Act V: The Prince's Expedition (Part Two)
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The three were locked by the Khan in a carriage covered with a white pointed tent.
Yubi peeked through the gaps in the two woolen felt sheets. Outside, torches in the darkness flowed like streams along the mountain path. The unoiled wooden wheels rumbled like the hoarse cries of swans. He craned his neck furtively, trying to find out where he and Yakov's horses had been led. Fortunately, behind the wagon, three animals were following the turning wheels with their heads down—the Tatars had left the monastery, remembering to take the Muses with them. Yubi had barely breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a soldier on horseback glaring at him menacingly, his eyes beneath a fur hat staring fiercely. He was immediately terrified and shrank back under the felt.
"Where are we going?" Yubi asked in a low voice, still shaken, fiddling with the woven cushion beneath her. "Which way does this road lead?"
“We’re heading south,” Schumacher said, rubbing his wrists, which had been bound for a long time and left red marks. “Their camp is at the mountain pass, God help me, it’s a real wilderness.”
"What did the Tatars do to you?" Yubi asked urgently again. "Were you injured?"
“Don’t worry, look, my hands and feet are perfectly fine, I haven’t been tortured!” Schumeer nimbly moved his fingers to show him. “They took me away and asked me some questions. You just heard it, the Khan can speak Latin, that’s really amazing.”
Yubi recalled the gaunt face beneath the iron mask. "What did he ask you?"
“What else could I ask?” Schumeer pouted and rolled his eyes. “Of course, it’s about the Templar Knight next to you who speaks Turkic.”
The two glanced at the seat beside them, where Yakov sat motionless, cross-legged. His longsword and dagger were gone, leaving him unarmed—a lenient condition for the Tatars' withdrawal from the monastery. Perhaps because of this, his chest heaved listlessly, and the white breath he exhaled from his nose and lips proved he was alive. His blue eyes were fixed on nothing, his brow furrowed deeply like scars, his gaze like that of a weary beast stripped of its claws.
"What are you thinking about?" Yubi asked, seeing his dejected expression. She nudged his shoulder, causing the metal chainmail there to rattle sharply. "You never tell me anything!"
“You see, if you had any connection with the Tatars, you should have made it clear long ago, otherwise it would have brought trouble upon yourself. Am I telling the truth?” Schumer complained discontentedly. “What are you doing back here? I thought you would never come back to save me.”
"I saved you?" Yakov finally looked up. "You should thank Yubi and the damn mark on me."
“Really? Really? Oh, thank you for your kindness!” Schumer raised his finger and poked the cross on his robe hard. “Now look what’s happened! The three of us have become prisoners, not one of us is spared, and even the treasure chest next to the horse’s rear end will be handed over to the Tatars.”
"You actually think I shouldn't have come?" Yakov brushed his hand away. "Should the Tatars have killed you and fed you to the wolves and eagles?"
“That’s the problem. Even now you still won’t explain yourself?” Schumer retorted sharply, as if he had caught him red-handed. “How do you know your old Tatar lover would kill me instead of making me do some handiwork or selling me into slavery? And how do you know you came back all alone and could save me? Either you’re stupid and ignorant, or you’re hiding something. After all these days, do you think I don’t know what kind of person you are? Taking pity on me? Bah!”
Yubi wanted to offer some advice, but suddenly realized that, as Schumacher had said, this was far more complex than simply "acting out of kindness." He was suddenly ashamed of his previous naive and simple thoughts. "...Why did you come back, Yakov?" he pressed. "You must know that Khan."
The wheels rolled roughly beneath their seats, causing the carts and felt to bounce up and down—the caravan was descending the mountain, gradually emerging from the valley, where the road became much smoother. The chirping of birds in the mountain forests outside had ceased, replaced by the distant, desolate cries of vultures.
“I grew up with him.” Yakov stared at the trembling wood beneath his feet. “He was my master, my friend. His name was Batur.”
"And then?" Yubi was no longer surprised by the answer. "How did you leave? Why did you leave?"
“I escaped.” Yakov looked away, glancing at the gap in the felt. “It’s that simple.”
They had traveled a long and arduous journey, descending from the mountain path to the valley, and it was nearly dawn. Finally, the horse caravan, carrying torches, emerged from the narrow mountain pass, spreading out in formation like a coiled fiery serpent. A cacophony of sounds filled the air. The clanging of iron hooves on the snow, the clatter of arrows, and the sounds of Turkic languages drifted in from all directions, making Yubi dare not peek out again. "When can we get off?" he whispered, furtively tugging at Yakov's iron glove, not wanting to disturb the sleeping Shumer. "Yakov, I'm hungry..."
Yakov suddenly remembered that he hadn't given Yubi his blood since sunset—the leather flask used to fill him with blood was still tied to the horse, and the blood inside was probably quite old and inedible—"Not now," he said curtly. "What if someone sees us?"
“Okay.” Yubi pouted and withdrew her hand, lowering her head and no longer mentioning the matter. “It’s almost dawn, I need to put the ring back on.”
Yakov felt a strange and awkward conflict. He had expected Yubi to act spoiled and plead as before, or at least argue his case and complain. He thought he might have to blame himself for depriving someone who should have been carefree of their freedom. But then he thought, this was how it should be. He was already too busy taking care of himself. Reality and ideals were battling in Yakov's mind again. He saw Yubi silently take out a ring, slip it back onto his finger, turn and pull back the curtain of the carriage, letting his gaze peek through the gaps in the felt.
The grassland. Beyond lay a flat, boundless grassland. Unobstructed by mountains or forests, the land stretched flat to the horizon, the wind blowing unimpeded against his face, bringing a chilling, earthy smell. The Tatar tents were white, resembling giant mushroom clusters from afar, alongside herds of cattle, sheep, and horses. All people and things seemed as small as ants in the vast, pale dawn. Several banners fluttered in the wind; Yakov could still make out the design—twenty years later, the Batur tribe's symbol remained unchanged—a wolf's head embroidered in gold thread, its eyes glaring and mouth bloodshot. Its thick mane was braided into nine plaits, spread out in all directions. To the people here, this was the symbol of war.
“I thought the grasslands should be green,” Yubi said in surprise behind him. “These grasses are all yellow.”
“It’s winter now,” Yakov replied. “The grass is cut down and stored for the livestock to get through the winter. This work needs to be finished before it snows.”
Yubi was about to say something about Yakov's extensive knowledge, but then swallowed his words. "See the army? Looks like more than a thousand, all cavalry and archers!" Schumeer, awakened by the cold wind, pointed over Yakov's shoulder towards the tents. "Von Brunel said he could conquer a tribe with a thousand conscripts. What a joke! How can a thousand peasants with pitchforks deal with mounted, archer-wielding Tatars?"
"Then won't he suffer a defeat?" Yubi asked. "If the Tatars are so powerful, why don't they immediately go to the northern mountains and occupy the city of Brasov?"
“The skill of mounted archery is only useful on the steppe. Once the army enters the valleys and forests, the horses can't run fast, and the arrows can't shoot far,” Yakov said, gazing into the distance. “If the Tatars want to win, they must hold this position.”
Yubi frowned in thought upon hearing this, then leaned out to look behind the carriage. The road leading to the steppe was flanked by high mountains, its exit narrow and steep. He recalled the contents of Schumacher's map—they were leaving from the valleys of the Southern Carpathians, and further south across the steppe lay the Danube River—that was the Byzantine border, the edge of that map. But the carriage wasn't heading south, nor did it seem to be heading towards those mushroom-shaped camps.
Unexpectedly, this head-shaking and looking around immediately attracted a Tatar cavalryman who rode up quickly, cursing under his breath. Yakov grabbed Yubi by the fur collar of his cloak and dragged him back into the tent.
"Don't come out!" the cavalryman said arrogantly in Turkic, brandishing his whip.
"When can we get off the train?" Yakov retorted in an even more aggressive tone. "Didn't Batur Khan tell you?"
Clearly, the cavalryman hadn't expected the prisoner with the cross on his arm to answer like that. "Who gave you permission to call the Khan by his name?" he raised his voice, his face contorted with rage, but he lowered his whip. "Stay inside and don't ask any questions!"
Yakov had just lowered the curtain when he faintly heard the cavalry galloping forward. He breathed a sigh of relief and sat back on his woven cushion. Soon, as he had expected, the carriage's speed increased considerably. The wheels creaked and wobbled under the weight, startling Yubi and Schumeer, who gripped the railing tightly through the curtain. "Where are we going now?" Yubi cried out in alarm. "This wrecked carriage is about to break down!"
Just as Yakov was about to tell him to be quiet, a violent tilt sent him crashing into the back of the wagon, his back pressed against the railing, unable to get up. "We're going uphill," he said, bracing himself on his elbows for balance. "The Khan's tents are usually set up where you can see the battlefield, we're probably heading that way."
His mind was in turmoil. Perhaps Batur was ahead of the caravan, waiting to greet him at the gates of his magnificent tent, to humiliate him, to expose his shameful past, to reopen his old wounds. These were insignificant, sordid tricks, meaningless to a wanderer like him, without family or friends, but Yubi and Shumel beside him made them as sharp and powerful as weapons. This thought made the already bumpy journey feel like an unbearable ordeal. Yakov wondered, what new methods would Batur, the former master he remembered as both terrible and kind, now use to torment him?
The carriage climbed hill after hill before finally leveling out, and the noisy wooden wheels finally stopped turning. Daylight broke, and the unfamiliar, hazy surroundings gradually quieted down.
“They’ll rip open the tent with a knife, hold your neck, and tie you up with ropes as they take you out,” Schumacher whispered. “That’s what happened to me yesterday.”
“There’s nothing we can do. We’re their prisoners now,” Yubi sighed.
Yakov remained silent, his eyes fixed on the felt curtain that was about to be opened. He held his helmet in his hand, the sweat from his palms soaking into his gloves, making the leather lining wet and sticky.
"Welcome, my guests."
The voice came from outside the tent, sounding like that of a child whose voice hadn't yet broken. His Latin was broken and unfluent, sounding like he was reciting scriptures, which left the three of them puzzled and bewildered. A hand pulled back the felt curtain, and light shone through the gaps, but it wasn't dazzling.
A thin, short boy stood there. His hair was mostly shaved, with only braids hanging down from his forehead, temples, and the back of his head—Tatar hairstyles always seemed comical, but they didn't look so strange on a child's face. He wore an embroidered robe, and beautiful, heavy gold and silver ornaments adorned his neck and earlobes, giving him an air of nobility, propriety, and politeness. Behind him stood a young, robust Slavic slave, his powerful hands holding up a large, round umbrella that blocked out the surrounding sunlight, casting shadows that almost enveloped the entire carriage.
“I am the Khan’s son,” the boy said. “You can call me Little Batur.”
Yakov felt a chill in the back of his neck, as if ice had been stuffed into it, and a terrifying feeling of nausea stuck in his throat.
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