Act V: The Prince's Expedition (Part 9)
Nine
Tonight, there was another feast—they were led to the banquet tent by Little Batur. There were many new faces here than yesterday—Yubi noticed that the seating arrangement had changed. Next to the towering Khan's throne, there was a slightly lower seat. The three of them had been moved to the Khan's right-hand side, while the original three seats on the opposite left remained unchanged—he saw Little Batur standing reluctantly beside their table, shifting uncomfortably.
"Where is your father?" Schumacher asked. "Why don't you sit down?"
“Coming right away,” the Tatar child replied absentmindedly. “I need to translate for you.”
Translation? Schumer and Yubi exchanged bewildered glances. "It seems we're not the main characters today," Schumer shrugged. "A Khan who speaks Latin is strange enough."
"It's already dark," Yubi asked softly. "Has my sister's reply arrived yet? The pigeons should have returned by now..."
"Don't worry, maybe the pigeons are tired and need to rest for the night." Schumacher patted him on the back. "If they don't arrive today, they'll arrive tomorrow."
"What if all the pigeons fly away?" Yubi's fingertips turned white from pinching them so hard. "What if Batur writes back but doesn't tell me? What if my sister doesn't intend to reply to my letter at all..."
He hoped that Yakov beside him would say something, but his blood slave remained silent. Yubi thought dejectedly, what could he do to make Yakov feel better? But after thinking and thinking, he was still at a loss.
There was a noise at the entrance. People looked toward the tent flap.
Batur entered first, which was not unexpected. Immediately afterward, a dirty, large boot stepped across the threshold—Yubi looked at the woman in surprise.
That was the cavalry commander he had seen from the high ground—a middle-aged Tatar woman, broad-chested and robust, her fingers calloused from bows. Two tan lines etched her resolute face, resembling the marks of a fearsome barbarian, boldly displayed alongside her wrinkles beneath her thick braids and fur jewels. Behind her, two young men and a woman, who resembled her, entered the tent, carrying scimitars and short bows at their waists. Three pairs of dark eyes in the shadows possessed the proud and untamed arrogance of eagles perched on a cliff.
Like water droplets thrown into a frying pan, the soldiers inside the tent erupted in cheers upon their arrival. Batur coughed lightly twice, his sickly posture making him appear even more refined and scholarly next to the robust woman. Yet, he still opened his arms wide and delivered his speech with joyful vigor. The foreign language was bold and passionate, further igniting the enthusiasm of all the Tatars—except for young Batur. The boy pouted, making no attempt to conceal his emotions.
“My father, Batur Khan. My mother, Tulana.” He recited with a displeased expression, then mechanically, as if reciting scripture, “and the Khan’s eldest son and daughter, Altyn and Albay. They were siblings born on the same day…”
"Are they twins?" Schumacher couldn't help but correct the mistake.
“Yes, that’s right. Today we brought back one hundred Varachian slaves, and a cartload of millet, uh, a cartload of nuts and dried fruit. And thirty, thirty-four sheep…” the child continued stammering as he translated his father’s words.
Yubi stared, mouth agape in shock. He looked at Batur, who was drinking and laughing, then at the proud, strong woman. "But didn't Batur say he was going to marry a princess of Constantinople?" he stammered, "or... a Roman noblewoman?"
Yakov's ears twitched slightly. He looked up, sizing up the woman, his gaze lingering on her fingers. He let out a dismissive chuckle, then fell silent, stuffing large mouthfuls of mutton into his mouth.
Batur's speech finally ended. "Turana!" the men shouted, raising their weapons and rhythmically striking the ground with their hilts, like a mini-earthquake, filling the tent with an atmosphere of frenzy. The woman and two young men took their seats, and the Tatar feast began—Yubi thought, it seemed as if yesterday he had attended a sham nomadic banquet. The soldiers, half-naked, danced and leaped in the open space inside the tent. The dance resembled clumsy wrestling, circling the fire pit to increasingly rapid music. The once-cold air now became suffocatingly hot.
Yubi looked up at the towering Khan's throne, lost in thought, seemingly pondering something. "Where do you think I look like?" he suddenly turned and asked.
"What?" Schumeer stopped chewing, his cheeks stuffed full.
“Look, you’re Jewish, Yakov is Slavic, Pascal is Frankish, and Batur is Cuman,” Yubi said, pointing to his own face. “You all look different; it’s easy to tell where you’re from. And what about me?”
“Why are you suddenly asking this question?” Schumacher frowned, scrutinizing his face. “…It’s hard to tell. You have black hair, and your skin is white…like Greeks, Persians, even Iberians and Saracens.” He swallowed the food in his mouth. “But you have red eyes. I’ve only ever seen red eyes like that in you and your family.”
“And what about my mother?” Yubi pressed. “Everyone says I look like her.”
Schumer recalled with difficulty. "...It's hard to say." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Your mother...she was beautiful, you know, beautiful people always look alike, regardless of race."
“Why aren’t Anbichia and Inart like their mother?” Yubi asked again.
“Maybe they look like their father?” Schumeer replied half-heartedly. “Look at little Batur, he looks like his father, and his two siblings look more like their mother. It’s not uncommon.”
Yubi turned his head and looked at the Khan's family again. "Then who is my father?" he asked, puzzled and melancholy.
But this time, Schumacher couldn't answer him either. "Not having a father isn't necessarily a bad thing," he said. "Family can be a haven or a prison."
Yubi quieted down and pondered the meaning of the words again. The Tatar celebration grew increasingly enthusiastic; the dancing soldiers drew their swords, as if about to break into a fight—just then, several young Wallachian female slaves were dragged in through the tent flap, their hoarse voices making the cheers even louder. Schumer's expression changed instantly.
"What are they going to do?" Yubi stared wide-eyed. "What's wrong with you?"
“Oh, something terrible is about to happen.” Schumer gripped Yubi’s arm tightly, pulling him close. “Call him father!” he hurriedly told Batur. “We want to leave!”
"What?"
We're leaving!
"Why?" the child asked, holding a handful of nuts. "The best part is just beginning."
Shumel was speechless. He suddenly became like an ant on a hot plate, looking around helplessly. Yakov was beside them, slowly drinking a whole cup of mare's milk. Yubi stared blankly at him, watching him finish the drink, his heart in his throat—his blood slave suddenly exerted force, throwing the expensive glass goblet forward. With a crash, the exquisite artifact smashed onto the twins' table opposite, shattering into pieces before the Khan's eyes.
The tent fell silent. Batur was finally drawn back by the commotion. His smile was deep and unrestrained. "It seems I've neglected my guest," he said in Turkic.
Yubi and Schumer were nearly suffocating with tension. They were listening to little Batur stammering as he translated for them.
“We must leave,” Yakov said in Turkic. “Let us return to our own camp.”
Batur was about to respond when his robust wife stood up and blocked her husband's way—she was so tall and broad that she could easily mount a horse in one step. Her dark eyes were fierce, but her mouth below smiled. "Who are they?" she asked. "Our Khan even puts slaves picked up by the roadside into his banquet?"
“They are guests going to Constantinople.” Batur showed no anger at his wife’s overstepping of bounds and remained all smiles.
Turalya—his wife—glanced at him, then scrutinized the three guests one by one. "This is my tent, my soldiers, my slaves. I can do with them as I please." Her eyes swept across the tent, taking in her angry compatriots, then returned to the main hall. "Do you have a problem with that?"
“No,” Yakov met her gaze directly. “We were just scared.”
This answer surprised everyone, causing a chaotic uproar of laughter throughout the tent. "The guests going to Constantinople are frightened!" Thurana shouted. "Khan, what do you suggest we do?"
"Tell Little Batur to take them back." Batur waved his hand. "Don't spoil the fun."
Yubi had just closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief after hearing Little Batur finish translating the sentence—"Little Batur stays here." Tulana suddenly added, "Haul, you take them back."
He saw someone emerge from the crowd. The man had a scarred face, a shaved head, and a particularly defiant gaze—Schumel was instantly terrified by this familiar face, his legs went weak, and he seemed to collapse onto the cushion, unable to stand up.
"Will he use my skull as a wine glass?" Schumacher curled up on the blanket, his hands rubbing his neck.
“Once my sister replies, we’ll go to Constantinople, and he won’t be able to find you then!” Yubi sat by the fire, hugging her knees, looking up at the skylight above. The boisterous drumming and cheers were coming from there. “I think we probably won’t receive a letter from my sister tonight… Does Batur remember this? Did he check on the carrier pigeons?”
In the small tent, no one answered his question.
Yubi sighed, rested his chin on his knees, and curled up alone. He turned to look at the silent Yakov, scrutinizing his lovely neck, but didn't think it was a good time. After thinking for a while, he had to call out softly.
"Yakov, I'm really hungry..."
His blood slave offered no resistance, raising his hand to unbutton the robe at his chest without a trace of emotion. Yubi saw the etched, hairy chest revealed and suddenly remembered his mother's soft breasts as she nursed him. He felt a pang of shame, but hunger still compelled him to shamelessly move closer.
The vampire secretly fed by the firelight. Yakov gently placed his hand on his back—all vampire slaves learned to do this themselves, supposedly to make sucking the wounds inflicted by sharp fangs less painful. But the blood still tasted bad, more bitter than it had tasted in the days since, though still better than animal blood.
"I want to cheer you up." Yubi sucked on the wound until it turned white before reluctantly letting go. "How can I make you happy?"
"So that the blood you drink will taste even better?" Yakov pressed one hand against his wound and fastened the buttons of his robe with the other.
“It’s not just because of this…” Yubi lowered her head and buried it in his hair, “I don’t want to see you unhappy, because that makes me unhappy too.”
“You will have even more blood slaves in the future,” Yakov said coldly. “Whether I’m happy or not then won’t matter.”
“You’re different,” Yubi interrupted him firmly. “You’re different from all of them.”
His blood slave sighed almost inaudibly and looked up at the dome. Yubi followed his gaze, looking at the narrow, circular starry sky. It was as if they were trapped in a deep well, so far removed from the vast天地 (heaven and earth) outside, so unreachable.
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