitting out words.
It seemed Yubi had told him the truth last night, Yakov thought. The banner of the two warriors and the horse was rising above his head, causing a stir among the port crowd, who pointed and commented. This made Blood Slave's eyelids twitch—Sancho knew his business, and the bureaucrats he had cultivated over the years would surely protect him. But to spout nonsense under so many eyes, he couldn't help but feel a chill. Where did this old geezer find so many idle onlookers who cared about spice smuggling? Yakov muttered to himself.
The tax collector lazily pulled out a cane from his person and directed the sailors to moor Yakov's ship in the designated spot. The closer the ship got, the clearer Yakov could hear the old man's curses.
"Not a single person on his ship is allowed to disembark!" The perfume merchant from Smyrna gripped Sancho's cloak tightly, banging his cane against the pier's bricks. "Everyone come with me to his cabin, so you can all see for yourselves whether there are smuggled spices inside! I can almost smell it; even the wind blowing from his ship is filled with a pungent odor..."
“I told you, even if there were spices on the ship, it doesn’t mean they were smuggled in by the knights of the Order.” Sancho’s voice was far less loud than usual, muffled and tinged with dissatisfaction. “This can’t be done as you wish…”
"What do you mean by 'granting my wish'?" The old man stiffened his wrinkled neck, his withered hands gripping his robe even tighter. "You're all a bunch of snakes and rats. I have nowhere to seek justice, and you won't even let everyone here see for themselves and judge for themselves?"
It seemed Sancho had already told this stubborn old man all the lies he had come up with, Yakov thought helplessly. He stood on the deck, and Daoud, adjusting his hat, sneaked up behind him. "...Sir, what should we do?" the boy asked on tiptoe in a low voice. "There are pilgrims on board...if we don't let them disembark, they'll cause a commotion."
"Don't panic." Yakov frowned. "These people will disperse in a bit."
"But there are so many of them..."
The ship was slowly approaching the shore, about to encounter the restless crowd. The sailors, following the tax collector's orders, tried to lower the ladder, but the dense crowd on the dock made it almost impossible for the ladder's feet to touch the ground—suddenly, a daring man leaped towards the ship's side, grabbed the still-unreachable ladder, and climbed up. Immediately, more fanatics followed suit, causing the large ship to rock slightly—Yakov steadied himself on the deck, mouth agape at the chaotic scene. Were these people really this crazy just to check if he was smuggling?
He roared, slammed the leader onto the deck, and kicked a mob trying to sneak in from the side into the sea. The riotous crowd finally calmed down when he drew his gleaming, ruby-inlaid longsword from his waist.
"All the cargo on my ship is the property of the Knights," Yakov declared sternly. "No one is allowed to board my ship without permission!"
Everyone murmured amongst themselves, their eyes darting around towards Yakov. Blood Slave carefully observed the group's clothing and demeanor, trying to figure out who the old man had ordered to cause trouble—he was surprised to find that these people were not idle vagrants or paupers who could afford to buy their time with a few coins. On the contrary, they were all dressed in bright, clean robes, and spoke with ease, heads held high.
"So, are you selling or not?" someone suddenly spoke up from the group. "Do you really have spices on the ship?"
Yakov finally remembered what Schumeer had told him, and his mind cleared as if struck by a hammer blow—he then realized that the people in front of him all wore expressions of longing desire, rather than angry discontent.
The knight, suddenly realizing what was happening, immediately grabbed the squire's clothes and pulled him in front of him, stopping him from hiding behind him any longer. "If you want to make a deal," Yakov slapped Daoud on the back—as if reminding him of something—"go with him."
The crowd swept past him immediately, engulfing the short attendant. Yakov sheathed his sword and walked through the clamor of voices and seagulls, his expression unchanged as he stood before the old man, Nasmaina, ignoring his almost hateful gaze.
"Long time no see, Sancho." The knight greeted his comrade with a natural cheek kiss. "It's so kind of you to come and welcome me."
"Hmm...that was quite a spectacle." Daoud peeled a fig and tossed it to the peacock in the courtyard. "Actually, everyone knew we had spices on board. A whole hold full of cargo, the aroma practically reached the heavens. The customers returning from deck all had their fingertips stained with a pungent, sour scent, but not a single person said a word about the spices on our ship. That old man with the white beard was so angry he looked like he was about to die on the spot, his face as red as a pig's liver. Foolish man, he didn't realize that none of the onlookers were on his side!"
Beside him, a man in a wool sweater was gesticulating wildly, practically leaping off his stool to speak, completely oblivious to the fact that his Arabic was only understood by the children beside him who were translating. "Uh, he said that there was a little cardamom left, which he paid for and hid in his turban when he disembarked. So, he's also considered a benefactor who helped Yakov out of trouble..." Daoud continued awkwardly, "He said that upon seeing the man's shrewdness, he immediately knew he was a nobleman. So he waited outside the Knights' gate until nightfall, following him all the way here, and indeed met the noble and welcoming owner of this beautiful house..."
Sitting on the other side, Schumer was biting his lip into an odd shape, remaining silent. Yubi, on the other hand, lay on the couch in the main seat, curiously and nervously examining the Saracen's charcoal-black eyeliner under his eyelids and his thick, almost continuous black eyebrows that twitched incessantly. "...Excuse me, I need to ask your name again," he interrupted the person being translated and the translator. "It's too long; I couldn't remember it."
Daoud translated these words to the noisy man. The man finally realized his rudeness and immediately stood up to bow. "He said his name is Azad ibn Ali Yusuf ibn Faraj Isfahan Al-Fahim," Daoud said, pursing his lips and enunciating each word clearly.
“That’s too long, Yakov.” Yubi looked into the Blood Slave’s eyes in surprise. “I really want to know, how are you going to remember all those complicated names?”
"It's much better than the Greeks always having the same name," Yakov muttered to himself. But he said, "Only a portion is useful." Blood Slave leaned back in his chair, "Judging from the name, his father was Ali Yusuf, his grandfather was Faraj, and he was born in Isfahan. Azad is his given name, and Al-Fahim is his title."
"You're amazing!" Yubi exclaimed repeatedly. "Even asking around among people who have been to the Holy Land, you might not find many who know this. Where is Isfahan again...?"
“That’s Persian territory.” Yakov picked up his glass and took a sip, hiding the corner of his mouth from his smile. “You can call him Azad, Al-Fahim, or Ibn Ali, Ibn Faraj. Whatever you like.”
“That’s much more convenient and concise.” Yubi smoothed his hair.
"So what do you do?" Schumacher coughed and tapped the table with his finger. "What brings you to Constantinople?"
Daoud translated these words to the guest with the long name. He understood, bent down behind the chair, and pulled a short, stout plucked instrument from his bag. It resembled a lute, but had six sets of twelve strings and no frets. Exquisitely melodious and flowing exotic tunes flowed crisply from his fingertips, mingling with a few melodious notes that drifted through the drawing room.
"Isfahan, half the world. Half the world is not enough for me to explore." Daoud translated his lyrics without any emotion, "Music and poetry accompany me. I forgo tea and rice, only wishing for romance."
"What a beautiful voice!" Yubi sat up from the couch.
Seeing that Yubi was giving him the honor, the man coaxed him to his bedside to play and sing. Schumer seized the opportunity to grope and pull Yakov over. "Just a beggar?" the Jew whispered, "Did he pay his fare before boarding your ship?"
“He doesn’t seem like a beggar.” Yakov watched Yubi, whose eyes were shining with amusement at the doggerel. “He didn’t owe any ship fees, and he did indeed fight with someone at the port to buy our cardamom. If he were a real beggar, he wouldn’t have money to buy these things.”
“I’m about to discuss this with you in detail.” Schumeer’s mustache shook irritably. “Whoever he is, get him out of here!”
Yakov sighed, reluctantly lifting himself from his seat and walking over to the "musician." "It's getting late," he said bluntly, speaking fluent Arabic. "The nearest mosque is outside the city to the north; I'll take you there. How will you pray if there's no mosque?"
The music stopped, but the thick, dark eyebrows danced and stretched before Yakov. "He said he didn't need it," Daoud translated to the crowd. "He said he only needed to find the directions to Mecca and Jerusalem."
“You can only find signs at mosques,” Yakov retorted bluntly. “You won’t find them here.”
The Saracen gave a mysterious smile and reached into his bag again. This time, he took out a beautifully crafted map of the Mediterranean and a novel, exquisitely designed disc-shaped instrument. Upon seeing these objects, all eyes in the room were immediately drawn to them.
"What is this?" Yubi finally got off the bed and craned his neck to squeeze next to Yakov. But Yakov frowned and didn't answer him.
“He said he wanted to ask you for some clean water,” Daoud said, his eyes widening in surprise, “so he could demonstrate how to use this thing.”
Yubi winked at Naya, who was standing by the wall, and immediately a slave came respectfully and silently with a basin of water. The Saracen took the water and scooped it into the bowl-like part of the instrument—a carved fish-shaped metal pointer slowly floated up from the water's surface and began to rotate gently. After a while, it calmed down and floated gently on the surface of the bowl. The Saracen adjusted the map by rotating it in the direction of the pointer, then ran to the balcony to look at the direction of the bay and the stars in the sky. He turned a rope with graduations on the outside of the instrument, aligned it with a direction he seemed confident in, and then re-locked the buckle.
“Mecca.” Finally, he marked the first location on the rope, and the second location, “Jerusalem.”
His tone was utterly certain, and those two words didn't need translating. "How do you know?" Yubi's eyes gleamed. "How is this thing used?"
“Someone has forgotten their blind friends again.” Schumeer’s voice, clearing his throat, came again from the other side of the square table. “You’ve all been lured away by the poor bards and have ignored me.”
Yakov shifted his feet and returned to his seat. "Poor bards don't carry water compasses with them." He watched from afar as the Saracens demonstrated ablution in Yubi's drawing room, washing his face. "Such a large and precise compass, perhaps for finding the direction of the holy city, but I'm afraid it has other uses as well."
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
