Act Three: The Laws of Engaging with the World (Part Six)
six
Yakov dismounted only when he found a secluded spot. He turned his back to the wall, secretly lifting half of his helmet to reveal a full, pale blond beard. He stuffed the sausages and flatbreads into his mouth. Clearly, it wasn't fresh, good pork; the blood hadn't been drained properly, and it had a foul, fishy smell. But Yakov swallowed them whole, managing to quickly bury his face back under his helmet.
“I have a suggestion,” Schumacher said, seemingly in a bad mood. He helped them pack their luggage with a stern face. “Go to the blacksmith and get a new set of armor made, so you won’t be too ashamed to show your face all the time. It’s worth the money.”
“That will take a month or two.” Yakov wrapped the unfinished pork sausage in a small cloth bag and handed it to Schumer so he could find a place to stuff it. “We can’t wait that long here.”
“At least change out of that conspicuous burqa?” Schumeer finally stopped, having arranged everything neatly and orderly. “In this area, it’s quite normal to have a Slavic mercenary. As long as you remove all the cross-shaped parts from your body and say you’re a soldier of the Byzantine Emperor, belonging to Varangi, no one will think there’s anything wrong with your face. You’ve been a mercenary, don’t you understand?”
“What is Varangi?” Yubi asked, turning his head from his horse.
"They're just a bunch of northern barbarians, Vikings, Slavs, Normans. The Byzantines call anyone from the north Varangians. They come south as mercenaries. The emperor pays them, they protect him, they fight. Whatever the emperor tells them to do, they do," Schumacher replied. "They carry axes and shields, are utterly uncivilized, spend their days drinking and robbing, yet they are the emperor's most trusted confidants."
“It sounds like this group isn’t popular,” Yubi said.
“Of course,” Schumer shook his head. “Who would like to have barbarians as their army?”
Yubi frowned and pondered for a moment. "Isn't the emperor afraid? What if the outsiders don't obey orders?" he asked again.
Upon hearing this, Yakov couldn't help but glance at him.
"Haha, there's a lot to learn here, I can't explain it all in a short time!" Schumeer patted Yubi on the back with satisfaction and affection. "But asking this question is the first step in studying this subject, and the future looks promising!"
Yakov coughed loudly under his helmet, yanked on the saddle, and jumped up to block Yubi. "Let's go to the blacksmith's," he said, pulling on the reins and urging the horse to turn around. "Stop talking nonsense."
The sound of hammering could be heard from afar, clanging and echoing through the noise of half the street. Yakov dismounted, grabbed the reins, and went into the blacksmith's shed. As soon as he approached the furnace, a wave of heat hit their faces, instantly warming them. Yubi was surprised to see that, in the dead of winter, the burly craftsmen wore only a thin tunic, soaked with sweat and clinging to their bodies.
"Sir, what do you need?" The blacksmith put down his hammer and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his face.
Yakov breathed a sigh of relief; the man spoke Hungarian, so Yubi didn't need to translate for him word for word. "Look at the horse's hooves. It's traveled quite a distance through the mountains," he said.
“It’s really not easy.” The blacksmith glanced down at the horse’s hooves, then immediately turned and went back into the house to fetch his tools. “It’s all mountainous terrain around here, and everyone who passes by needs to have their hoof nails replaced. Today, a gentleman’s horse had its hooves cracked from running so much that it couldn’t take a single step in the pain. Poor animal.” Soon, he reappeared wearing a dirty leather apron, his thigh strapped with a full set of tools, including round pliers, a hammer, and a razor. Yubi was attracted by these tools and went over to look at them, but Yakov pulled him back sharply after he took just one step.
"Aren't you afraid your face will get kicked and bruised by a horse's hooves?" Yakov scolded. "Why do you have to get so close?"
"No way!" Yubi pouted in dissatisfaction.
The blacksmith, half-squatting with his legs spread, wedged himself between the horse's legs, hiding behind it where the knees couldn't bend. He laughed heartily. "Young master, how old are you? This is no joke." As he slipped the soft knitted leg covers over the horse's hooves, he clamped his arm firmly around the horse's knee joint, forcing it against the leather apron on his thigh. "See? If you stand on the other side, on my side, no matter how the hooves stretch, they can't kick you. If you want to see, just look this way."
"I'll be careful," Yubi muttered, turning back with a wronged expression. "Let me take a look!"
Yakov sighed helplessly, released his arm, and let him go over to watch the tedious work. Yubi dashed over like an arrow, eagerly watching the blacksmith's craft, seeing him use large pliers to remove worn-out horseshoes, pull out long hoof nails, and chat idly with the blacksmith. Meanwhile, the two tedious adults—Yakov and Schumeer—simply found a place to lean against and rest.
"Did you even consider what I said? You should ask him how much it costs to get a new helmet. You could replace this one with the cross on it," Schumacher muttered under his breath. "Living hidden under a helmet all day, isn't it uncomfortable?"
“No. He’ll make me take off my helmet and then he’ll see my face,” Yakov retorted.
“You’re so stupid. Just say it was made for me, and you can wear it just the same.” Schumeer patted his shoulder and told him to look at the shelf on the ground. “If you’re worried about the production time, just buy a ready-made one. See, they sell these.”
Inevitably, Yakov was somewhat tempted. He thought that the Templar identity had its advantages, but also its limitations. If he could say he was a mercenary, a member of the Varangian Guard, it would indeed lighten the burden on his Slavic appearance. But he knew that this meant he was once again returning to his identity as a slave mercenary. The more Schumeer tried to persuade him, the more resistant he became.
"How much for the helmet?" Yakov hesitated for a long time before finally asking. The blacksmith had just finished repairing the hooves and was adjusting the different sizes of horseshoes. He looked up and saw Yakov examining a common conical helmet, with a pointed top like an onion and a snap-on visor. "Sir, this isn't cheap. If you have any Byzantines on you, give me five, and I can take it."
Five Byzantines were far too expensive for a helmet. Yakov frowned under the helmet, suspecting the blacksmith didn't want to do business with him. Seeing him pondering, the blacksmith turned back to heating the horseshoes. In the freezing cold, the hot iron emitted a large cloud of white steam from the horses' hooves, shrouding the entire blacksmith's shed in a hazy mist, as if it were floating in the clouds.
Just then, a group of men circled around the blacksmith's shop, approaching with a clanging sound. Through the swirling mist, Yakov could vaguely make out the crosses on their black clothing. Shumel had clearly noticed them too. Before he could warn him, Yakov had already rushed into the white mist and immediately pulled Yubi back to his side.
"Our horseshoes have broken," the leader said in Latin through the mist. His voice was deep and refined, with a gentle lilt. "After you finish this, please take a look at ours. I need horseshoes with seven holes, facing upwards."
The blacksmith couldn't understand what he was saying, so he had someone translate it for him before he understood. "It'll be ready soon, go inside and wait." He nodded repeatedly, a nail still in his mouth.
As the fog lifted, the leader removed his helmet, revealing his face. He wasn't very old, with a handsome young face and dark brown hair draped over his chainmail. His outer robe was black, emblazoned with a white octagonal cross—Schumel immediately whispered in Yakov's ear, "That robe belongs to the Knights Hospitaller."
"The Knights Hospitaller?" Yakov asked in a low voice.
“He’s just like the Knights Templar, don’t talk to him!” Schumeer replied hastily.
The blacksmith clanged the horseshoe nails. The horse had four hooves that needed heating, and this was only the first one; even the most skilled craftsman would take a while to finish. Yakov thought anxiously that the man was bound to try and talk to him. His bloodshot blue eyes, hidden beneath his helmet, scanned the group, checking their numbers. Yakov was astonished to find that half of the dozen or so men were completely wrapped in bandages, their faces and bodies wrapped in bandages, walking with difficulty, not an inch of skin showing.
“They are lepers. People say it’s divine punishment from God for sinners, but I believe a merciful God would not act in this way. They can also contribute to the holy war,” said the rather dignified Hospitaller. Noticing Yakov’s scrutiny, he raised his chin and proudly stepped forward, extending his hand in a gesture of friendliness. “My name is Pascal Montfort, from Blois. Everyone calls me Pascal of Blois.”
“Blois, I know!” said Ubi, “in France, far from here!”
Yakov squeezed the vampire's shoulder hard, signaling him to be quiet. For some reason, he sensed a hidden hostility and superiority in these polite words. So Yakov kept his mouth shut, only offering a brief handshake.
“Yes, young sir, that’s right. But it seems you have a serious friend.” Pascal smiled at the soldiers around him, effortlessly easing the tension. “What’s the name of the knight beside you, and where does he come from?”
Yubi obediently remained silent, neither reaching for the hand nor shaking it, but turning to look at Yakov. Yakov, under his helmet, nervously pursed his lips. He glanced down at the longsword at his waist, recalling the markings on the hilt. "I come from the Zashchtnikov family," Yakov said.
The answer seemed to surprise Pascal, but the subtle emotion vanished from his composed face. He withdrew his hand without embarrassment. "I see," said the Latin man with a French accent. "You must have suffered a great deal to come to this place. God will remember all of this, your devotion to Him and your admiration for His virtues."
Yakov couldn't discern any hidden meaning in those words. He turned to look at Schumeer's face, but the Jew, who had concealed his queue, offered no useful advice. "God bless you," he could only awkwardly say, trying to hide his Slavic accent.
“God bless you, and also your master and servants,” Pascal replied kindly. “As fellow servants of God and brothers of God, I think perhaps we will meet often in the future.”
"Frequent meetings? Better never see him again," Yakov thought. The man's constant talk about God annoyed him. He anxiously watched the blacksmith's work. Fortunately, the hooves were repaired, and with a final hissing puff of white smoke, the blacksmith deftly bent and pulled off the protruding horseshoe nails. The chestnut horse set down, prancing proudly, satisfied and comfortable with its new horseshoes.
Yakov pulled out a gold coin and gave it to the blacksmith, then immediately took the reins and pulled Yubi onto the horse. He only nodded slightly to the hospital knight named Pascal, then, with Schumeer climbing onto the donkey, fled the blacksmith's shop as if escaping.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
