Act V: The Prince's Expedition (Part 3)
three
The Khan's tent was unlike anyone else's, just as Yakov remembered. Even the makeshift battle tent was large and magnificent, decorated with colorful embroidered patterns, adorned with numerous brocade banners, and covered in thick, clean felt. They were atop a low hill beside the steppe, surrounded by unusually flat terrain. Looking north, they could see the valleys and steppes they had passed through on their way. At the narrow mountain pass, cavalrymen could already be seen busily moving about, setting up guards.
"Where did you learn your Latin?" Schumacher asked young Batur, slowing his speech.
The child looked up at him with his round face, and it took him a moment to understand. “From my father.” Clearly, Latin was not his native language. “My father said it was an important and useful language.”
Schumer gave an exaggerated, enlightened sound, glancing at Yakov. "Why did your father send you to receive us?" he asked again. "Where is he?"
"What?" Little Batur blinked repeatedly. "Could you say that again?"
It seems that when the speech is fast and the vocabulary is extensive, the child can't understand Latin. "Where is your father?" Schumacher spoke as if to a baby, enunciating each word clearly. "Why have you come to greet us?"
This time, the Tatar child finally understood his words. "Father is busy. He is the great Khan, preparing for battle, and will not arrive until tonight." Little Batur kept pursing his lips. "Please trust me. I can take good care of the guests."
Yubi glanced worriedly at Yakov's face, then broke his silence. "Where are you taking us?" he asked boldly.
“The journey is long, please bathe and cleanse yourselves, and rest well,” said little Batur, looking up. He was very young, even shorter than Yubi. “We have a special bathing method; we bathe with fire.”
Bathing in fire? Yubi and Schumer's expressions changed instantly. "He's going to burn us alive!" Yubi grabbed Yakov's hand. "Why aren't you reacting?"
Yakov had finally had enough of this boring, long-winded, childish conversation. "Your Latin is terrible. That's called a fire bath," he said rudely, firing off a barrage of words in Turkic. "Is it because your father didn't teach you properly, or are you just not smart enough? How old are you? Who is your mother?"
Little Batur stopped in his tracks, displeased, which prompted the Slavic slave behind him, holding a large umbrella, to speak angrily. "Show some respect to my master, outsider." The slave put the umbrella down and grabbed Yakov's shoulder. "We know you were once just a slave of Batur Khan. Don't think you can be so arrogant just because you've changed into clothes with a cross on them."
"A slave?" Yakov was not angered at all; instead, he chuckled. "Do you know that I used to be his only personal bodyguard, not a servant who followed behind holding an umbrella, spending his days collecting manure and tending fires?"
As he expected, the young Slavic slave was enraged by these words, his face contorted with rage, his teeth clenched, but he didn't know how to respond. Little Batur remained stern and unsmiling, offering no defense of his slave. "Yakov, what did you say?" Yubi tugged at his arm. "Don't provoke them."
“Some ridiculous and pathetic things,” Yakov said sarcastically, “that’s exactly what makes them angry, and even more ridiculous and pathetic.”
The group walked unhappily to the door of a small tent. White steam rose gently from the round opening at the top of the tent. Little Batur clapped his hands, his demeanor as composed and mature as an adult, completely unlike his hesitant and stumbling Latin. At his command, a group of women, fluttering like butterflies, lifted the doorstop with a clatter, bowed their heads, and obediently stepped out of the tent. They all had the same graceful figures and slender, white fingers, but their faces were strikingly different—there was a blonde, blue-eyed Slav, a black-haired, brown-eyed Turk, and even a red-haired Celt. Long braids of different colors and gold and silver jewelry swayed, causing Yubi to suddenly take a step back warily towards Yakov. “They will serve you,” Little Batur recited as if reciting a memorized script, “so that the guests may have a wonderful bath.”
“No, I don’t need it!” Yubi quickly refused.
“You’re older than me.” Little Batur gave a knowing smile that belied his age. “If you don’t know how to use them, I can teach you.”
Yubi's expression shifted from embarrassment to awkwardness. He looked up to his two older companions for help. "We appreciate the Khan's kindness," Shumel sighed, whether out of disgust or helplessness, "but we are people of faith and cannot accept such a gift."
“Faith.” Whether little Batur understood the full meaning of Schumer's words was unclear, but he feigned understanding, then raised his arm and clapped his hands. The girls quickly left with their heads down, and a group of bearded musicians emerged from some of the surrounding tents, carrying their instruments, and obeyed the child's command to take the girls' places. “Music won't disturb faith,” he said. “Don't refuse.”
"Okay." Yubi relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief.
He hadn't expected the musicians to bathe with them, nor had he anticipated what a "fire bath" was. Inside the yurt was a large stove, burning a large basket of black stones. The Slavic slaves who had just opened their umbrellas were splashing water into it, ladle by ladle. The stones hissed and emitted thick white steam that quickly enveloped the tent. Yubi then understood the point of making a hole in the tent roof on a snowy day—he was suffocating in the steamy place, his hair burning and itching his neck.
The musicians sat in a cooler spot, playing a piece together. None of the instruments they held were familiar to Yubi: some were percussion, some plucked, some blown. One instrument in particular was strange, causing him to scrutinize it through the white mist as he removed his clothes. It was a bowed string instrument with only two strings, its body carved with two large holes, from which two silver earrings dangled. The musician sat cross-legged on the ground, cradling his instrument and his large beard in his arms, playing and shaking the instrument, making the silver earrings jingle like bells inside the holes.
"What instrument is that?" Yubi didn't dare to speak loudly, but quietly turned around and asked Yakov, who was holding a cloth and wiping his back, "I feel like I've heard this piece somewhere before."
"Is that so?" Yakov didn't even lift his eyelids, focusing only on wiping the wing mark on Yubi's lower back.
Unable to get an answer, Yubi turned back to listen intently to the exotic music. He always adapted quickly to strange and unusual activities, and found the "fire bath" to have its own unique pleasures—at first, he thought they were going to be suffocated and steamed alive—but upon closer listening, the music revealed a melancholic and lingering charm. Suddenly, Yubi remembered what piece it was.
“We heard it last night!” He suddenly turned to look at Yakov. “You collapsed to the ground in pain as soon as you heard that piece!”
Yakov frowned and continued with his work, seemingly not intending to respond further. Just as Yubi was about to complain, he heard someone lift the doorstop and enter the bathroom, laughing.
"This is a love song," a hoarse, gentle voice said fluently in Latin, "telling of a girl's longing for her lover who has left home, and her hope that he will return soon."
Yubi looked in that direction. The musicians had all stopped playing, and everyone was bowing or prostrating themselves in respect—the newcomer was Khan Batur. He had removed his fur hat and armor, and was dressed in a light robe, making his entire body appear thin and frail. He had a face with high cheekbones, many braids falling around his cheeks, and a goatee on his chin—like many older Tatars. The corners of his eyes drooped with age, and a pair of sharp black eyes gleamed in their deep sockets.
Schumeer tried to turn and bow, but immediately covered his buttocks with his hand. Seeing this, Yubi realized he was naked. Just as he was about to cover himself in embarrassment, he noticed Yakov's hand on his back tremble violently. The blood slave immediately grabbed his arm and pulled him behind him—Yubi was used to this reaction, and instinctively hid behind that broad back, facing the numerous whip marks.
“My apologies!” Batur gestured for the musicians to continue playing. “How’s little Batur’s Latin going?” he asked with a smile, seemingly anticipating the answer. “Has he been well entertained?”
“…You have an exceptionally intelligent son.” Seeing no one answer, Schumacher had no choice but to bow slightly, covering his body, as a gesture of respect. “Besides you, I have never seen a Tartar who speaks Latin so fluently…”
He suddenly realized with embarrassment that he shouldn't have used that discriminatory term, but he didn't know what to use instead, and he stood there speechless. Fortunately, Batur wasn't angered by this. "The Arabs call us Kipchaks, the Slavs call us Borovzi," he laughed, "and the Latin speakers call us Cumans."
Why did he have to say this when we had no clothes to wear? It's really unsettling, Yubi thought. In the steamy room, he saw servants follow Batur in, obediently carrying trays. On the trays were beautiful little glass cups filled with white drinks. "Try this. It's mare's milk wine, perfect for after a fire bath." Batur picked up a cup. "Yakov, you must not have had it in a long time."
Yubi looked up at Yakov's face. A sultry white mist swirled around them, yet the Slav stood frozen, silently expressing his refusal. Seeing this, Schumeer, his eyes darting around, had no choice but to put the cup he had picked up back on the plate.
"What have I done to make you distrust me so much?" His former master smiled, took a small sip, and handed the cup to Yakov again.
Koyakov kept staring into the Tatar's dark eyes, refusing to reach out to take the drink or lean out to drink.
Batur's smile froze like a mask. Without hesitation, he held the glass cup out to Yubi amidst the music. "Try it," he said earnestly in his gentle, refined voice. "It's sweet with honey. Refreshing and not intoxicating."
Yubi hadn't expected this suffocating stalemate to suddenly shift to him, and he stared blankly, dumbfounded. He thought that drinking this stuff would make him vomit, but he was also a little curious about the taste of mare's milk wine. What reason could he give to refuse the Khan's kindness, and how could he shield Yakov from this? But the cup was getting closer and closer, and Yubi couldn't help but reach out and take it, hesitatingly dipping his tongue in it. He was surprised to find that the drink was salty and sour, with the aroma of honey and fermentation blended perfectly, making it incredibly flavorful.
"Not bad." He tasted it carefully. "It's a bit like yogurt."
Across from him, Batur wore an enigmatic expression beneath his braided hair, a look that was both joyful and sorrowful. Yubi thought, perhaps it was because Yakov had rejected him. What unspeakable entanglement existed between these two, that neither would dare to speak of it?
“If you like it, you can drink it every day here.” The Khan quickly regained his composure with a flourish. “Yakov, look at you. You’re at home, no need to be so reserved.” He had Yubi put the glass cup back on the servant’s tray, then took a water ladle from a nearby slave and personally poured water onto the stone, making the yurt even stuffier and hotter. “I’ve set up tents and prepared clean clothes for you. After you’ve bathed, you can rest if you wish.” He smiled, his mustache curling up, just like his iron mask. “However, I’m too busy to keep you company. I’ll invite you to dinner after sunset so we can catch up.”
He stared at Yakov's bare chest, then quickly stepped outside. The red, etched scar was burning and swollen there.
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